The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1

by James Heneage

  A sailor approached him with a plate of bread and salted fish and he ate hungrily. Then he knelt to splash water from a fire-bucket over his head and shoulders. He scratched his cheeks and chin, shivering beneath the wet friction of beard raked by nails.

  Whatever was awaiting him could wait; he was to see the glory of Constantinople. Or what was left of it.

  An hour later he was there.

  A low mist was suspended above the water like a skein of spider web, its tendrils reaching into the Asian land mass and the sunlight spilling across it like dappled gold. Then its surface was ruptured by soaring walls of striped stone, with giant towers which rose even higher and on whose tops could be seen the flash of shield and spearhead.

  Constantinople.

  Luke held his breath and stared.

  Was this the same sight seen by Siward on a dawn three centuries past as his ships swept up towards Mikligard? How wide would the tired eyes of those five hundred first Englishmen have been when they first looked upon those walls?

  He was so lost in thought that the man next to him had to repeat himself.

  ‘Do you see that tower?’

  Luke turned to see the fat official leaning over the rail with one arm pointing towards the city.

  ‘That’s where the land walls join the sea walls. The land walls were built by the Emperor Theodosius and are said to be impregnable. The sea walls were where the crusaders got in two centuries ago.’

  The man was short but wore a turban of such size that, upright, he might have been taller than Luke. His beard was long and manicured and moored him to the deck like an anchor. He seemed inclined to talk.

  ‘Normally there would be quays and jetties all along these walls,’ he continued, his arm sweeping across the distance, ‘but of course they’ve destroyed them all to prevent us doing what the Venetians did.’

  Luke could see nothing but mist clinging to the walls.

  ‘The blockade has stopped any food getting to the city by sea. Look, are they not magnificent?’

  They were passing the first of the Ottoman galleys, the sun catching the shields slung over the impavesati parapets which protected the oarsmen. There were two bombards in the forecastle and Luke turned to the city walls to see their effect. Tiny pockmarks pitted the surface; tiny blemishes on a smooth, sun-kissed face.

  ‘The cannon seem to have done little harm,’ he remarked.

  ‘They have hardly scarred the walls,’ replied the official. ‘But they have kept away your navy and prevented the Genoese bringing in supplies.’ He paused and his smile broadened. ‘And they have persuaded the Sultan that he needs bigger ones.’

  The mist that hovered above the water was beginning to fragment and was pooled with fire. Looking down the line of towers that were now aglow and seemingly without end, Luke could see more of the Ottoman galleys at anchor, their bows towards the walls and their pennants limp on their masts. Theirs was the only vessel in movement and, as it swept on, it seemed as if all the world was watching them pass. Luke’s mouth was dry.

  He looked further along the walls and saw their striped surface jut out into a colonnade of grand, pillared arches dressed in white marble. There was a sea gate with two lions on guard either side. A church’s dome floated above like a papal hat.

  ‘That is the Boukoleon Palace,’ said his companion, ‘used by the Latin emperors while they were here. Now a ruin, I expect, like everything else.’

  They had turned north and the sun was shining directly across the ship. There was no sound beyond the dip of oars and the cry of birds. Ahead of them rose the Great Palace and its tiered gardens with Cypress-spears thrust into the sky. The white curve of the Hippodrome sat at the summit upon shaded vaults, its top pitted with broken masonry.

  The galley was now rounding the tip of the peninsula and there was a flash from above as the sun caught the column on which stood the bronze figure of the greatest of all the emperors, Justinian, his right hand raised and pointing to the east. By his side rose his masterpiece, the many-domed Church of Holy Wisdom, the Hagia Sophia. Luke clutched the rail and stared in wonder. He knew there to be cracks in its walls and few tiles on its roofs, but it was still one of the most magnificent sights in the world.

  The rowers had seen it before and obeyed the quickened tempo of the drum. The galley lurched forward and soon they were passing Acropolis Point and the Golden Horn was opening up to their left and Luke could see the giant chain suspended just above the water between the northern walls of Constantinople and the Genoese colony of Pera, with the tall Tower of Gelata rising above its walls.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, looking across at the turban.

