A Place Called Armageddon

by C. C. Humphreys

  Gregoras paused to take a small sip and Grant interrupted. ‘My friend, I have heard all this and more than perhaps even you know. This, my finest distillation,’ he said, lifting his mug, ‘draws all officers here eventually. There are nights when I cannot move and feel more owner of some dark bothy in my native Highlands than a man of science.’ He shook his head. ‘Nay, lad. I was asking after news of you. How’s the girl?’

  Gregoras was never quite sure which drunken night it was on their journey from Korcula that he had told Grant the whole tale. The drinking had also drowned his memories of what exactly he’d told. Not so for Grant, who seemed to recall everything, perfectly. He thought immediately of Sofia, that laugh she’d given when she’d surprised him with Thakos. That look in her eye. He had not come near her since. He was not sure what he would do when he did. Theon was the emperor’s adviser as Gregoras was his soldier. He did not wish to see tears in Constantine’s eyes, calling on two brothers not to fight and so aid the enemy, just as he called on the Italians.

  ‘I have not seen her in a while,’ he said.

  ‘Not since Ragusa. I know.’

  Gregoras frowned. ‘What girl do you speak of?’

  ‘The one you saved from those assailants. The pocket Venus who showed her gratitude by fucking your eyes from their sockets that same night.’ He grinned. ‘What was her name?’

  Truly, Gregoras thought, I have to be more restrained in what I tell people when in my cups. But the memory the Scot conjured was not unpleasant; far from it. ‘Leilah,’ he said, with a quick smile.

  ‘To her, then, lad,’ Grant said, lifting his mug. ‘And to a swift reunion of your loins.’

  It was a toast Gregoras could not refuse. Draining the mug, he felt the liquor surge through him, bringing a question: where was Leilah now? Would she meet him again in Ragusa as he had offered? If Constantinople survived, would he even be returning there?

  Grant raised the flagon. If he had kept his eyebrows, he’d have raised them too, so it was his brow that wrinkled in query. Gregoras considered another tot. He’d had two and they tasted fine. But then a man rushed in, one near as filthy as the Scot.

  ‘M … m … master,’ he said. ‘They are close.’

  ‘So soon? I doubt they’ll be here yet awhile.’ Reluctantly, Grant put the flagon down. ‘But just in case, Lascaris, order your men down to wait here, close for our call. Let them breathe while they can.’

  Gregoras moved swiftly through the wrecked cellar and to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Come,’ he called, and heard the order passed, his men assembling.

  He turned back into the stone room, saw the Scot, a pickaxe in his hand, standing by a now open door that led into a deeper darkness. His teeth glimmered in the torchlight. ‘Welcome to Hades,’ he said.

  ‘Should I give you a coin, Charon, for the ferrying of my soul?’ Gregoras muttered as he stepped past him into blackness.

  ‘Maybe later. You may survive, if you listen carefully.’ Grant moved in front of him as he spoke, and Gregoras followed, slipping the first two steps, for the ground he expected to be level sloped. And he found he could see, for there were torches every five paces, their flickering light falling on earthen walls and roof and the wooden props that supported them. The tunnel was narrow and low enough to make him uncomfortable, and Gregoras suddenly found himself yearning for the ship he’d vowed never to take again, the open space of its decks. Then the passage levelled, widening into a chamber that he could stand up straight in, and reach neither wall with outstretched arms from its centre.

  It also ended in another earth wall, the man who fetched them pressing his ear against it. ‘Are they … beyond that?’ Gregoras whispered, hand going to his short sword’s grip.

  Grant laughed, replied in a normal tone, ‘You do not need to whisper. They cannot hear us yet.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Grant pointed. ‘That tells me.’

  Gregoras followed the finger. On a little shelf left untrimmed in the building of the wall, he saw a drum resting, a small one such as a child might use. ‘Do you have time for music down here?’ He could not help the whisper.

