A Place Called Armageddon

by C. C. Humphreys

  She shoved Thakos ahead of her, followed into the gloom. The door was slammed shut, quickly locked again. At first she sensed, rather than saw, shapes crowded there. Gradually the little light from grille and shuttered windows revealed a half-dozen people, mainly women. Some stood; some were collapsed onto the floor; some sobbed; some stared ahead.

  ‘Welcome to my house. Remain until it is safe,’ came the same voice from behind her.

  She turned. An old Jew stood by the door, long grey-black locks hanging down his face, a cap in the centre of his head. ‘Thank you, kyr,’ she said. ‘Thank you for saving me and my son.’

  He smiled, nodded, turned back to look again through the grille. She bent to Thakos, crying on the floor, clutching his ankle. Gently she parted his fingers, looked, raised the foot. It was swollen already, sprained, she thought, but not broken. Clutching her son to her, she tilted her head, listened to the fading cries from the street, and prayed again for her daughter’s deliverance.

  It took a while for the cries to die away entirely. A while longer before the Jew threw back the bolts and cautiously looked outside. He stepped back in, nodded. ‘I think it is safe,’ he said, ‘but you can all remain longer if you will.’

  Some left, passing through the door without saying a word. Some stayed. Sofia could not. Helping Thakos to rise, she moved to the entrance. ‘Thank you, kyr,’ she said. ‘You have saved us.’

  The man shrugged, then looked down at Thakos’s swollen ankle. ‘Here,’ he said, reaching behind the open door, picking up a walking stick there. He offered it to Thakos, who took it, stood on his own.

  ‘Thank you again,’ Sofia said.

  ‘I have a grandson out there,’ he said, nodding to the street. ‘I hope someone, somewhere is perhaps giving him a stick.’

  They left. She had no thought but to go home, leave Thakos there, send for her husband, begin the search for her daughter. Where was Gregoras? She had not seen him since the day before the failed assault on the Turkish fleet, though her husband had said he had survived it. Perhaps he could help, him and his mercenary comrades. But how to find him?

  Mind churning along with her guts, she went as swiftly as her hobbling son would allow through streets that bore the scars of riot. There were bodies surrounded by bunches of gawkers, patches of blood on the stones. But they passed through these streets fast enough into others that bore no trace of what had happened. Wine stores were open, and men were drinking. Shops were selling a meagre supply of goods. In one square there was even a bread stall, a large but orderly queue before it. When Thakos could no longer walk swiftly enough, she found the strength to lift him onto her back.

  She prayed unceasingly to keep the terror at bay until she was able to do something about it. And then all her terrors were swept away, as she rounded the corner onto her own street, by an angry cry.

  ‘Where have you been, Mama?’ Minerva was rising from the doorstep, on which she proceeded to stamp. ‘I am hungry and I want my bread.’

  Strangely, the last piece of bread from the Forum of the Bull was still tucked into Sofia’s dress. But before she could hand it over, she half squashed it by pressing her daughter hard against her. Minerva, looking over her mother’s shoulder at Thakos on the ground, stuck out her tongue.

  ‘So it was achieved, basileus, as you commanded.’

  Theon bowed, stepped back. He had given his report bluntly, like a soldier, reining in his desire to elaborate. He had not removed any of the dust from his armour, the muck that had kicked up from hooves. In fact, he had decided he did not look quite dirtied enough and had added a little more from the stables below.

  His words, his demeanour, had their effect. ‘You have done well, Theon Lascaris,’ Constantine said. ‘Twenty dead and others with cracked limbs to be displayed through the streets will be a good example. The mob will not rise again.’

  ‘And yet it might, lord.’ The voice came on a wheeze from the aged adviser, George Sphrantzes. ‘People who are always hungry, who either fight upon the walls by day, or spend the nights repairing them, who sleep little and eat less, will resent us of the noble class, those who have, perhaps, more than they and show it.’ He gestured to his own ample belly. ‘The Holy Father knows that we have few enough citizens to defend our own. And if these despair, lose all hope, how long may we survive?’

  ‘I am everywhere, showing myself. And I sleep less and eat as little as any man in the city, I’d wager.’

  Sphrantzes raised his hands against his master’s fierce tone. ‘I know this, lord. But people who are hungry are not apt to remember anything but empty bellies for long.’

