No; that wasn't true. The Mamluk would be able to read and could easily have committed an address that short to memory. The murders had been less than an hour old when Skiouros had arrived at the house, so there had been plenty of time for the Mamluk to pass on the details during the time Skiouros had been visiting Jews, shopping for boots and eating a hearty meal. It was faintly possible that the Mamluk himself had done the deed, but Skiouros rather doubted that. The man was slightly overweight and well dressed, with immaculate features. He was no blood-stained killer, but more the sort of man that would hire one.
That made sense then. It also explained why a Mamluk would be in the Greek region. If he was looking for the best time and place to kill a certain Ottoman noble, where better than in bed with a woman of the night. And this Ottoman clearly had a penchant for the western girls - and so must a number of others, given the clear success of her endeavour. Until tonight, of course.
Why kill the Ottoman, who must surely be the principle target, in such a professional manner, and yet savagely butcher the woman, though? He tried to hope that the prostitute had been dead before the dismembering began, but he knew in his heart that had not been the case. Had the killer a hatred of women? Of whores? Of Greeks or Christians? Likely one of those.
So… Some Mamluk plot to murder an Ottoman noble, and it had clearly succeeded. What had occurred now seemed fairly clear. What to do about it was something else.
The killer - and therefore likely his master the Mamluk - had gone to great pains to arrange covering up the mess in such a way that it would be distant enough from them to avoid likely incrimination. And if they wanted it covered up, then it was likely important that word of the murders reached the authorities.
Could it be in any way tied to Skiouros if that happened?
He could see no real way. The Mamluk or the two Janissaries might conceivably recognise him, but it seemed very unlikely. He had been one fast moving Greek youth in a sea of Greek faces. As soon as he changed his clothes - a new doublet must be high on his agenda to purloin before the night grew much older - he would be indistinguishable from any other Greek as far as they were concerned.
There was the possibility the Mamluk might investigate his stolen purse and try to track down any sudden influx of foreign coinage in the city but that would be dangerous for the foreigner, and no one in the Jewish, Greek or Armenian enclaves, or even the small Venetian post in Galata, would sell out Judah Ben Isaac.
No. There was no realistic way any of this could be traced back to him.
And that left one huge hanging question: Why should he care?
The question struck him with such surprise that he blinked and paused before taking a heavy slug of wine, pondering his answer to the mental dialogue with his baser nature.
The answer was very simple, really, and came in two parts.
Firstly: Skiouros was a thief, and by choice, but he did not believe that made him a bad man. Others would disagree, of course, and yes he stole for a living, but he had never had cause to be violent, other than punching a man once in a drunken brawl. In fact, he would say with certainty that he actively despised such violence. And the viciousness that had been perpetrated in the house on the Street of the Hercules Statue was of the most appalling nature that it should not go unpunished.
Secondly: although he espoused the view that his people were little more than servants or pets to the conquering Ottomans, he was often more vociferous than his beliefs truly warranted. The Ottomans were surprisingly tolerant in these strange days, and the situation could quite clearly be so much worse. If the dreaded Mamluks of Egypt should gain power here, life under Bayezid the Second would seem like a lost heaven.
It was important that this incident not be discovered by accident by an Ottoman and blamed erroneously on the Greek community; and the authorities would have to know so they could track down the killer. If all was well, they would be able to piece it together and put things right...
…but without locating the Mamluk's missing monies, of course. That must not be part of it, or both he and Ben Isaac would be endangered.
Another swig of wine helped seal the deal on that decision.
So the next question was: how to go about bringing this to light? It would have to be soon. The next morning at the very latest. The longer the room was left as it was, the more chance there was that a client with a missed appointment would take it upon themselves to gain entrance to the house, or that the smell would start to become noticeable enough that it would draw attention from outside.
An anonymous note to the authorities might be easiest, of course, but that presupposed he could find someone to write it for him, and there was simply no one in the city he trusted enough for that barring master Ben Isaac, and he was loathe to endanger the powerful Jewish businessman any further.
The fact that there was only one feasible solution had not escaped him and, as he quickly brushed aside all other options, he took another large pull of wine to cushion the distasteful thought.
He was going to have to meet with Lykaion again.
As a member of the Janissaries, his brother would have easy access to men in high authority who could do something about this. Moreover, despite everything Lykaion said to him in their numerous hurtful exchanges, he felt certain that if he revealed a little more information than strictly necessary, Lykaion would gloss over it and protect him.
It was settled in his mind. By dawn he would be waiting outside the Janissary barracks to catch the first non-soldier to come outside. He would deliver a message to Lykaion, the two would meet, and this could be resolved.
And then he could retrieve his small fortune from Ben Isaac and live happily for a few months.
Chapter 3 – The lie will out
* Persembe (Thursday) morning *
Skiouros crouched in the shadows cast by the carpet-merchant's warehouse that stood at the southern edge of the square, trying not to be too conspicuous. This great square, once a forum constructed by an emperor Theodosius, was a testament to the city's great history through the reigns of so many rulers - as indeed was the warehouse itself. Shattered columns rose from a variety of long-gone structures, some patterned with teardrop shapes, lending a sadness to the ruins. Little remained of the once famous arch or the column of the emperor - now a sad, quarried stub at the square's centre, but a great dry cistern perhaps four centuries old stood near the western edge of the open ground, one end torn away and displaying a veritable forest of columns.