  ‘Nay, lad, look closer.’ Gregoras bent. ‘Do you see the pebbles upon the skin? See how they move?’ Gregoras nodded. ‘They bounce with each stroke of a Serbian pickaxe upon the wall. They do not bounce too high … yet. But soon enough we’ll have to turn from these stones to those.’ He grabbed a torch from its bracket and brought it nearer to the wall. The light indeed glistened on other stones, larger ones, embedded in the earth. ‘When the first one of those falls, that’s the time not just for whispers, but for silence. The Turk will be just a few heartbeats away.’

  His lieutenant coughed behind him. Gregoras turned to see him in the narrow doorway, waiting for orders. He swallowed. ‘What would you have us do, Scotsman?’

  Grant was bent, studying the pebbles on the drum. ‘Hmm,’ he said, more softly. ‘Perhaps a little closer than I thought.’ He straightened. ‘Do? The Serb miners will be there, thinking they have some time yet before they get underneath our bastion. But they will be on guard for this countermine too, so Turkish soldiers will not be far behind. Their plan is to dig beneath the tower, prop up the walls with wood, then burn that down, causing the earth to fall in and the tower above with it. My men will do the same to their diggings, cut down their props, collapse their mine.’ That glimmer came again, lips parted over teeth. ‘All you have to do is drive the Turks away, fifty paces will do, and keep them away long enough for us to do that. Kill as many of their miners as you can, for they are irreplaceable … Oh, and listen hard for my call …’ he pulled a small silver whistle from his doublet, ‘above the dagger play. Because we cannot hold the earth up for long.’

  ‘How long?’ was all Gregoras got out before he heard the man at the wall hiss, ‘Master?’

  Both turned. The man was pointing at a stone in the wall. It seemed to jiggle and then, quite suddenly, it fell. ‘Hmm! Yes. Swifter than I thought,’ Grant whispered. ‘Fetch your men.’

  Gregoras turned, hissed a command down the passage.

  Grant gestured at his man, who moved away from listening and snatched the torch from the wall, stabbing it into the ground, snuffing flame, putting them into the dark. All Gregoras could do, he did – unstrap his buckler from his back and slip his hand through its grips, draw his long-bladed dagger, listen. He heard his men’s harsh breaths as they filed into the darkness, the sudden fear it brought making them inhale deeply in air that was already foul, and limited. He pulled at the shirt beneath the breastplate, freeing its grip from his neck. He felt a little faint, and reached a hand out to the earthen wall to steady himself. Behind him, men armed themselves. Before …

  He could hear it now, the muffled fall of metal on earth. It was rhythmical, a steady time being kept, and he thought he could also hear something beyond that, some hum. When he listened more closely, he recognised it. The men the other side were singing a hymn, one he knew well. Serbs, he thought, of the Orthodox faith as they were. Kill as many of them as you can, the Scotsman had said. Well, Christians killed each other as regularly as Christians killed Turks. The sultan had thousands of Christ’s followers in his army, while a Turkish prince, Orhan, a pretender to the throne of Osman, defended the walls with his infidels. And then there was Amir.

  Gregoras leaned to the side, spat some of the foulness from his mouth that bad air and good aqua vitae had made there. He pictured his friend, his fraying saffron cloak flapping, and held his dagger a little tighter.

  He listened, to the ragged breathing of his men, to the steady strike of metal on earth, to the praising of Christ the son, Maria the mother, their song getting louder or his hearing getting better in the dark. Other senses more acute too – the smell of sweat, for it was hot in a crowd beneath the ground, and of men’s gases expelled, fouling the air further; the wetness on his palms, the drops running down his back. He heard his men behind him muttering prayers till a harsh whisper from
the Scotsman cut them off. And he could not help silently mouthing the words to the hymn the men he was about to slay were singing. Christ in all his glory come, he thought. Lead us from the dark.

  It was as if he’d summoned it. The perfect blackness ahead, pierced suddenly by a single shaft of light. The sound of the hymn slightly louder for a moment, then cut off with a harsh cry, part triumph, part fear. Serbian was not a language he spoke, the word hissed the other side of the wall unintelligible. Not so the whispered Turkish reply.

