Porphyry and Blood

by Peter Sandham

  Sphrantzes glanced at Nikolaos’ withered limb. ‘Is that how your…’

  Nikolaos gave a nod. ‘Rough questioning. Afterwards they lost interest. I was left in a cell for fourteen months. Forgotten. Then one day the lock turned and Basilissa Anna was stood in the open doorway, framed by the light like an angel. She’d heard about me from the wine importer, Davide Maurogonato, and petitioned the senate for my release. Not only mine - there were dozens of innocent Cretans rounded up thanks to Syphis.’

  ‘I had no idea things had been like this for Greeks in Venice,’ said Sphrantzes.

  ‘They hate us,’ said Nikolaos. ‘They grow rich off trading with Turks, then blame us for the present difficulties. To be Greek in Venice these past years has been to be treated like a dog. It would have been intolerable without Anna Notaras. She reminded us of our dignity. I don’t know how many newly arrived families she found shelter for; how many of the established merchants who pretend ignorance of their own Constantinople roots she shamed into employing an extra refugee. And when no one would take on a cripple with the blackened name of Vlasto, she hired me herself.’

  ‘Cardinal Bessarion mentioned as much,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘I just didn’t want to listen. I’m sorry, Nikolaos, you were right, I am a bitter old man at times. But how to account for that encounter on the river? The Turks had us and let us go and I can’t get an answer about what took place there from either the Ambassador or your mistress.’

  ‘I’ll admit something went on in that fortress. The basilissa hasn’t been herself since. She seems distracted - permanently lost in thought - and she’s hardly touched her food these past days.’

  With a yawn, Nikolaos stretched and made to leave the tent to take up his vigil. Every night since landing in Istria he had sat, dutifully guarding the entrance of his mistress’s tent. Sphrantzes knew all about it. Anna Notaras, he was sure, did not.

  ‘Why do you bother?’ Sphrantzes pulled his blanket a little tighter around himself. ‘The soldiers will guard her well enough from the wolves.’

  ‘It’s the soldiers more than the wolves she needs guarding from,’ said Nikolaos as he limped off into the night.

  For what seemed an age, Sphrantzes lay staring up at the tent roof. As the miles of their journey mounted, the dampness in his joints grew progressively worse. He suffered. But he had suffered all his life. Having been kidnaped and incarcerated more than once while serving his Emperor, he was hardier than any imperial courtier had a right to be.

  Rather than the physical aches, it was the anguish in his breast that troubled him, and it grew most acute in the quiet of the night. He suspected he was not the only member of their party to dread these lonely hours, when the guilt of survival pressed like a suffocating weight down upon the chest. Ambassador Sagundino, he knew, felt it. Sphrantzes guessed Anna Notaras would too. Life, saturated in loss, became almost unliveable. He had found it impossible to look at the broken bodies of Lueger’s men lying in the dell and not see upon those faces the imagined features of his friends and of his Emperor, gazing blankly skyward outside Constantinople’s shattered walls.

  One looked for substitutes for the departed. Nikolaos would have been born around the same time as his own son, John. Sphrantzes closed his dampening eyes. He’d hardly known his son. He had been too busy in those years of faithful service to Constantine.

  On the day of John’s birth in Constantinople, Sphrantzes had been at Mytilene – with Anna’s father, Loukas Notaras, he recalled with sudden vividness – arranging the marriage of Constantine and Caterina Gattilusio.

  When John turned two, Sphrantzes had been absent once more, bringing Constantine and his pregnant wife back to the capital. Off Lemnos they had run into the whole Turkish fleet and although their ship suffered no attack, the shock and stress of the encounter had sent Caterina into premature labour. Frantic with worry, Constantine had them put in at Palaiokastron, but Caterina was dead within the day. Sphrantzes had often wondered since if it was a boy she had been carrying. A male heir. Perhaps the Turks had unwittingly begun their eradication of the Palaiologoi line that day off Lemnos?

  John had been nine when Constantine became Emperor. From then on Sphrantzes had even less time for his family. He had spent two years almost constantly traveling in search of a suitable Empress, but the world was empty of Caterinas. Rebuffed by Mara Brankovic, he had tried Trebizond and Georgia, and had hardly returned from there when Constantine ordered him to Cyprus. For the first and only time, Sphrantzes, who had been faithful as any dog had ever been, refused.

