Zoe sat down. She crossed her legs, hoping that Yusuf’s smell was not on her still. ‘There’s not a lot else to do. The siege is not entertaining. What happened at Baghdad?’
‘He attacked at the hottest time of day, when the soldiers were asleep. The idiots had left their helmets on the battlements and gone to find shade. Tamerlane saw it and attacked.’
‘And the citizens?’
‘All slaughtered. The Tigris is crimson to the sea.’
‘Is this bad news? He’s not come here.’
Suleyman shook his head. ‘We’re next. Bayezid made a mistake; we should have fought him at Damascus.’
‘But the Mamluks marched away.’
‘Because they knew we weren’t coming. Together, we might have beaten him. Now, Tamerlane is rested and his army bigger than ever.’ Suleyman had removed his other boot. He sat back and looked around the tent. He rose and poured himself wine. ‘Bayezid doesn’t know what to do. He’s paralysed by fear.’
‘Which is why you must act.’
Suleyman drank, sitting back down. ‘Act? Mehmed has the army now. It’s he you should persuade to act.’
Zoe rose from her chair and came over to him. She knelt and took his hands in hers, kissing each finger in turn. She looked up at him. ‘No, you need to act. Mehmed has failed to take Constantinople. I have an idea for how you might succeed. You need the walls of Constantinople to beat Tamerlane.’
*
The following day, Prince Suleyman was riding at the head of a retinue towards the walls of Constantinople. It was early morning and the party raised its closed eyes to the new sun like worshippers. On their left was the Golden Horn, its waters dazzling points of light; on their right, the serpentine siege works running far into the distance.
Watching them from a window high in the Blachernae Palace was Plethon the philosopher, in his hand the most recent letter he had received from Zoe. The correspondence had begun three weeks ago: a letter smuggled into the city suggesting a way for Anna to be set free, to which he had replied. After what had happened in Mistra, when Zoe had nearly murdered Anna, he knew he should never trust her again. But, then again, this plan was better than others she might consider for removing Anna from Suleyman’s presence. He’d heard about Angelina’s poisoning.
The Blachernae Palace was one of the cooler places to be in Constantinople during the heat of the summer months. Built on the sixth hill of the city overlooking the waters of the Golden Horn, it was a place of cool halls, terraced gardens and fruit trees with enough unpopulated land between it and the rest of the city for the imperial noses to appreciate their scent.
Plethon watched the party approach the gate of the Blachernae and heard the squeak of chains beneath as the giant doors were pushed open. He moved to another window to watch the party emerge from shadow into a bright landscape of terraced gardens with buildings above. He saw Suleyman dismount and begin to climb the steps. There were lines of Varangian Guards on either side, standing behind axes whose blades reached up to their breasts. They were dressed in coats of silver armour and had long chlamydes clasped at their throats.
Plethon drew back from the window. It was time to join his emperor.
*
He joined Manuel just as Suleyman entered the Hall of Audience, his guard taking up position on either side of its doors. It was a long room at the end of which had been placed a dais with a wide throne on it. On the throne sat the Emperor and Empress, both dressed in purple togas. The room was filled with bearded men who stood between colonnades of porphyry and in front of tall plinths from which gazed the busts of former emperors. Behind them were windows. On the left, the windows were half filled with roof tiles and half with the glittering waters of the Golden Horn.
Plethon watched Suleyman walk slowly between the lines of functionaries. As he approached the dais, the Emperor rose and came down the steps to greet him. ‘Prince Suleyman, welcome to Constantinople. My wife.’
He’d turned and was gesturing to the Empress who’d risen from her throne and was smiling as if Suleyman had come for Christmas. Centuries of breeding were being put to work. She said: ‘Your father does well?’
In spite of himself, Suleyman performed the slightest of bows. ‘My father does well, highness.’ He looked around him. ‘Do you have the philosopher who calls himself Plethon among this gathering?’
Plethon stepped out from behind the Varangians who bracketed the throne. ‘I am here,’ he said, bowing.