  Constantine sighed, running fingers through his greying hair. ‘You are right, as ever, old friend. We must take action.’ He looked up at a sharp report, a dull thud that caused dust to float down from the ceiling. ‘We must address their resentment. We must husband our resources, make sure they are distributed equitably … and show that all defenders of Constantinople are the same.’ He turned to another man beside him. ‘Megas Doux, will you take charge of a committee of relief?’

  ‘I?’ The tall, grey-templed Loukas Notaras mustered all the disdain he could into the single syllable. ‘I, act as a broker to the mob? What do I know of tallies and measures of corn?’

  ‘We need a name, Loukas. You are the second man in the city. Sphrantzes and Lascaris will organise everything. But you will sign your name to it, and appear before the people to distribute what is collected.’

  Notaras looked as if he was about to reply harshly, rudely again. But Theon, watching him closely, saw the words withheld, the light of cunning in the eye. The megas doux was ever seeking to advance himself further. All knew he had always had designs upon the purple itself. And all could see – save perhaps Constantine, who, Theon had learned, was not attuned to all the subtleties of rule – that Notaras was being given a gift here. If, one day, he aspired to be more than megas doux, he would need the mob behind him, however much he despised it. The rabble of Constantinople had placed more than one emperor on the throne before – and torn others down.

  The tall man folded his height into a low bow. ‘As the basileus commands,’ he said.

  Constantine stared at him a moment, before turning to the two churchmen on his other side. ‘Archbishop Leonard. Cardinal Isidore. You shall aid the megas doux, for it is to the Church we must go for the funds we need now. And we will begin with the heads of all the holy houses, the monasteries and nunneries of the city. I will approach them and personally seek donations. We will need gold to buy the grain in the foreigners’ warehouses.’ He raised a hand at the murmur that rose. ‘Yes, buy. They are our friends and we depend on them for their arms, for their support. But they are merchants too. Do not fear.’ He smiled, briefly. ‘I know how to haggle, and will get a good price. Once the grain is ours, and the bakeries organised, we will produce a regular supply and distribute it fairly – and free. Yes?’ He looked around, received the nods, continued, ‘And what else was said here?’ He paused again, pinched between his eyes.

  Theon wondered when his emperor had last slept a night through. Back in the Morea, he suspected.

  Constantine looked up. ‘We were speaking of resentment and despair, were we not? How it saps the will of men to do what must be done. The first … well, I can see how resentment would be fired by the sight of well-fed nobles and churchmen not doing their share for the defence. Examples must be set.’ He turned again to Leonard and Isidore. ‘We have a large body of men in this city who perhaps are not doing enough. The monks. When we speak to the abbots about gold, we will also talk about manpower. Let the monks become the main repairers of the walls the Turks knock down.’

  ‘Would they not be better engaged, majesty,’ Archbishop Leonard said, his tone cool, ‘in moving among the people and urging them to pray correctly to the Holy Catholic Church and its father in Rome? To come to the cathedrals and beseech God for deliverance and not to avoid them as if they were houses of contagion?’


  Constantine sighed. ‘I think, if we are trying to reduce resentment, we will not do it by coercing people to pray in a way alien to them.’ He raised his hand against the churchman’s interruption. ‘I have done all I can in that regard, for now. Let us address it again in time of peace, after our victory. For now, all our concern must be to secure that.’ He turned away from the prelates. ‘I think that our noble families must also be seen to be more active. My own dear sister went to the walls one night with her ladies and helped repair a breach. It inspired all who witnessed it. Perhaps some more of your families could do the same?’

  Theon found himself nodding, along with other noblemen there. Unlike most of theirs, he thought, my wife will consider it her duty and be the first to go. Her ability to sacrifice herself had always irritated him.

  ‘And now, as to despair?’ Constantine went to the window. From it he could just see a section of the Horn, and Theon knew what he would be looking at there – the bridge that the Turks, in command of the waters now, were building. When it reached the city shore, close to the palace, they would be able to pour fresh men across it and assault the walls there too. The way they built, it would not take them long. ‘We need a message of hope,’ Constantine said without turning round. ‘And since no vessel has brought one since our Genoese heroes broke through, it is time to go out and seek it.’ He turned back, looked at his adviser, Sphrantzes. ‘Let a fast vessel be prepared, crewed with able men and dispatched in dead of night and under Turkish colours. Let it seek the Venetian fleet that was ordered dispatched three months since. If they do not meet them in the Archipelago, let them venture as far as Euboea. And if they do not encounter them, let them return and tell us so … and we will find ways to manage our despair with knowledge and prayer.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I must sleep, my friends. Try, anyway. Let my orders be performed. And let us meet here early on the morrow so we can discuss them further.’