  ‘If I continue to live on the road,’ he had said, ‘my wife will either marry another man or run off to a monastery.’

  Constantine was always a sympathetic master and had exhumed the disused court position of Grand Logothete for him to mollify Helena with. He also promised that Cyprus would be the last journey for Sphrantzes. How could he say no?

  He had instead decided to take his son along with him to Cyprus, since John was thirteen and restless. It would be a chance to make up for lost time. On route they would pass through the Morea, where John, full of pride, would see Patras, Selybria, Mistra – all the places Sphrantzes had been governor of. It would be a chance for a son to learn from his father those things which would be of use in his life.

  But the trip to Cyprus never came about. Relations with the young Turk Sultan suddenly spiralled out of control that summer. Sphrantzes was needed in the capital. Then came winter and with Easter, the siege. The end, forever, of life as planned or expected.

  Yes, one looked for substitutes. These Hungarian plains were not the Morea, nor were they bound for Cyprus, but this journey, in a peculiar way, still carried special meaning for him. Tomorrow, Sphrantzes told himself, I must show the lad a better method for picking out the feet of his horse.

  He turned over. It was no use. He was not going to find sleep. Abandoning the blanket, he set off to pester his young tent-mate.

  The dark ocean of night washed itself over the indistinct shoreline of the grove’s pewter trees. Twin dwindling bonfires threw their uncertain glow across the clearing, the more distant fire rimming contours of bronze across the gypsy tents, the nearer one marking out the centre of their own. Sphrantzes stood stone still and let his thirsty old eyes drink in what light they could find. Strangely he could see no sentry huddled close to the campfire’s glare.

  Stiffened by age and the trials of two weeks’ travel, his circumnavigation of the tents was a laboured shuffle, but it afforded him the time to make out the figure, black on inky black, sitting in the dirt before the tent flap.

  Cross-legged and hunched forward, Nikolaos was sound asleep. Sphrantzes gave a broad smile. It must take a toll on the young man, to sleep night after night in this way. He may not be ready to join Nikolaos in worship at the church of Anna Notaras, but he admired the lad’s dedication.

  It seemed cruel to wake him, but just as Sphrantzes turned to make the stumbling journey back to his bed, a smell met his nostrils and brought him up short. It was a barely detectable corruption of the raw night air, but after a second inhalation he was certain: a puff of smoke, pushed by the gentle breeze from beyond the rear of the women’s tent.

  He was two paces down the canvas flank when the wink of a spark drew his eye. By now his vision, if not owl-like in strength, was accustomed enough to see the shape crouched by the rear of the tent. He heard the scrape of a firesteel as another hot spark leapt at the smouldering hank of dry kindling.

  There was no time to think.

  ‘Nikolaos!’ Sphrantzes began to yell as he staggered onto the attack. ‘Nikolaos come and help me!’

  The head of the arsonist whipped about, the face quite hidden beneath a cowl or shawl. The figure sprang to his feet and with one arm, checked Sphrantzes’s limp blow. ‘Nikolaos!’ Sphrantzes called again as a firm hand pushed him back over his heels. He reached out as he fell, grabbing at the arsonist’s billowing garments. The shawl slid off in his grip, fluttering away the last wi
sps of smoke as he crashed to the earth.

  His head struck with a thud and all the stars went out at once.

  ***

  There were voices, speaking in Greek. He tried to turn his head towards them but found it too painful. His next thought was a small panic that pain wasn’t something he expected of heaven.

  He remembered Nikolaos sleeping cross-legged. He remembered the smell of smoke, the tent and the figure in the darkness, but nothing more.

  Darkness. It was not dark now. There was a blur, like fog, all around him, but he could see colour and shade and shape.

  ‘How are you feeling, Kyr?’

  It was the voice of Anna Notaras.

  ‘I’m not dead, am I?’ he said.

  ‘No, you are not dead. And neither am I, thanks to you. Your assailant got away, just as Nikolaos came to your aid, but you had already done enough. We found a jar of paraffin nearby. They must have planned to throw it over the canvas once the fire had kindled.’

  ‘I can’t remember the face if I saw it,’ he said. The blur was ever so slightly improving. He could see he was lying in a tent now, surrounded by Anna and four others.