Suleyman nodded. Then, to the astonishment of all in the hall, he turned round and addressed them, his back to their emperor.
‘Byzantines, it’s been seven long years of siege and the time has come for reason to prevail. We have an army you cannot count at your walls with bashibozouks in it with no concept of fear or, I’m afraid, chivalry. But they are not your greatest cause for concern.’
Plethon looked down the line of beards, the eyes above them sunk beneath frowns.
Suleyman continued: ‘You Greeks have your word for them: Tartars. You have heard what they did to Aleppo, to Damascus; what they did to the Umayyad Mosque, the most glorious place of worship in our world. I’m here to tell you that they’ve done the same to Baghdad, home of our caliphate for centuries, a city steeped in holiness. If Temur can do this to cities of the Prophet, what will he do to a Christian one?’ Suleyman turned, searching the faces before him. ‘Temur is God’s scourge, sent to punish us for our failure to worship Him as one, for our endless enmity.’
There was an unfathomed silence in the hall. Baghdad had fallen. Was this the end of the world?
Suleyman lowered his voice but still spoke to them all. ‘Constantinople has the strongest walls on earth. Only they can stop this thing from hell destroying the world: your world, my world, God’s world. You have five thousand on your walls; we have two hundred thousand outside them. Let us defend your city together.’
It had been said and no beard had fallen to the floor. It had been said and it had been heard. Suleyman continued: ‘Your great city has stood for a thousand years. Damascus and Aleppo have stood for longer. Do not, for the sake of your wives and children, make your end like theirs. And do not take the whole world with you.’
The silence stretched out. Only the Emperor would break it.
‘What are your terms?’ he asked quietly.
Suleyman turned and made a bow. ‘Surrender Constantinople and receive complete freedom of worship: you in your churches, we in our mosques. Once we have defeated Shatan.’ His voice was still loud enough for all to hear. ‘Turk and Greek living side by side in peace. As they do in Anatolia and Rumelia.’
‘And the rest of the Empire?’
Suleyman glanced at Plethon. Was Zoe right about this? She’d been right so far. ‘Mistra you keep. It was, after all, where you Greeks began. You return to your roots.’
For a long time no one spoke, no one shouted out, no one wept. Only fear rose like a formless steam from the men gathered in the hall. Plethon cleared his throat. He walked over to Manuel and whispered something into his ear. The Emperor was studying the ground, a finger to his lips. Then he nodded.
Manuel looked up at Suleyman. ‘Come, we will talk further.’
*
Not much later, Manuel, Plethon and Suleyman were standing in an antechamber. It was small and had thick tapestries on its walls. There wasn’t much light in the room. Manuel removed the camelaucum from his head and set it down on a table. He turned to Suleyman. ‘We give you Constantinople and we keep Mistra. This is your proposal?’
Suleyman did his best to arrange his features to match those of the Emperor. He said: ‘It is as I said, we live side by side in peace.’
Manuel shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t reassure the very nervous citizens of Constantinople,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to be more specific, Prince Suleyman.’
Suleyman inclined his head. ‘No deaths, no slavery, complete freedom to worship how you please.’ He paused. ‘I have heard it said that t
his last is of particular importance to your citizens. I have heard that they would rather this than enslavement to the Pope.’
Manuel didn’t say anything. He appeared to be thinking very deeply, his hand stroking the full length of his beard. He was staring at his crown. Eventually, he said: ‘There is some truth in that, yes.’ He turned to the man next to him. ‘Lord Plethon, what is your view?’
Plethon walked to a window and looked through it for a while. ‘My view, majesty, is that we are not going to decide the fate of a city that has stood for a thousand years in a meeting between three men in a small room with imperfect views. We shall need time to discuss such an idea.’
Manuel nodded. He turned to Suleyman. ‘We will need a truce to think about it. But how do we trust you? You are not Bayezid.’
‘No, but I am a man of honour.’