  The water was busier here and, beyond the chain, small craft were shuttling between the two shores. The sun blazed a pathway down the length of the Horn and birds rose in silhouette from its waters.

  ‘We go north, beyond the city. To Prince Suleyman’s lines.’

  The following day, Luke was standing in the tent of the Sultan Bayezid’s eldest son with a janissary on either side of him.

  They had landed a mile north of Pera where Suleyman had pitched his tents on a hill overlooking the city. His father and the rest of the army were well to the south, strung out behind the siege works facing the Theodosian Walls. Bayezid had arrived a week earlier to join his army and his eldest son had immediately ordered his headquarters moved as far away from his father’s as possible.

  Since landing, Luke had been given comparative freedom to wander around the camp, although he’d never been out of sight of two janissaries who’d followed him without discretion. He’d spent much of the time just staring down at Constantinople, lost in wonder at its scale and magnificence. This city had stood for a thousand years, the eastern heir to the Roman Empire, and had repelled every attempt to take it except one. And on that night, when Armageddon itself had come to Constantinople, his royal ancestor had brought away a treasure that might still save it in this, its most perilous hour.

  He’d thought about a sword that might hold an answer and was no longer with him.

  Now he saw it in his captor’s tent, leaning against a shield suspended from a pole. Suleyman was seated on a curved, backless throne of a width that required him to stretch out his arms as if in greeting. He was wearing a coat of gold tulips and a single thick, leather glove reaching far up his arm that was spattered with bird-droppings. Beside him, standing haughtily on a perch of ivory, sat an unhooded peregrine, chained at the ankle.

  Luke studied the man in front of him with care. The heir to the Ottoman throne was a more manicured creature than he’d imagined, but that he was a man of infinite danger, Luke was in no doubt.

  Suleyman, meanwhile, was regarding Luke with less interest.

  ‘Luke Magoris. You have a friend here in the camp,’ said the Prince, picking some offal from a plate and stretching his hand towards the bird. ‘In fact you have two.’

  Luke didn’t reply.

  ‘I would not count myself among that number, though,’ he went on. ‘There’s not a great deal in you I can find to like.’

  The peregrine got bored and turned its head almost fully about, shrugging its folded wings.

  ‘You don’t know me, Majesty,’ said Luke.

  ‘No, that’s true,’ murmured the Prince.

  There was a pause in which Suleyman lifted the ungloved hand and the janissaries bowed and disappeared. They were alone in the tent.

  Suleyman rose and went over to a table on which stood an elaborate jug.

  ‘One of the few vices I’ve inherited from my father,’ said the Prince, pouring and returning to his seat. He drank, watching Luke closely over the rim of the cup. ‘Now, let’s see,’ he went on. ‘Firstly, you were on your way to join a crusade intended to crush us, not so?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Next, you’re masterminding new methods of defence on the island of Chios which have baffled our corsairs and given the islanders, alas, no further cause to rebel against the Genoese.’
/>   Luke remained impassive.

  ‘Finally,’ said Suleyman, now looking at him with dark intensity, ‘you’re daring to impose yourself on someone far above your rank and currently under my protection.’ He paused. ‘And that, I should tell you, is by far the worst of your crimes.’

  For the briefest of moments Luke felt elation. Anna was here in the camp. The emotion must have swept across his face because Suleyman’s eyes flashed black, their hoods closing in menace.

  ‘So I would like nothing more than to see you executed. But I fear that such an action would do little to foster my relationship with the Laskaris daughter. And then there is your other friend. Zoe Mamonas.’ He looked down at the curling tips of his shoes. ‘So, what would you do if you were me?’

  ‘I would fight me, lord,’ said Luke calmly. ‘Single combat, man to man. That would be the honourable thing for a prince to do. Let Allah decide.’

  ‘Hah!’ laughed Suleyman. ‘A duel! But I cannot see the benefit of such an arrangement. If you kill me, the Sword of Islam is without anyone to wield it. If I kill you, it’s of no consequence.’