  ‘A gypsy,’ said the Captain’s firm voice. ‘You had one of their rags clenched tight in your fist.’

  ‘It wasn’t a gypsy,’ said Anna.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Nikolaos. ‘They’re like to cut open the tent and steal a purse, or kidnap a child, but roasting strangers alive would be something new.’

  ‘It was Barbo,’ said Anna. ‘Of course it was him. It’s not even the first time he’s tried to kill me on this journey. There was the bear…’

  ‘Now then, let’s not throw accusations around, Kyria,’ said the Captain.

  ‘Do you have any proof?’ said the clipped tone of the Ambassador.

  ‘It was Barbo who betrayed our route to Lueger and encouraged the ambush,’ said Anna. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘Well now, my own memory seems to have become a little patchy since I took that beating from your servant on the boat,’ said Lueger.

  ‘Honourless dog!’ hissed Nikolaos.

  ‘The sentry must have seen something,’ the Ambassador suggested.

  ‘He claims not to have,’ said the Captain. ‘But since the man on sentry last night was Paolo Barbo...’

  ‘Whose quartermaster duties give him ready access to the supplies, such as paraffin,’ said Anna.

  The Captain’s brow twitched with awkwardness. He said, ‘Kyria, I admit, I share your suspicion, but without proof there is little I can do. If I throw Barbo out on the strength of your word, I shall have a mutiny on my hands. The men would call it unjust. With respect, he was with us that night on the cold boat, while you feasted with the Turks.’

  ‘I recall having little choice in the matter,’ said Anna icily. ‘But it seems to have still cost me some credit. Your duty, in case you forgot it, Captain, is to see me safe to Wallachia. So how, given recent events, shall you proceed with that?’

  ‘We are almost there,’ said the Captain. ‘By tonight we’ll be into the highlands. It is a day or two more to Poenari. I shall see to it Barbo’s duties keep him too busy and too observed for mischief and I’ll keep a watch over your tent in person.’

  The Captain then left them to arrange for a rudimentary litter to carry Sphrantzes for half a day or more until he felt well enough to ride. Lueger made to follow him, but his path was blocked by Anna. ‘Why didn’t you help denounce Barbo?’ she said.

  The cap of fair hair flung itself back. A peel of cold laughter shook the tent. ‘You keep trying to see a saint in me. It’s touching,’ said Lueger. ‘But how would ratting out Barbo help me? I prefer to give the quartermaster reason to keep my mouth too full for idle talk.’

  12.

  Wallachia, June 1462

  The land had begun to rise into foothills, scented by woodsmoke and dotted with villages. There were fat-bellied churches of Anna’s own faith gleaming in the hollows between the hills, and others, sharper-steepled and cleaving to the Latin rite. As they pushed into the highlands, the land grew wilder by the mile. The slopes steepened, and as the trees began to pile up like pea-green waves on either side of the narrow gulch they were following, the Ambassador began calling out their varieties. ‘Plenty of oaks, thank the Lord. Good for almost everything. Excellent firewood too. It really is first rate forestry. See, elm, beech, ash.’

  Anna twisting in her saddle to look back at him. ‘Messer Sagundino, you sound like a factor giving a tour of the estate to a newly minted marquis,’ she said. She wanted to add, ‘Have we entered Wallachia already?’ but bit her tongue.

  Another day lingered in a doubtful light and the shadows had begun to melt into dusk when their muddy track met another to form a crossroads. The Captain judged it a sound enough spot to make camp, but more than a few among his men shook their heads, even his steadfast deputy, Peregrino Bua. ‘Not here, Captain.’

  ‘They’re right,’ Nikolaos whispered to Sphrantzes and Anna. ‘This is a likely place for sabbat.’

  ‘A witches’ gathering?’ Sphrantzes looked dubious. ‘But there’s no gallows here and no mandrake roundabouts.’ The sound of the word mandrake made Anna shiver.

  ‘We should be careful,’ said Lueger. ‘We are not riding through Carnolia or Hungary anymore. These mountains are full of evil. The dead don’t always stay dead in these parts. There are streghoi and moroii roaming at night and varcolac - wolf-coats- that are men by day and wolf by night. There are phantoms that can turn into toads or cats or owls and the only way to slay them is to drive a stake of whitehorn through their temple.’

