Being an Apulian ship and therefore owned and manned by supporters of the emperor, the Stella Maris docked at a Pisan wharf, which the captain called a skala. The Pisans were in those times allied with the emperor, unlike the Genoese and Venetians, although I noticed that the various communities seemed to live all mixed together here. How strange it was that the poisonous division between supporters of emperor and pope, or Ghibellines and Guelfs as they called themselves, was causing war and murder back in Italy, but here in Greece it seemed to hold little weight. Probably, I told myself, they were all too busy making money to kill each other. It was getting dark, and rather than cast about for a suitable inn, the Captain decided to accept the harbour-masters offer of hospitality and put up for the night at the Pisan trading-house to which our wharf was attached. There were many of these houses, all with their skalai, packed tightly between the water and the walls, and as the dinner hour approached fires and lamps were being lit up and down the shore. I was impatient to enter the city itself, but as the Captain pointed out, we would be better served by good food and a peaceful sleep. Tomorrow we would find our own lodgings, and seek an audience at the palace. And the Pisans were so friendly, and their food smelled so inviting, that it was far easier not to resist. So we were shown to a room, plain but comfortable, and later shared a meal that, after five weeks of ship's food, could just as well have been manna. The dishes were so savoury, and the company so lively, that it almost seemed churlish to wonder why, after an evening spent at the very centre of the Greek world, I had yet to hear a single Greek voice. But I set these thoughts aside and let the food – richly spiced with pepper and other spices fit to ransom a prince – and the good Tuscan wine lull me, and as the Captain had hoped, we both slept like the dead. But before I laid down my head I put my head out of the small window and craned to look up at the great walls of the city. A little moonlight glanced off the cut stones and sank into the gashes and wounds of siege and time. They had not kept out the robbers, these walls, and perhaps it was their penance to be reduced to a home for ivy and pigeons. Well, tomorrow I too would be inside, yet one more Frankish robber. I let out a sigh, and it was echoed by the breeze stirring in the caper shrubs that hung, lax and abandoned, from the stones above. This city is no longer defended, it seemed to whisper: it bowed down long ago. Downcast, I took myself off to bed, and thought troubled thoughts of Anna before sleep took me.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning brought fog. It was chilly, and the Captain and I, accustomed as we were to the sun, shivered as we broke our fast with our Pisan hosts. Then we set out for the palace. We had nothing but our packs, and the Pisans offered us a servant to carry those to the inn. To be polite we accepted, but not the offer of a guide. The Captain could find his way, he said, and we set out. The dour mood of last night had vanished with the mornings fog, which the sun had indeed chased away, and I was fairly skipping as I followed the Captain along the foot of the walls, winding through a maze of lodgings, warehouses, offices and churches, some of which were still being built, and all of which hummed and sometimes raged with Italian voices, the sing-song dialects of Genoa and Venice, Pisa, Florence, Siena and a babel of others I did not recognise. It was here I heard my first Greek spoken, though the speakers were labourers working on one of the new Frankish churches, whose campanile was beginning to rise above the level of the sea walls. Soon afterwards we came to a gate, much broken down and guarded by sleepy-looking men-at-arms in the imperial red and gold livery, leaning on their spears in the shade and gossiping with each other in French. They did not bat an eyelash at us. Thus I entered Constantinople.
The street we found ourselves walking down was almost empty save for a few ancient crones in dusty black clothes who regarded us with icy indifference. As soon as we had passed through the gate I knew I was inside the rotten jawbone I had imagined from the boat. The houses around us, once grand, were in a horrible state of disrepair. Some were roofless, the sun shining through their upper windows. Those that were intact looked half occupied, with some windows boarded up and others showing a ragged curtain or a drape of tattered laundry. Every wall showed evidence of fire. I have said the street was near empty, but only of people: stray dogs, emaciated and flayed by mange, scurried everywhere, and the air was rank with their piss and turds. We hurried on under the impassive eyes of the old women. Turning a corner, we entered a wider thoroughfare, but the same neglect and ruin was in evidence here also. The buildings were high and flat-fronted, in the main, with many tiers of round-arched windows. They stood side by side so that often the street was a seamless wall of stone. The effect was majestic even now, and more than a little sinister. This had not been a city like the ones back home, I knew now, with their ramshackle houses of wood and mud all leaning on each other's shoulders like a congregation of drunkards. And it had paid a terrible price for its superiority.