  ‘Have you found it?’

  John Grant did not whisper. ‘Now!’ he shouted, and swung his pickaxe hard into the wall. On the other side, his man did the same. Four blows were enough to shatter it, the cave flooding with torchlight as the wall collapsed. Gregoras was squinting now, till the blurred shapes before him coalesced into three bearded men stripped to the waist, tools held crosswise before their chests. Behind them, a man in a turban, eyes widened by a shock all felt, each enemy staring at the other for one single, endless moment. Broken by the Scotsman’s next scream, the native war cry Gregoras had heard him cry before.

  ‘Craigelachie!’ Grant yelled, and swung his pickaxe again – into the bare chest before him.

  All that was silent transformed to noise, all that was still into movement. Gregoras stumbling forward now, then finding his feet, then running, dipping to dodge a swung shovel, needing to reach the Turk before he cleared his curved dagger from its sheath. He did, one hand grasping the wrist, shoving the blade back down, the other bringing his own weapon up and slashing the steel across the throat just too late to stop the cry erupting from his throat. ‘For the love of Allah, come!’

  God’s name was enough. Further down the well-lit mine, wider than the one he’d come from, men were moving. Miners rising from their rest; soldiers turning with weapons in their hands. As Gregoras dropped the dying Turk to the ground, he heard the cries of the miners he’d passed, falling. His men needed no commands, they were already running forward, his young lieutenant at their head. He pressed himself against the wall to save a trampling, and when the last of the twenty had gone past, he followed.

  ‘Drive them! Drive them back! Further!’ Grant was beside him now, his own miners in a body coming up. Some were holding shovels, pickaxes. Most seemed to be carrying clay pots in both hands, their necks stuffed with rags. As Gregoras ran forward, quite fast now because the miners ahead and the Turks had, to a man, turned and fled, he shouted, ‘What is in those pots?’

  ‘The product of my labours. At least, it will be. Far enough,’ he bellowed, halting suddenly, his men and Gregoras with him. Grant whistled, pointed at what looked like a large bladder on the ground, with a long stick thrust into it that trailed off into the mine ahead. ‘Look! A pump to cleanse the air. A fine example. I’m having that.’ Bending, he ripped the device from the ground, then looked around. ‘Begin!’ he commanded, and his men put down their pots carefully and began hacking away at every second wooden prop. Grant turned back to Gregoras. ‘Haven’t you business of your own?’ He pointed ahead, then pulled out his silver whistle. ‘But listen for my call, ye ken? It will not be long in coming.’

  Gregoras had only paused for a few seconds, and there had been silence ahead. Now, as he again ran along the passage, sounds came, and soon sight – his men, in a crowd, striking with their daggers and axes at Turks who had rallied before them. The tunnel was wide enough for five to fight five, and the front rank grappled as others pressed from behind. There were some cries of fear, of fury, of sudden agony. Some calls to God too, however He was seen. But mostly Gregoras was aware of the lack of noise, as if each side was aware of the fragility of the earth that pressed in upon them and did not want to disturb it with a shout.

  It was hard to see anything distinct in the flicker of torches and blades. Then Gregoras did, as two of his men fell at the same time, including his young lieutenant, face smashed with a mace. The man wielding it was a huge Turk, who should not have been there, making the space look small, and Gregoras could sense that point in battle fast coming when one side quailed and the other drove them back. Yet no whistle called him and he knew that the Greeks must stand. ‘For the emperor and for ‘Christ Risen,’ he cried, and moved between his men. They had begun to turn away, were a moment from flight, so he passed through easily enough, crouching low, shifting left to dodge the falling mace, brought down with a force that would have stoved his brain. He did not try to take the blow on his buckler; his arm would have been snapped. Instead he let it fall, felt the wind of its passing even as he lunged up and punched the dagger into the flesh beneath the Turk’s bearded chin.