The carpet warehouse occupied the shell of an ancient structure to shoulder height, finished to a second floor by one of the Byzantine rulers and now patched with wood by a struggling merchant. Three empires that had made the city their heart all represented in one ramshackle structure packed with mercantile goods.
It was a fascinating place, and a sad one, which Skiouros had visited many times over the past few years, but it was not the square itself or the ruins therein that captivated his interest this morning, as the chill wind tore along the streets and alleys and whirled around the square, sweeping up dead leaves and twirling them in eddies. The sky was inky purple in the pre-dawn light, and the barracks of the Janissaries stood at the far side, visible as yet only as a series of regular lamps which made it stand out in the gloom. Beside it, the former home of the Sultan stood silent and cold, still owned by Beyazid even though he now resided at the new Topkapi palace, left empty until a suitable use could be found.
The small thief hunched down into his corner, wrapping his arms tight around himself to maintain what little warmth there was. This routine was so familiar to Skiouros after years of visiting his brother's barrack that he could have done this in his sleep, and probably would have done if there had been even the slightest possibility of slumber in the aftermath of last night's horrors.
First the tense, expectant silence.
Across the city many thousands of Ottoman citizens paused waiting, cloaks in hand and shoes already on.
Then a voi
ce rang out. The Muezzin in the wooden minaret that rose from the great Haghia Sophia a mile or so away began his Fajr call, summoning the faithful to the dawn prayer. Despite his Christian upbringing, Skiouros had been born into a world where the call to prayer was a matter of daily life, even in Hadrianople, and he had to admit in the core of his soul that it remained a beautiful and evocative sound, even if it was part of the Ottoman's heretical religion.
As usual, within moments the call echoed from the other scattered minarets, and the people of Ottoman Istanbul began to stir from their residences, shuffling into the streets, yawning and scratching. As though the Fajr call were some sort of trigger, the city seemed to suddenly burst into life. Even the animals seemed to have been poised, birds suddenly cawing and chirping out their morning conversations, stray dogs and cats emerging from alleyways, scratching themselves and hunting for a free meal.
And as usual the servants and slaves and the new recruits of the Janissary corps used the call as a morning alarm, hurrying to be about their assigned tasks before they were ordered. It was bad form for even the lower occupants of the Janissary barracks to have to be ordered to do something when they were expected to already be at it.
Skiouros had once queried his brother over how these lessers managed to somehow skip the morning prayer when they were officially required to attend as any other good Muslim. Lykaion had been extremely coy and evasive, mumbling about peculiarities in the worship rites of the Janissaries, but had refused to be drawn further, grasping the 'Nazar Boncugu' - the stone bead on his neck thong which protected the wearer from the evil eye. Unconcerned with oddities within Janissary worship, Skiouros had shrugged it away. Certainly less focus on the rigidity of religious observance would make the organisation and daily running of the barracks considerably smoother.
Skiouros watched the boys and adolescents rushing out of the three staff exits of the building, some with pails for collecting water or milk, some with a purse of coins to purchase necessities, others with chitties to deliver or collect goods from smiths, tailors or other manufacturers. The doors were well guarded by men in full uniform with guns, and Skiouros had discovered in the early days just how defensive and unfriendly they could be, fleeing the scene with the barrel of a gun trained on him.
As usual, Skiouros waited a few minutes for one of the half dozen water bearers. They were the first to return during the pre-dawn ritual, having only to move down a side street to one of the great monumental fountains in order to collect their burden. They would use three different local fountains and make a game of it: who would be first to complete their daily task. Skiouros waited as two boys ran past towards the fountain and prepared himself.
Each water bearer would make a dozen journeys, and the tired yet constantly alert thief watched as a young man with distinctly Slavic features came barrelling back along the alley next to the carpet warehouse, cold clear water sloshing over the lip of his heavy wooden bucket. Ignoring the inquisitive look of the other boy who was rushing up behind with his own bucket, Skiouros stepped out in front of the Slavic servant and held up a hand. Alarmed, the boy skidded to a halt, spilling water. He babbled something in Turkish - a language of which Skiouros had a reasonable grasp - but so fast and thickly accented that it was barely intelligible, regardless. Skiouros held out his other hand, in the palm of which were two silver akce coins. The boy's eyes widened greedily.
"For the delivery of a message" Skiouros said slowly and carefully in Turkish. The boy nodded, his eyes never leaving the coins, and licked his lips.
"The message is for the Janissary known as Hussein Bin Nikos." Lykaion's official Turkish name, given to him on his arrival at the Janissaries, always left something of a sour taste in his mouth. "He serves with the Fourteenth Cemaat Orta."
The boy nodded, though his eyes left the coins now and registered discomfort with something. Something about Lykaion's unit? Whatever it was clearly was not enough, however, to overcome the boy's desire for silver, and he nodded again.
"Tell Bin Nikos that his brother must see him urgently by the church. It is vitally important that he come. Can you do that?"