  He lifted his hand, saluted them, turned away. They were dismissed. Though Theon was tired too, he knew he would get little sleep this night. Sphrantzes was already beckoning him into an antechamber, Notaras stalking ahead. He would need his abacus, he was sure, a weapon he wielded more assuredly than the sword he had drawn that day. Yet both were building his influence in the court. If they survived, he would have a new status in the city. And then …

  ‘Give me mine,’ he murmured, with a smile.

  – TWENTY-SIX –

  Hades

  16 May: fortieth day of the siege

  He had fought at the Blachernae palace most days since his near drowning, thought he knew its every stone and stairwell. Yet when Gregoras and his company of guardsmen, in that darkest hour before the dawn, were sent to seek out the Scotsman, and even though he was given directions as to how to discover him, still he wandered the length of the inner wall, calling out, ‘Grant! Grant! Where are you, man?’ and, for the longest time, heard no reply.

  Then he got one, of a kind. He was lifting his torch high and peering again at what appeared to be just another ruined flight of stairs leading down, its crumbled steps filled with broken chunks of masonry, when there came an explosion, not another from the enemy beyond the walls, no cannon shot, but from the dark depths he stared into. It was preceded by, and accompanied by, a high-pitched and rising shriek of ‘No, no, NO!’ Then some portal was flung back below, smoke gushed forth and, a moment later, he’d found his man as John Grant came running up the steps.

  On fire.

  ‘St Peter take the Pope in the arse,’ the Scot screamed, beating at his flaming clothes. ‘Holy St Katherine, feast upon my …’

  Gregoras had his cloak unclasped and swirling in a moment. He engulfed his friend, threw him to the ground, threw himself atop him. The curses – saints and obscene acts quite ingeniously combined – still came muffled from within the heavy wool, along with the scent of singed flesh. When the thrashing and the cursing finally stopped, Gregoras slowly pulled back the top of the cloak.

  Two eyes, dark holes in an oval of grimy white, stared up. ‘Will you get off of me, you great Greek lump? You’re squashing the future heirs of the Clan Grant.’

  Gregoras rose, gently pulling his cloak off the prone man, who shakily stood. ‘Good to see you too, Scotsman. Can you tell me why it is that whenever I see you, you are always blowing things up?’

  ‘It’s my job, do ye ken?’ Teeth bared in a smile, splitting the almost solid grime. ‘An’ I love it.’

  Gregoras peered closer. ‘Well, this last accident has taken your eyebrows.’

  ‘Ach, they went two weeks ago. No loss. I’ve discovered that it’s safer not to have bodily hair. Less to burn.’ He grinned again. ‘What make you here?’

  Gregoras gestured to the twenty men behind him. ‘I was told it might be time, for …’ He pointed down the still smoking stairwell. ‘The Turk is close, is he not?’

  ‘Aye. But not that close.’ Grant slapped at an ember glowing on his doublet. ‘Come,’ he said, moving towards the steps. ‘We have a little time.’ He glanced back at Gregoras, who had not moved. ‘Don’t worry, man. Everything that can explode has exploded. For now.’

  ‘It’s the “for now” that concerns me,’ grunted Gregoras, reluctantly following.

  Grant halted, looked back at the guards. ‘You can tell your men to rest up but be ready for my call. And tell them there won’t be room down there for those great bloody halberds. Swords are too big really. Long daggers and short axes will do the trick.’

  Gregoras turned back, nodded at his lieutenant, who had heard as well as he. The Scot always spoke as if addressing a parade ground. The men started shedding weaponry, and Gregoras followed his friend down into the smoking pit.

  He could see nothing at first, but Grant obviously could, for a lantern was lit, its beam slicing through the clearing smoke which was being sucked up the stairwell. Coughing, Gregoras looked about a large stone cellar. Several barrels and various pieces of glass and metal equipment were scattered about, and his feet crunched on shards. ‘Has the explosion destroyed much of your work?’ he asked.