Thus we made our way, mostly in silence, although the Captain would every now and again point out some landmark, or what had once been such, for invariably it was now a gutted shell. I could not believe how empty the streets were. This had been a city of a million people, and now… There were a few more old people here, and children with matted hair and dirty faces played in doorways and chased the dogs. I shook my head in dismay, but all of a sudden the Captain grabbed my shoulder and jerked me against the nearest wall. There was a cacophony of barking and curses, and a great pack of mangy dogs hurtled past us, driven by a company of men-at-arms who marched towards us up the street, swords and spears clinking against chain mail, jeering and swearing at the few people who were abroad. The old folk retreated into their houses, crossing themselves in the backwards Greek fashion, but some of the bolder children fell into step with the soldiers, tugging on their surcoats and holding out their hands. A couple of them were rewarded with small coins, but one, a cheeky boy with great brown eyes who was skipping about in front of the man who looked to be the company's leader and chanting 'Please! Please!' in Greek, came too close and the man suddenly lashed out, sending him sprawling over the flagstones. The others laughed and, to my horror, marched right over him, trampling his little body heedlessly with their boots. I was about to drag him out of the way, but the Captain stopped me, and indeed the little one picked himself up, dusted himself off and limped away to his fellows, who surrounded him, cackling. Meanwhile the soldiers had drawn abreast of us, and the one who had trampled the child glanced our way and saluted us, a twisted smile on his boozy face. I was about to tell him what was on my mind, but again the Captain stopped me, and replied to the soldier's greeting with a haughty lift of his chin. The soldiers clattered away towards the sea, and left the street to the dogs, the children, and ourselves.
We walked on, but the children, in search of fresh diversion, began to tag along behind us. We had gone a few paces when I felt a tug on the hem of my tunic.
'Lordos! Lordos!' The voice was a hoarse squeak. I turned and looked down into the dust-streaked face of the little boy. He was around nine years old, I judged, and his hair was thick with dust. A thin trickle of blood ran from each nostril, and he had wiped it crosswise across his cheek. What do you want, little one?' I asked him gently, in the Greek Anna had taught me. He stepped back in amazement.
'Coin, Lordos?' he asked again in Venetian. I pulled out a silver florin and and held it out to him.
'I am no lord’ I told him in Greek. He looked me up and down in disbelief, and I realised I was dressed in my finest Venetian clothes: short, point-sleeved tunic of white and black-striped silk; bronze silk surcoat with broad blue stripes, scalloped at the neck and hem with bronze ribbon; red woollen hose; saffron-coloured coif. I had my sword buckled on, and the knife hung next to my red leather purse. The boy snatched the coin and took a couple of hasty steps backwards. ‘Who are you, then?' he asked me in Greek.
‘Kakenas’ I told him. Nobody. He cocked his head and regarded me for a moment with hooded eyes. Confusion and perhaps anger came from him like the heat of a fever: I
could feel it. For a moment I thought he would spit at me, but instead he bit the florin and turned his blood-smeared face up to mine once more before turning on his heel and running back to his mates.
We walked on through one ruined street after another. The very air was suffused with an oppressive melancholy, as if the ruined buildings were breathing it out through their blackened skull-mouths. °Where are all the people?' I asked quietly.