  Luke supposed he was in no immediate danger or he would be dead by now. ‘Then send me to the crusade,’ he said. ‘If you’re so certain of victory, I’ll probably die there.’

  Suleyman pretended to consider this. ‘That would certainly get you out of the way. But I quite like the thought of you here for now, watching Anna Laskaris adapt to the life of the harem … prepare herself for motherhood …’

  Luke flinched and found his fists clenched. Despite the clumsy provocation, his anger was rising.

  ‘My mother was Greek,’ went on Suleyman genially. ‘Did you know that? I’ve always vowed to myself that the sultans who follow me should also have Greek blood in their veins. And hers is the best.’

  Luke found his voice. ‘She would never submit herself to you willingly.’

  ‘No?’ Suleyman arched a black eyebrow. His voice was a whisper. ‘Not even if your life depended on it?’ He came very close. ‘Tell me, Luke Magoris, you’re a merchant now, aren’t you? You like money, the money you will make from selling all that alum in Venice. How much more would you make if I went on stopping the Venetians from bringing in their alum from Trebizond yet let yours from Chios through?’ He paused and his smile was wafer thin. ‘That could be arranged … for a price.’

  Luke moved fast. His hands were around the Prince’s neck almost before the sentence was out, dragging him to the floor of the tent. The two men hit the carpet with some force, Luke’s thumbs digging into Suleyman’s windpipe and the Turk’s hands gripping his arms, trying to relieve the pressure. They rolled over once, twice, before Suleyman managed to angle his head and sink his teeth into his attacker’s forearm. Luke loosened his grip as the pain hit him and it was enough for Suleyman to pull a dagger from his sleeve. But Luke had seen the move and rolled away, coming to rest within reach of the peregrine’s stand. As he grabbed its base, the bird tried to escape, shrieking as it reached the limit of its chain.

  There was the sound of metal from across from the tent. Luke looked up. Suleyman’s guards had entered, swords drawn.

  Suleyman yelled something and they stayed where they were. The peregrine, still chained, sprang at Luke, its claws splayed for attack. But Luke was beyond its reach and it screamed its rage as it pawed the air, the chain taut behind it.

  Luke rose and looked around the tent. His sword was tantalisingly close. He glanced back at his enemy.

  Suleyman had risen too and pulled another dagger from the belt and it was a long, vicious thing that might have gutted a leopard.

  He lunged at Luke but met only air as Varangian training produced a sidestep of precision. Suleyman spun round, panting, the dagger thrust out before him.

  ‘Oh, let me kill you, Luke Magoris,’ hissed Suleyman. He was close enough for Luke to smell the wine on his breath. ‘Please give me an excuse to kill you. It would solve so many problems.’

  There was a rustle behind him. Someone was standing between the guards.

  ‘Prince Suleyman!’

  Suleyman sighed and lowered the dagger. ‘Ah, your other friend.’

  ‘You said he would not be harmed,’ said Zoe.

  ‘And he has not been. He attacked me as I was in the middle of discussing my plans for the Laskaris girl.’ He paused and tucked the dagger in his belt. He felt his neck and tested his head from side to side. ‘Does he know the penalty for assaulting the son of the Sultan?’

  Zoe glanced at Luke and then, unexpectedly, knelt. ‘Lord, he is impulsive. He was always thus. He feels deeply for the Laskaris girl and doesn’t realise you mean her no harm.’

  Suleyman was looking at Luke with malevolence. ‘He threatened my life. He must forfeit his own.’

  Zoe prostrated herself on the carpet, her forehead deep in its weave. ‘Majesty!’ she whispered, her voice muffled. ‘He acted rashly and he will not do so again. I will take him into my household and guarantee that you need not set eyes on him again.’

  Suleyman sat on the chair with one hand on his neck and stroked his beard, examining Luke with malice. The silence in the tent was broken only by the uneven breathing of the two men.

  Then Suleyman said what he was meant to say. ‘Very well. He will be your groom. But I will look to you to guard him well.’

  A short while afterwards Zoe and Luke were sitting in front of her tent on cushions, sipping cool sherbet in the mid-morning heat and looking out over the Bosporus. The channel was alive with craft ferrying people and goods to the villages further down its shores or beyond into the Black Sea.