  Grant was setting a table upright, picking up a stone bowl. ‘Ach, no. This place looked much as you see. It was quite a small experiment, truly.’ He held the bowl out. The bottom was scorched and smoked slightly. ‘I thought I had the way of it sorted. It works seven times out of ten, but …’ He sighed, broke off.

  ‘The way of what?’ Gregoras asked.

  ‘Why, Greek Fire, of course.’ Grant shook his head. ‘It’s the proportions that are difficult. How much of that resin we brought from Chios to mix with the oxidising agent …’ He held up a plate; Gregoras got a whiff of foulness and coughed. ‘Aye,’ Grant laughed. ‘Bird shit, lovingly scraped off rocks on the shore. Full of saltpetre but of a dubious quality.’ He put down the bowl. ‘If you want to clear your head, take a sniff at that barrel.’

  Tentatively, Gregoras leaned down over liquid, inhaled … and his head whirled at the sharp scent. He had to reach to a table to steady himself. ‘Aye,’ laughed Grant. ‘You don’t want to sniff too much of it. Makes you feel drunk and gives you a worse headache than that aqua vitae I was distilling for the pirates.’ He bent forward, sniffed himself. ‘It’s called naphtha, from some place east of here, name of Irak. It’s what does the burning. But I didn’t stabilise it enough, so …’ He gestured at his charred clothes, then continued, ‘Speaking of aqua vitae … could you use a drink?’

  Gregoras’s head was still whirling a little. But if he was about to fight, a tot of the Scotsman’s liquor would not harm, but help. Just one. Two, and he’d want five. And then he might get careless. ‘Where do you keep it?’ he said.

  ‘In my quarters. Here …’ he replied, and led the way to a door in one of the walls. It gave onto a room of contrast to the one they’d left. Here was order, a bed, a basin, books and scrolls upon a table. The one thing out of place was the large glass vessel, the cauldron below it heated from a small fire, drops condensing and running through the alemb
ic into a stoppered jar.

  Grant lifted a jug and poured two measures. ‘Death to the Turk,’ he declared, and the two men shot the liquor back. It was far smoother than Gregoras had feared, and he was tempted to break his rule. But he put the mug down. ‘Should we not get ready to kill them now?’ he said.

  ‘There’s time.’ Grant sat, poured himself another, smiled when Gregoras demurred. ‘I have skilled men watching for signs.’ He pointed to the room they’d come from. ‘There is a door there that leads to a countermine that’s dug about twenty paces before the bastion. I’m almost certain that the Turk mine has nearly reached it.’

  ‘Almost? How can you know at all?’

  ‘Well, it’s a science, like the other,’ Grant replied, lifting his mug to stare at it. ‘If I were the Turk, I know where I would dig, for I have examined the soil all around and it’s only fit, solid enough to support shafts, in a few spots along the whole length of these walls. Then it’s a question of studying the lines over there, seeing where the Turk is trying to make us not look.’ He put down the mug, jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s about, och, twenty-three paces that way, by my reckoning. Except of course it’s not Turks who dig, but our fellow Christians, Serbs from Novo Brodo, by the tongue I’ve heard a few times at night. I recognise it and know their skills well, for I learned the same trade beneath the same ground as they.’

  ‘Twenty-three paces? And you twenty out?’ Gregoras half stood. ‘Should we not …?’

  ‘Sit!’ commanded the Scot. ‘My men will tell us in plenty of time. And for God’s sake have another dram.’ He poured another tot before Gregoras could cover his mug. ‘You make me nervous with this abstemiousness. And I haven’t seen you for an age.’ He grinned as Gregoras sipped. ‘So? What news of the world?’

  Whenever the people of the city met, each would ask the other for news – whether the ship the emperor had sent out two weeks before had returned; whether the latest Turkish assaults on the boom had come close to succeeding, so the enemy’s two fleets could unite; how many more attacks upon the walls the city could resist, for the Turks had come at night twice recently, once at the St Romanus gate, once at the palace, and had only just, and after long hours of hard fighting, been driven back each time. So Gregoras talked of his knowledge of this, and of something more recent, which he had witnessed himself at the emperor’s side: Constantine, striding into a hall full of shouting Venetians and Genoans, and putting his body between the rivals, between the many who had drawn their daggers there, accusing each other of cowardice, of betrayal. Using his voice and his tears to calm them, to beg that they save their hatred for the enemy and not give him succour and their own people despair with their enmity. He had succeeded in forcing an accord. But there would be no love between the Italian rivals.