They fled, some of them’ the Captain answered. 'Like Anna's people, to Anatolia, Epiros. Scattered. But many did not flee.' He pointed to an empty house. It had been quite grand once, red brick trimmed with marble that had been carved, around windows and door, into thick, leafy vines. Now fat stains of soot stretched up from each blank cavity where a fire had once raged. 'They died in their houses, or in the streets. Or they were herded into the churches and butchered like vermin.'
'Raped on the altars.' It was something that Anna always said, and I always thought it a bit of hyperbole. Now I saw it must have happened just as she had told it.
Yes, then hacked to pieces. The crusaders hated the Greeks. Called them effete and soft, corrupted. Do they look effete now?' Indeed they do not.'
'This place… thirty-three years ago, in my lifetime, this place, this Constantinople, was the centre of the world,' he went on. He was angry, I realised: very angry, though not with me. 'It was the greatest city man has ever known. Look! This street is empty, save for that beggar, those children. That woman – is she a whore, or simply a pauper? There used to be a million people teeming here. A million! These walls would have swallowed every soul in London, Rome, Paris, all of them at once without a trace. Doge Dandolo and his crusaders looted and burned until there was nothing left. I was born the year the crusaders came here, but I have talked to old men who remember the city that was-'
'And Anna, too,' I interrupted. 'To her it was a city of gold, a miracle.'
'And now it is a skeleton.' The Captain kicked a lump of charred brick, which clattered hollowly into an empty doorway.
'That is what I saw from the ship, as we came in last night,' I told him. 'A jawbone, all rotten. And the merchant churches like fat worms feasting on the decay.'
At last we found ourselves in another open space, a public space, surely, but one that now held no one who might be described as public. It did, however, contain a large number of armed men, who loafed about, polished weapons or fed horses. On the far side rose a vast wall of stone and brick. It rose in a series of arches, one row atop the other, to a tumult of domes, battlements and spires topped with Greek crosses, two-headed birds and other arcane devices. Many flags and pennants fluttered: the gold and red of the empire, of course, and others I did not recognise. As we walked closer I saw that we were approaching a gate in an outer wall, that was in itself as complex as the palace – for so it was – that it shielded. It extended out of sight on both sides, swallowed up in other buildings or in heaps of rubble, to which, in many places, it had itself been reduced. Now at last we were among crowds, and it became apparent that these men did not follow the practices of the effete Greeks they despised. For they stank. The square gave off a rancid stench of unwashed flesh, manure and horse-piss. It was almost as foul as the air on the rowing deck of the Stella Maris.
Around us, uncouth voices croaked and snarled in French, Flemish, Catalan, Piedmontese. I guessed it was some regular gathering – pay day, perhaps – for the soldiers were bored but restless. The bulk of them I took to be mercenaries – for what else would Catalans be doing in Greece? – but here and there I saw white surcoats stitched with the rough cross of the crusader. Old Pope Gregory had said a crusade had been preached, and evidently a few, at least, had heeded the call, but their fresh, younger faces were at odds with the scarred, scowling countenances of their fellows. Those men lolled about, many of them perched on plinths of stone that were dotted about regularly, and which I guessed had held statues or monuments that had been looted or destroyed. And indeed I glimpsed a headless marble figure that had evidently been part of a fountain or some such. Now it lacked, not only a head, but one arm and much of its upper torso. By way of compensation, though, it had been endowed with a gigantic, virile cock sketched crudely in charcoal. Horses were tethered to one of its legs. The streets we had walked to get here had been more or less clean, save for the detritus of ruin, for there was no one to foul them. Here, though, the ordure lay in heaps all around, and the stone pavement of the square was all but hidden by a thick layer of dung and other filth. It was a barnyard, a midden. The Franks had been here thirty-three years, and they had yet to find a broom.
The gate, in keeping with the gargantuan scale of the palace, was towering, and wide enough for a company of horsemen to ride through six abreast. It had been much hacked about lower down, and was charred and streaked with the memory of fire. Many of its iron fittings were bent and buckled. And yet it was still formidable, and at this hour it was shut fast.