Plethon was shaking his head. ‘You are, at present, our enemy. We will need a mark of your goodwill if we are to convince the people of such an idea. I propose that you hand over to us certain hostages, men of note, who will be released when you have our answer. Among them should be Anna Laskaris, daughter of the late Protostrator of Mistra. It is understood that you are no longer to marry her so she should be free to leave. Such an act would be popular with the people.’
Suleyman blinked, then blinked again. He opened his mouth to speak but Plethon hadn’t finished. ‘And the daughter of the King of Hungary as well. That would convince the Kings of Christendom that you are in earnest. She should be handed over too. We hear that she nearly died in your care.’
Suleyman stared at the two men, first one and then the other. He’d prepared his speech to the court but hadn’t prepared for this. He thought quickly for alternatives. There were none that wouldn’t undermine his case. He was trapped – but the prize was so near. He thought of Anna and he thought of consequences.
Take Constantinople and I can have it all. Including Anna.
‘Very well,’ he said.
*
It was only two days later that Anna found herself on a Venetian round ship being pulled up the Bosporus by two skiffs on its way to Trebizond. She herself would not be going so far. She was to be landed at the Black Sea port of Constanza and from there taken to Buda in the Kingdom of Hungary.
Anna was dressed as a cabin boy. She wore a brown leather jerkin over a hose of patched white. On her head was a hat big enough to collect her hair and on her face as much dirt as would hide her beauty. Venetian vessels were the only ones allowed to leave the city and even they were subject to search under the guns of the Castle of Güzelce Hisar further up the Bosporus.
They had set sail the night before from the harbour of Hormisdas where Luke’s ancestor Siward had left from. Anna and Angelina had been brought from Edirne and, leaving their Ottoman guard at the gate, had been met by a man with a message from Plethon. Anna had gone straight to the harbour to catch the tide, Angelina to the palace. Siward had taken a casket that long-ago night, a casket they said one day might save the Empire. Anna had opened that casket and knew now that they’d been right. The four letters she was carrying were proof of it.
Three of the letters were from Plethon. The first would be delivered by her to King Sigismund of Hungary at Buda. The other two would be taken by courier to Rome and Avignon. The fourth was from Angelina and Anna was to give it to Sigismund once the King had read Plethon’s.
Anna looked out across the water to the banks of the Bosporus, little more than a green haze in this early hour. They were narrowing now and she could see the walls of the Güzelce Hisar coming up to her right. A small galley had put out with bombards on its foredeck. There was no wind and the only sound was the dip of their oars and the bark of seagulls.
Anna put the letters into a pocket sewn inside her jerkin. Then she turned to go below.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
QARABAGH, WINTER 1401
King Giorgi’s balas ruby was of a size that fitted neatly between the talons of Tamerlane’s eagle.
Riding the mountain currents, the bird could see, refracted through the stone, a world in hibernation below, a world measuring out the slow heartbeat of its winter months under a carapace of infinite pink.
Around it was hard blue sky, empty of anything except a smudge that hovered over the horizon. The eagle flew towards it and, swooping down close, found it to be the mixture of smoke and scavenger birds that stood guard above the snow-bound Mongol camp. Tamerlane had decided to rest his army in the Qarabagh rather than Lebanon and no one but he knew the reason why.
The sound from the camp was more animal than human: the scrape of horses digging deep for grass within huge pens that bordered the camp. It was mid-morning and most of the men were still abed, sleeping off the rigours of last night’s feast while their women were outside, silently airing bedding, scouring cauldrons and hanging washing up to dry. One or two, summoned from within, might be stirring the concoction of mare’s blood and egg-yolk that was said to cure even the worst airag hangover. None would dare to disturb the sleep of this Mongol army. For rest and feasting was what it had been promised.
The feasting had been prodigious. Enriched with booty, the army had summoned more wine from the Lebanon than its vineyards could offer and drunk it night after night until the airag took over. And afterwards, Syrian slaves had warmed their beds through the long winter nights. There was, of course, much to celebrate. Never had the army taken so much from so many cities and the new year would bring more plunder.
