A Place Called Armageddon

by C. C. Humphreys

  He coughed, broke off. For a moment he was not there, but back in the place and the time he’d see now only when he slept. Felt again his helmet ripped away, the arms that pinioned him, the hands that twisted his face up to meet the butcher bending down. No dark oblivion to fall into, then or since. White agony only that he sometimes still felt, even though the place for agony was gone. As if the saw-toothed blade never stopped grinding down, half drowning him in his own blood, shredding the cartilage, severing his nose.

  She stepped to him, fingers on his arm. ‘Theon said that Constantine … that if our future emperor had been well and not lying in a ship in a fever, he would have come too, stopped it …’

  ‘Well, he would also have been too late,’ Gregoras said savagely, ripping his arm free of her. ‘For I would already have been marred. And no amount of pleading would have given me my nose back. Or my name. Or my city. Or my mother.’ He was shaking as his voice rose still higher. ‘Or you.’

  It was there, spoken, somehow the worst of accusations. She’d known, from the moment she’d realised he was not a ghost, that she’d have to answer it. ‘I had no choice, Gregoras. You must know that. The pact was forged between our families, contracts drawn …’

  ‘And what of our pact?’ he roared. ‘Our contract?’ He threw his arms wide. ‘Sealed here, on this rock. Vows made to God, bound by our joined bodies.’ She turned away but he got in front of her again, taking her arms now, seeking her eyes, which darted wildly about. ‘Does he know of that vow, your husband, my tardy brother?’

  Her eyes settled on his. She ceased to struggle against his grip. ‘He does not. Though sometimes … sometimes I think he suspects.’

  ‘Why? Why would he?’ He could not help more savagery now as he shook her. ‘Did you confess it?’

  ‘Why?’ She echoed him, freed herself, stepped away, turning from him to face the water. The panic in her left as swiftly as it had arrived. She had always known that, if by some miracle he had lived, she would have to say this one day. She had said it silently to the Holy Mother. To St Maria of the Mongols. To no one else. Now she would say it to him. ‘Because we made something else, Gregoras, when we made love here that day.’

  The rain was falling harder. It was cold again. But not the cold that smothered his anger like sudden snow. ‘What … what can you mean?’

  ‘Only that sometimes when he looks at our son, I think he sees a ghost.’ She turned back to face him, to see his eyes above the mask. ‘Your ghost.’

  Gregoras’s legs sagged. He sank down upon the rock. ‘You mean …?’ he whispered. ‘But how?’

  ‘How?’ The faintest smile came to her lips. ‘You know the how. Sitting where once you lay, you must remember it.’ The smile went. ‘And when Theon was sent back early from the war with messages and the … the news, I was not close to showing the life within me. I was young and did not recognise the signs. When I did, when I knew …’ She broke off, looked above him. ‘We had already been married a week. And when the child was born, he was small enough at birth to pass for one sent before his time.’ She came, knelt behind him where he sat, his head now on his knees. ‘And he is beautiful, our son, Gregoras. As beautiful as his father …’

  When she broke off, he raised his head. ‘Was. You were going to say: was.’

  ‘Is,’ she replied. She lifted a hand, laid fingers on the edge of the mask. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘No.’ It was too much. Suddenly he remembered the other woman he’d taken off his mask for, in Ragusa, two months before. Leilah had looked at him like no other woman had looked at him … since the afternoon he had last sat upon this rock. She’d had a hunger that had startled him. She’d looked with curiosity – but with no pity. He could not bear to see the pity he knew would be in Sofia’s eyes. Anything was better than that. So he caught her reaching hand, pushed it aside, stood. She rose with him as he spoke. ‘You have another child, do you not? I saw her at your window.’

  ‘Minerva. She is five.’

  ‘Theon’s child?’

  ‘Theon’s …’ She broke off. ‘Of course, Theon’s child. What do you mean?’

  He saw the fire spark in her eyes, anger there. His rose to match it. ‘I mean that you married one man while carrying his brother’s child. I mean that betrayal can take many … physical forms. This one here …’ he gestured at his face, then pointed at her belly, ‘that one there.’