  ‘Quit bleating,’ said the Captain. ‘We’re sleeping here. You can play one of your songs; that should drive off anything with ears.’

  Busy hands worked hard to pitch the camp and build fires before full darkness fell. The Ambassador proved correct, the oak branches burned and crackled fiercely in thick bundles at every corner of the crossroad. The light thrown out illuminated the wood about the tight huddle of tents in all directions. The Captain didn’t hold to sabbats and streghoi or other ghoulish tales, but he knew there would be wolf packs in these hills and bandits likely as not.

  The fall of darkness was accompanied by mournful howling. It was hard to judge how far away and in what direction the lupine choir was, there might even have been more than one pack baying in the surrounding hills.

  Close beside one of the flickering campfires lay the corpse of a fallen oak, covered in its mossy funeral shroud. It made a convenient bench on which to sit and allow the flames to keep off the cold and the night fears. Lueger took up the gypsy lute and having taken a moment to tune the instrument, began a quick, joyful ballad. A wineskin was passed about and after a while Anna found she had forgotten about the sinister world beyond the firelight.

  They formed a hora circle about the fire, outstretched arms touching hand to hand and even Sphrantzes and the Ambassador allowed themselves to be dragged into the dance’s ring. Then with loud cheers and cries, the circle moved sun-wise in a tottering sequence of steps and sidesteps. Forwards and backwards, fast and slow, toes flicking and curling around ankles. The lighter-footed showing their agility, the less dextrous just trying not to stumble.

  Across the blaze of the firelight Anna’s eyes met those of Barbo. She gave him a smile, as friendly as she could muster, but the glare he returned was as predatory and blood-freezing as any wolf call could ever be.

  The tempo of the lute reached its peak and with almost half the circle nearly out of control the dance came to an end in a whirl of laughter.

  As Lueger packed the lute away Anna gathered her skirts and sat down on the tree trunk beside him. ‘You have a talented voice,’ she said. ‘Did you write that ballad yourself?’

  ‘I did, Madonna. I even consider myself a poet before a soldier.’

  ‘And a soldier before a bandit?’ she said lightly.

  The glare of the fire flashed back from his smile. ‘Art is a slow and unprofitable b
usiness. Without my sword and bow I’d starve before I completed a song. My current one is only half done and has already taken me years to compose.’

  ‘It must be an epic,’ said Anna. She was restless. The glare from Barbo had set her on edge. She did not want to retire to her tent while the quartermaster was still moving about.

  ‘Not really,’ said Lueger. ‘Are you much familiar with poetry?’

  ‘A little. I read quite a bit as a girl. "Painting is silent poetry and poetry is painting that speaks." Simonides. Do you know him?’

  ‘No, but I like that,’ said Lueger.

  ‘He was Greek,’ said Anna. ‘All my poets are Greek. Archilochus, Sappho, Hipponax. Hipponax could make Rallis blush with his vulgarity.’

  ‘You should give the Italians a try,’ Lueger said. ‘Nepos, perhaps, or something more modern like Petrarch?’

  ‘Hmm, perhaps you are not quite as uncultured as you appear.’ She was looking past Lueger’s shoulder towards where Barbo was still tying down the company stores.

  ‘Of course Dante is the supreme poet: "Along the journey of our life halfway, I found myself again in a dark wood wherein the straight road no longer lay." It seems apt for this place and hour.’

  His eyes, pared of their usual brash glitter, seemed to hold in themselves the question his lips feared to voice. To guard herself from Barbo’s malice, for the briefest of moments, Anna considered going back to his tent for the night. She was instantly shocked at her own capacity to think it. Rubbing her ear, and with a slight tremble in her voice, Anna quickly said, ‘I heard a beautiful ballad once by a French minnesinger about a company of chivalrous knights in a distant kingdom.’

  ‘I’m against songs that seek to impress by the artifice of scale,’ Lueger said. ‘That’s not poetry to me. Poetry should be a heart-burst of genuine feeling, quick and burning within the lines; love, hatred, remorse, piety; the song of a single soul not the story of a kingdom. Direct, simple and above all true. The quatrain is the only proper means to do so; three lines rhyming and one dumb.’