The boy nodded, dropped the heavy bucket to the floor and reached for the coins. As his hand grasped greedily, Skiouros' fingers snapped shut on the coins. Shaking his head, he kept one contained in his palm and held the other between thumb and forefinger.
"Only if the message arrives. You get one coin now and one from my brother when he returns from our meeting."
The boy looked taken aback and slightly uncertain, but quickly overcame his objections and snatched the coin.
"Hussein Bin Nikos of the Fourteenth."
"The Fourteenth Cemaat" clarified Skiouros patiently. "Now go before you're late with your water."
The boy collected his bucket once more and scurried off with it towards the barracks, struggling under the weight.
Pausing only to make sure the boy made it back through the small guarded doorway and into the building unmolested, Skiouros hurried away from the square and marched the one and a half miles back to the Phanar district and the relative security of his own people.
As he walked in a roughly north-westerly direction, wishing he'd had even an hour's sleep, the sun began to rise behind him, casting the shadows of Byzantine domes and tall wooden houses along the street, separated by lines and cracks of golden light. The call to prayer ended quickly and the city fell curiously silent as its occupants filled the numerous mosques crammed into the city.
Word was that more of the ancient grand Byzantine churches of the city were earmarked for transformation into places of heathen worship, since they were left empty and unused, but at this time, very few had had their crosses replaced with crescents. Both Mehmet and Bayezid had had the sense as rulers to make the transition of the city from Christian to Muslim slowly and carefully, so as not to provoke trouble with their conquered populace.
By the time Skiouros moved through the main market in Phanar, purchasing a loaf of hard, unleavened bread and some goat's cheese en-route, his feet were aching from the new, stiff boots, but the world was beginning to come to life.
The young man shook his head wearily. With the children laughing in the streets and hawkers calling their wares, the general hubbub of civilisation thronging the ways of the city, it was almost impossible now to picture what Skiouros had stumbled across the night before and the horror seemed somehow muted and unreal.
The Bloody Church of Saint Mary stood glowing fiery red and somehow hostile in the early sun as he found his usual spot by the brick wall and sank gratefully down to an old shattered Roman lintel that formed a good seat, rubbing his eyes and then removing his left boot to massage his sore foot. Almost immediately, his toes chilled in the cold wind and he found he was rubbing more vigorously to both massage the soreness and bring life back into the frozen flesh.
Time passed slowly and quietly as he repeated the process with his other foot and then launched into his bread and cheese like a man possessed, his teeth tearing hungrily at the loaf and his nimble, slender fingers dipping it into the soft white cheese. Despite his considerable distance from any Ottoman neighbourhood, the faint odour of spice and meat from the Turks' morning meals made him hunger for something warm and somehow enhanced the chill as it worked its way into his bones.
A quick glance at the sky showed nothing but icy blue, promising only colder weather to come. While he had no love of rain, at least clouds would warm the world a little in their grim blanket.
By the time Lykaion put in an appearance, at least an hour later, Skiouros was seriously considering leaving to purchase more food - hot food from an Ottoman stall trader. In truth, while he'd never even considered the possibility that his older brother might not turn up, over the past quarter of an hour he had started to worry and wonder what he would do next if their latest argument had soured things for good.
"This had better be important, little thief" Lykaion said, his voice as icy as the alley's breeze, hands on the
hips of his green uniform jacket, curved sword swinging beneath.
Skiouros rubbed his knees and, standing, leaned back against the wall in a casual manner.
"Good to see you too, my brother."
"Just get to the point. You said it was urgent. I'm theoretically on my way to the port to oversee the arrival of new artillery from Bursa, and I can only delay for a few minutes." He narrowed his eyes. "And you owe me an akce to pay that little Slavic runt."
"It is important, Lykaion. I need your help."
"Of course you do. What is it this time? Some offended merchant offering money for your head? You've fallen foul of that Jewish criminal and his thugs? What?"
"Worse than either of those, but it's not my fault."
"I doubt that."
Skiouros sighed and lowered his voice. "I won't go into too much detail, but suffice it to say: last night I stumbled on the site of a murder."
Lykaion rolled his eyes. "Have you any idea how many people are killed in this city every day? The number will surprise you, I'm sure."
"The Janissaries are supposed to police the streets."
The older brother straightened the sleeves of his uniform jacket, emphasising the 'double sabre' symbol of his unit. "I am of the Fourteenth Cemaat Orta, which serves as the palace guard. I do not sweep the streets of the Greek slums looking for murder victims. That is a job for the Boluk Ortas - like the camel-humping Fifth!" he spat on the ground at the mention of the provost unit - never the most popular.
"It's not that simple, Lykaion. You know I can't just go and see the provost's orta. I'm a Christian and a Greek; they'd laugh me out of the building before beating me blue. But I'm fairly sure the authorities will want to know about this."
The taller brother shook his head in exasperation and held up his hand to signal an end to the conversation. "I'm a Janissary guard with a job to do. Whatever trouble you and your Greek friends have got yourselves into you can sort it out without me. I'm away to the port and if you even consider bothering me again over such paltry matters I won't stop at a quick slap next time; you understand me?"
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