  She let out a shriek, raised a hand as if to strike him. He grabbed it, held it as she tried to pull away, then let it go suddenly. She stumbled backwards, just kept her balance, looked down, as if seeking for shells upon the rocks. Only when she was sure she could speak did she raise her head and look at him again. ‘I will pray to St Maria for you.’

  ‘Pray to the devil,’ he shouted, ‘for he has me now.’

  She stared at him for a long moment. ‘You have changed, Gregoras.’

  ‘Really? Do you think so?’ he spat. ‘I assume you are not referring to my disfigurement. You are too noble a lady to say that. But here, you wanted to see?’ He reached up and ripped aside his mask. ‘I bow to your request.’

  The fingers he reached to the knot did not fumble. In a moment, with the flourish of a street mountebank, he pulled the ivory nose away. He did not know what he saw in her eyes, but he took it for pity, used it to focus his anger, and his voice came low and hard. ‘Do me one kindness, Sofia. Remember me in your prayers just once as you remember me here that day. Then forget me for ever and pray for me no more.’

  She turned away, shrugging off the cloak, which folded onto the rocks like a crouched body, moved to the door, through it, while Gregoras turned to the water, lifting his head to the ceaseless rain, feeling it fall into his face though his mouth was closed. He choked, coughed, looked to the ships. I want to be on one, he thought. But first I need paying. This city has taken everything else. It can give me that.

  He was Gregoras no more. That man had died – here upon this rock, there under a saw-toothed knife. From now on he was nothing but Zoran the mercenary. And he wanted his gold.

  – ELEVEN –

  Walls

  Theon dropped the scrap of paper into the basket on his right and moved three more beads upon his abacus. He stared at their ranks, wondering. Had he made a mistake? It was not impossible. He had been at the task from two hours before dawn, when the first reports came in, and had continued, without pause, with barely a moment to eat, drink, relieve himself, until long after the matins had sounded in the nearby monastery of Christ Pantocrator. It was the sort of work that once he would have delegated to a clerk; but with this census that was not possible. Two men had been charged with the task by a third, and it did not matter that the two were megas primikerios and megas archon respectively, two of the highest ranks in the land. The third, the man they must report to, was the emperor himself, and only the three of them could know what secrets the abacus tallied.

  He looked again, with some disgust, at the man next to him. He had been asleep for close to an hour, and was beginning to leak – from eye, from nose, from mouth. George Sphrantzes may have been the most venerated historian in Constantinople, at the centre of everything important that had happened to the empire for the last fifty years. Yet to Theon he was a barely living symbol of all that was wrong with that empire, an old man with an old man’s cautions and compromises. Who cared now that he had once been the confidant of the last truly great basileus, Manuel? Or that he wrote the most elegant of begging letters to the kings and powers of the world, letters that were read, admired and ignored? Ink might flow from his pen like rheum now flowed from his eyes, but he, and men like him, had reduced that once mighty empire to essentially what was contained within the city’s walls, that impoverished little.

  And that impoverishment had been made all the clearer by this task that Theon had largely accomplished alone. Even if the old historian would get the credit, Theon did not envy him that. There was a time when messengers who brought such news could be executed on the sp
ot. The emperor would not do that to the old man he loved. But there would be no reward for this night’s work.

  Theon watched the man begin to slouch towards him. He was about to move an arm in danger of becoming wet when Sphrantzes’s elbow slipped, and he jerked his head up, stared wildly around, moist eyes focusing at last. ‘Eh?’ he said, wiping a cuff over his face. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It is nearly done, Megas Archon,’ Theon replied, though he had not spoken. ‘There are only those for you to tally.’

  He pointed to the basket at the older man’s left, the scrolls curled in it. At his right, another, fuller basket awaited with the papers he had already checked. Sphrantzes rubbed his wispy white beard. ‘I must have … Can’t remember …’ He peered at the first basket in the line, which had but one scroll in it and sat on Theon’s left. ‘You have been swift, young Lascaris. But your family always was. I was at school with your uncle … No, it must have been your grand-uncle, Theophilus. He beat everyone in the running games.’ He smiled. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘No, Megas Archon.’ Theon tipped the half-filled basket that was between them. ‘Do you wish to check these?’