A pair of smart-looking guards in leather hauberks, with gold crosses upon their red surcoats, came noisily to attention as we stepped out of the reeking throng and approached them. For the second time that morning I remembered that we were dressed like Frankish lords, and felt somewhat smug when the guards wiped the surliness from their faces. I allowed the Captain to take the lead, and-when one of the guards stepped forward to ask our business, he flourished the letter with the gigantic papal bull under the man's nose. In the wink of an eye the gate was hauled open a crack by unseen hands, and we had been ushered through into an immense courtyard. The guard indicated a second gateway, and we set out across the yard. In a way this place was the exact opposite to the square outside. Here the marble flagstones were swept clean, and the statues still upon their plinths, although here again only a couple still retained their heads. It was clean and orderly, but I had the sense that, when once such a majestic yard would have had dozens of servants devoted to its upkeep, now it was maintained by one tired man. The trees – for oranges, olives, bay laurels and even palms grew here and there – were dead or dying, although their fallen leaves had been removed. Swarms of brown sparrows and pigeons crowded the dry branches and filled the air with their shrill riot. It was as bright and cheerful a scene as I had yet found in Constantinople, and yet it was a ruin nonetheless, and here, as outside, there were phantoms. Well, gentlemen, greetings indeed!' said Narjot de Toucy, looking up in surprise from the pope's letter. He beckoned over a tall, thickset man who was standing against a nearby column. This is my lord Anseau de Cayeux, Regent of the Empire of Constantinople. Anseau, these chaps have a letter from the pope.'
It was our turn to be surprised, and we both backed away and made the lowest, courtliest bows in our repertoire.
‘Jean de Sol, at your service, Excellency,' intoned my companion.
‘Petrus Zennorius,' I echoed. The man laughed good-naturedly.
'Nay, nay, good people. You are most welcome here. We do not stand on a great deal of ceremony, as you have no doubt observed.' He laid a friendly arm across the shoulders of Narjot de Toucy, and the two barons regarded us amiably. They were quite unlike, these two: de Toucy was hollow-cheeked and crow-like, with coarse black hair and a short-cropped soldier's beard; de Cayeux was somewhat florid, with a lion's mane of golden curls. He appeared to be running to fat, but I saw that this was not the case. His jolly appearance was deceptive: what seemed to be fat was muscle, and his happy blue eyes were piercing.
We had arrived at this temporary throne room after much peregrination through the labyrinthine and decaying corridors of the Bucoleon Palace. Beyond the great doors we had entered another courtyard, this one shaded and smelling of cat-piss and wet moss, and through another gateway into a high hall that receded into shadow in a series of pillared archways. Here again the cats had been diligent, and although large Flemish tapestries were hung here and there on the walls they were dwarfed by the great height of the ceiling, and, when I cast my now expert eye over one as I passed by, I saw that it was old and not of any g
reat quality: no more than would have graced the dining-chamber of an Antwerp burgomeister of the middle rank. The tapestries tried to mask the faded murals and damaged mosaics that covered the walls, but seemed crude and ugly in contrast. For though the plaster was crumbling, and the mosaics had been stripped, I guessed, of their gold, where they still existed they yet possessed a hint of dignity, like the shred of life that lingers on the faces of the dead until the flesh has grown cold. As we made our way down this hall we came upon small groups of men who turned their heads and regarded us suspiciously as we passed by. They were French nobles and priests, mainly, to judge from their dress. We came to the end of the corridor to find ourselves at a locked door and a crossways: seeing people to our left we chose that road, but only by asking a legion of slack-faced serving lads had we found ourselves in this far-flung corner of the palace. I had long since lost track of how we had come here, although, thinking back, we might have passed the ancient throne room, a lofty cavern whose walls were faced with purple stone but whose ceiling had indeed caved in. Nothing but spiderwebs here now: spiders and dust.
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