  The man fell away, landing with a thump that shook the ground. It was enough to rally Gregoras’s troops, for the enemy to quail in his turn. Gregoras stepped back, as his men, with a cry of ‘Christ Risen!’, pushed past him, driving the Turks back. He heard a moan, looked down, saw the young lieutenant’s smashed lips move in plea. ‘Help me,’ he whispered. Gregoras hesitated … and then they came, clear, shrill. Three blasts of a silver whistle.

  ‘Come,’ said Gregoras, dragging the fallen officer up. His men knew the signal too. As a body they turned and charged towards their safety. ‘Here!’ he yelled, and one of the soldiers slipped his shoulder under the arm of the young lieutenant that Gregoras held out. Together, with the young man’s toes scraping the ground, they ran.

  The Turks had turned back under the ferocity of the last assault. But fresh men, who had been kept always in readiness, had arrived and were now running down a passage they knew led straight into the city they had struggled so hard to take. It was a foot race, Gregoras and his helper just winning it. There was a slight bend to the Serb tunnel; they rounded it …

  ‘Down!’ came a guttural Scottish cry. Gregoras obeyed, bearing himself and his burden swiftly to the ground, sliding along mud that blood had made slick. He twisted as he fell, ready to leap up again on command. So he saw Grant above him lean back, then hurl his arm forward. Saw the flame that flew like a comet’s tail through a night sky. Gregoras was rising to his knees as he saw the projectile smash – one of the clay pots shattering on the ground before the charging Turks. There was a moment when liquid splashed over mud and onto trailing clothes. Then, with a sharp fizz, the burning fuse ignited the liquid and the tunnel went up in flame.

  ‘Come,’ Grant cried, bending to help Gregoras rise, the Greek in turn aiding his moaning lieutenant. Together the three stumbled back, away from the screaming Turks, those who burned, those who sought to pass the flames and charge on. But more of Grant’s men were against the tunnel’s walls, and as they passed, each miner lifted a clay pot and threw it – not at the Turks, some of whom had come through the fire, but straight at the base of the wooden props that held up the roof.

  Grant had a grin greater than ever before. Passing his burden to two soldiers who reached out their hands, Gregoras turned to the Scot as they ran. ‘Won’t they put out the flames?’

  ‘Nay. Greek Fire cannot be stamped out and it’s the devil’s job to smother, because it just spreads and burns anything. Same with water, it’ll burn atop it. About the only thing that would work is piss.’ He laughed. ‘And have you ever tried pissing when a roof’s about to fall in?’

  ‘Greek Fire?’

  ‘Aye,’ Grant nodded. ‘Seems that I have rediscovered its secret after all.’

  They’d reached the entrance to their tunnel, the last men back. There was a little bunching there as the soldiers pushed through, so Gregoras turned, hands before him, weaponless but ready to leap for the throat of a pursuer. None came through the smoke and the dancing light, but as he watched, what did come was sound, a deep rumble, a dozen screams suddenly choked off. A wall of dust hurtled towards him.

  ‘Come now,’ said Grant, seizing his collar, dragging him through the stone lintel of the archway, slamming the door shut, shooting its bolt. They both fell up the steps, lay there staring at the wood. Something hard hit it on the other side, but the lock and
the solid oak held; while as they watched, through the edges of the doorframe a fine burst of dust blew out, like a man’s last sigh.

  – TWENTY-SEVEN –

  The Tower

  17 May: forty-first day of the siege

  ‘Will I live?’

  Behind her veil, Leilah rolled her eyes. If she had a ducat for every time she’d been asked that question recently, she could forget the fortune Geber’s manuscript would bring her and retire for life. It came with setting up her tent in a war camp. Soldiers had few other concerns.

  She tried again to seek his answer in the cards spread before her. Yet again, as it had been for days now, their symbols revealed nothing save her own confusion. She glanced up from them to the youth squatting on the other side of the kilim. Not yet twenty, she suspected by his wisp of beard, by his accent, a Vlach from beyond the Danube. Though she’d heard that Christians only formed one-quarter of the sultan’s army, they were three-quarters of her clientele, those of the true faith more content to leave their destiny in Allah’s hands.