  Shaking fingers reached, withdrew. ‘I think I will trust your additions now, young Theophilus. And you have one last one to add, do you not?’

  Theon didn’t correct him on the name, just reached for the last piece of parchment. Like all the other monks they had used for the census, this one from the area near the old Bucoleon palace had exquisite penmanship. But beauty could not disguise the poverty of the figures the monk had written down.

  Theon let the paper curl, dropped it into the other basket, reached, moved three beads. Sphrantzes squinted at the abacus, swallowed. ‘It is done?’

  ‘Done. Would you like to know?’

  The older man glanced nervously around. The nearest others were through thick doors and walls. ‘Write it for me, my son,’ he commanded in a whisper, putting on his thick spectacles. ‘Write it in Latin. Few can read it these days.’

  Theon looked at the abacus, dipped his quill, wrote the numerals out. Then he blotted the sum, folded the paper, passed it over, waited.

  Sphrantzes did not open the paper straightaway, holding it as if he’d been handed a dead, noisome insect. Then, taking a deep breath, he did.

  Theon was watching him closely. There were thirteen characters on the page; they would take no time to read. But the older man pored over them as if they were a newly discovered fragment of Homer, reading, rereading. Only a slight tic under his left eye betrayed his reaction, and that could have been there already, unnoticed amongst his others.

  Folding the paper, Sphrantzes took his glasses off, pinched between his eyes, spoke. ‘Where is the emperor?’

  ‘He meets the leaders of the defence upon the walls.’

  The old man nodded, reached for the table, pushed himself up. ‘Then let us go and tell him how many men he will have to defend them.’ He swayed, grabbed for wood again. Steady, he glanced down to the curl of paper in his hand. ‘Burn this,’ he said, holding it out. ‘Burn the blotter too. And the paper you rested on.’

  Theon took the scrap of parchment back. ‘Do you not need it?’

  The old man’s roar took him by surprise. ‘Do you think, having seen that figure, that I could ever forget it?’ he shouted. ‘It is branded here …’ he pointed to his head, ‘and here.’ ‘He jabbed a thumb into his chest. ‘I may be an old fool to you, Theon Lascaris, but I can read doom as well as one as young and swift as yourself.’ He grabbed the staff that lay against the table. ‘Give me your arm,’ he muttered, fury fading, ‘and let us go and break an emperor’s heart.’

  ‘You are like a centipede wedged under my breastplate,’ Giustiniani roared, ‘and me in the middle of the fray, unable to strip down and flick you away!’

  ‘I am sorry to be so wearisome, Commander,’ Gregoras replied, ‘but you said you would speak to the emperor …’

  ‘On the rare times I converse with Emperor Constantine, my son, we have a few other matters to get through before finding payment for a mercenary.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you did promise …’

  ‘Nonetheless? Nonetheless my arse. I promised I would try, and I will.’ The big Genoan glared at him, and his voice came mockingly. ‘Forgive me, Zoran, if I have been a little distracted. I am trying to figure out ways to save this fucking city from the Turk!’

  Gregoras opened his mouth, closed it again rapidly. It was the third such conversation they’d had, each more heated than the last. All he’d do was provoke still more rage if he spoke. The problem was that Giustiniani was no longer merely the leader of his own band of mercenaries, concerned only with their well-being. When he’d arrived, he’d been greeted with more than just the acclaim bestowed on any strong body of reinforcements. His vast experience in war had led Constantine to immediately appoint him supreme commander of all the city’s defences, and all forces within its walls. Since that time, finding gold to pay off promises was far from his mind.

  Giustiniani raised his arms and his body servant came and strapped his huge sword round his waist. ‘Still raining, Amir?’ he called.

  The Syrian at the window turned. ‘Like the flood before Nuh called the animals. Wait much longer and we will have to row to the rendezvous.’