  Luke looked at the palaces that lined both sides of the water, most set back with lush gardens that ran down to the water’s edge. They were abandoned now or occupied by Ottoman generals.

  Zoe asked, ‘Suleyman offered to keep the Venetian alum from getting through?’

  Luke nodded.

  ‘And in exchange?’

  ‘You can imagine. That’s why I attacked him.’

  ‘That was a mistake.’

  ‘You saved me. Thank you,’ Luke said. He watched a Turkish galley intercept a round ship from Genoa. Bales of something were being transferred to the lower vessel. ‘Why am I here?’ he asked.

  ‘You are here because of what you’ve been doing on Chios,’ replied Zoe. ‘Your success there has made you conspicuous. The Turks want the island for the Venetians. They give them Chios and get cannon in return, cannon big enough to bring down Constantinople’s walls.’

  ‘So why not simply kill me?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Because I persuaded him that you’d be more useful alive than dead,’ said Zoe. ‘But it’s precarious. You cannot afford to cross him again.’

  ‘But I will,’ said Luke. ‘I mean to take Anna.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool. If you try to take her from him, he will kill you. Both of you … I would not advise going anywhere near Anna. Let me be the go-between.’

  ‘You? Why should I trust you after what happened in Monemvasia?’

  Zoe looked sharply at him. ‘Your friends must have told you of my part in Plethon’s visit, my part in saving their lives? Anna trusts me and so should you.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, what choice do you have?’

  Luke rubbed his chin. He’d managed to shave and wash himself at last in Zoe’s tent and was enjoying the breeze on his face. He was wearing new clothes and his feet were in soft leather. He looked down at them and wondered again why Zoe wanted to help them.

  ‘I am already the go-between,’ continued Zoe. ‘And I know about the treasure.’

  Luke looked up.

  ‘I know that Plethon wants you to find it. For the Empire.’

  Luke stared at her. This was unfamiliar territory.

  ‘Has it occurred to you, Luke, that I might not entirely agree with my family’s plans to protect its wealth? After all, I’ve little incentive given that Damian will inherit it all.’

  ‘Your interest is power and money,’ said Luke. ‘
It always has been.’

  ‘And you. My interest has been you.’

  ‘Only because I denied you.’

  ‘Am I that shallow?’ She smiled. ‘All right, let’s just talk about power and money. Why shouldn’t my interests now coincide with that of the Empire? It seems to me that I might gain more from a grateful emperor if I were to help you find the treasure than from Mamonas primogeniture.’

  Luke considered this. He’d been prevented from going to Venice and the crusade. He was at the gates of Constantinople. If he could just get in …

  ‘There is a sword,’ he said at last.

  ‘Ah, the sword. Siward’s sword. Is it important?’

  Luke ignored the question. ‘Suleyman has it.’

  ‘I know. He showed it to me.’

  ‘Can you get it for me?’

  It was a week later that the siege was raised. The Crusader army was on the Danube and it was time for Bayezid to march against it.

  It happened with the silent purpose that characterised all Ottoman military manoeuvres, so that when Luke rose one morning and came out of his tent to wash, only a handful of tents were still standing. One of them was Suleyman’s.

  The Ottoman army, forty thousand strong, had already assembled in the Valley of the Springs and was awaiting the Sultan. It was strung out along the northern shore of the Golden Horn and its banners fluttered in a light wind from the sea, sunshine glancing off helmet and shield. The army would take the road west to Edirne before striking north to meet up with Prince Lazarević’s Serbs at Tarnovo in Bulgaria.

  ‘We should ride to the head of the valley,’ said Zoe, emerging from her tent. ‘Watching them march out is a spectacle. Get our horses.’

  Luke walked to the paddock where their horses were tethered. Both had been saddled and he led them back to where his mistress stood, watching the Sultan and his retinue emerge from Prince Suleyman’s tent. Surely, thought Luke, the Prince was to join Bayezid on this campaign? But there he was, bowing deep to his father, without a scale of armour on his person. If he was going to war, it would not be today.