The eagle swooped lower, swinging around the pall of smoke, scattering other birds of prey. It glided over the pony pens, diving down to race above the upturned heads of camels and pack-mules. Ahead of it were a wall and a garden with pools and waterfalls and pavilions and a solid perch standing next to an old man who would give it meat. Now the bird was above the wall and its angry eyes blinked twice at the glitter of all that was within.
‘Ah,’ said the old man, looking up and squinting, ‘he returns. And with him the jewel.’ He spoke to the girl who was kneeling before him, massaging his knee. The eagle landed on its perch and Tamerlane took the ruby from its talons. He held it up to the sun, turning it between his fingers. ‘I win the bet and you do your massage higher.’
The girl laughed. ‘You know very well that that was not the bet, lord.’
Shulen waved away a fly that was trying to settle on the leg. Tamerlane lifted her chin with a finger. ‘Your glasses help me to read, Shulen,’ he whispered, leaning forward so that his rancid breath was all about her, ‘but I cannot see what is brought before me. Describe it to me.’
All around him were piled the treasures that had been pillaged from Aleppo, Homs, Hama, Beirut, Damascus and Baghdad. It was a selection of what his generals thought would most amuse their leader. There were bowls of gold dust, helmets full of precious stones, bolts of raw silk, an ingenious clock that also made music and an incense burner, shaped as an elephant, to remind him of his adored beasts sent to winter in warmer climes. And beside his chair reclined a snow leopard with a necklace of pearls around its neck.
Shulen began to list them, occasionally rising to bring something of interest for him to inspect. After a while she brought him a book, its leather covers finely wrought in gold and tiny jewels.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, adjusting his glasses.
‘I don’t know, highness,’ she answered, looking down at it from his shoulder. ‘It says it’s the work of the Indian sage Vatsya. It seems very old.’
Tamerlane was leafing through the pages, humming to himself. Then he stopped at an illustration and looked at it for a long time, bringing his head so close to the page that only he could see it. He’d stopped humming. Eventually he looked back up at Shulen. ‘Can I read to you from it?’
Shulen nodded, smiling. Her student wanted to impress her.
‘Well,’ said Tamerlane, ‘Vasya writes as follows:
‘Just as a horse in full gallop, blinded by the energy of his own speed, pays no attention to a
ny post or hole or ditch in the path, so two lovers blinded by passion are caught up by their fierce energy and pay no attention to danger.’
He looked up at Shulen, who had gone the colour of the ruby. ‘Is that not true, teacher? Here, look at this illustration!’
Tamerlane was so bent with laughter that he didn’t witness the arrival of his heir amongst the throng of courtiers who parted to let him pass. Mohammed Sultan, with Luke next to him and the other Varangians behind, was approaching. They all knelt and Mohammed Sultan spoke: ‘Grandfather, I bring you news.’
Temur looked down at him, pushing the glasses to the top of his nose. ‘The pig-Khan? I know it. For weeks I have known. For what do you think I keep the yams stocked with horses? They bring fresh fruit up from Hormuz and fresher news down from my spies in Chang’an.’
The Emperor of China was dead. Aged sixty-nine, the peasant that had founded the Ming Dynasty was at last floating his way down the sacred river to meet his ancestors and all was chaos in his wake. Mohammed Sultan had been in Sultaniya when the news had come in with a caravan. He had immediately taken horse for the Qarabagh.
‘What will you do, Grandfather?’ he asked now.
‘What will I do?’ Temur looked up, surprised. ‘Attack them, of course. What would you do?’
Mohammed Sultan glanced at Shulen. ‘Is it wise to turn our backs on Bayezid? They say that he’s on the point of taking Constantinople. Why not strike while Constantinople is still in friendly hands? And what of the Mamluks? Will they not join with Bayezid if we go north?’
‘I have never lost a battle, Grandson. You would do well to remember that.’
‘No, lord. But the Ming army is over a million strong. It is a formidable force.’
Tamerlane’s frown deepened. He drank wine from a goblet and wiped his beard with his sleeve. ‘China will be my jihad,’ he said quietly. ‘I am old and not long for this world. I need to think of my soul.’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 32