  ‘I wish we could. I prefer a deck under my feet than my rump in a saddle any day.’ Giustiniani bent so that the servant could slip the thick wool cloak over his shoulders, then grabbed a broad-brimmed hat off the table and crammed it onto his head. He turned back to Gregoras. ‘I’ll tell you what, Zoran. I am going to meet the emperor now on the walls. If you come with us and stand in the corner of my eye like some bedraggled crow, I may find the moment to ask Constantine for a little gold. Though they say he is as poor as a mouse, he did order that all his richest citizens bring half their wealth to him forthwith. If they have, which I doubt – for these Greeks have pockets as long as their beards and arms as short as their cocks – then maybe he can spare two hundred ducats to silence your cawing.’

  ‘It’s three hundred ducats, Commander,’ Gregoras said, through his teeth. He considered. He did not really want to leave the barracks, let alone be close to the imperial party. Too many around the emperor – including Constantine himself – knew Gregoras Lascaris of old. And even if some doubted his treason, he was still an exile, under pain of death if he returned. However, he also knew that if he did not stand within his sight, Giustiniani would forget him instantly. And then he would never get out of Constantinople with what he needed. So he sighed, nodded. ‘I will come.’

  ‘Good,’ the Genoan said, clapping him on the back, the thunder vanished from his face. ‘And since you’ve been in a few sieges in your time, perhaps you will favour us with your advice? For a few extra coins?’

  ‘If it gets me out of this city faster, Commander, you can have that advice for free.’

  ‘Christ have mercy!’ Giustiniani staggered back, clutching at his heart. Then he turned and bellowed, ‘Enzo! Fetch this Samaritan a horse.’

  It was like riding through a solid wall of rain, driven hard into their faces by a gusty north-west wind. Still, as the four of them rode from their barracks in the Genoese quarter, out through the forums of Constantine and Theodosius, and into the land beyond, Gregoras was able to glance between hood and mask and see, yet again, how run-down the city was. Only every third house showed any sign of occupation. The shrinking population had moved to the seashores, occupying houses that the richer folk must have fled. Beyond the ancient ruins of the walls of the first Emperor Constantine there had always been open fields, villages, vineyards. But the fields were a wasteland of mud, half the villages deserted. Only as they neared the great Theodosian walls did he see activity, swarms of labourers moving over the stones, bearing others.

  Tying up their horses, the Genoan led his party up circling stairs and out through a low door, onto the flat floor of the gate tower of Charisius. The wind and rain, which the wa
lls had partially deflected, hit them full force now, causing all men there to secure hats and cloaks about them with one hand, and press the other against the crenellations.

  ‘Have you been up here before, Ragusan?’ Giustiniani had stepped close and still had to bellow to be heard above the wind singing in the battlements.

  He had. His father had first brought him and Theon here under pretext of inspecting the never-ceasing works that kept them in repair; really, to tell his two sons tales of his service upon the ramparts, at the great siege of ’22, when the present sultan’s father, Murad, had come to conquer. It was not something to share with Giustiniani. ‘Never, master.’ Gregoras looked about. ‘It is an impressive sight.’

  ‘Aye, is it not? Not one wall. Not two. Three.’ The Commander lifted his arm and swept it before him. ‘This is the highest point of the defences. You see how it falls to the south, then rises again?’ Gregoras looked, to the steeply descending slope of walls and small towers that then rose to the bulky grey blur of a larger tower close to a mile away. The other man continued, following his gaze, ‘That’s the civil gate of St Romanus, and that valley …’ he swept his hand straight before him, ‘that almost funnels towards us here, is known as the Mesoteichion.’ He sucked at his lower lip. ‘From all I have read and heard, this place has always been the focus of any attack. I have no doubt it will be again. This, between the gates of Charisius and St Romanus, is our heel of Achilles. This is the weak spot.’

  ‘Weak?’ Amir whistled. ‘By the Prophet’s beard! I have seen cities that were justly proud of one wall such as is before us. But three?’

  ‘Aye. Built them a thousand years ago. Yet still they stand.’ Enzo shook his head. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘Because we … those old Greeks knew how to build,’ Gregoras muttered. He remembered his father’s description of the killing ground before them. ‘They are … perfection.’