"I wish we'd had time to search him. What if he had something about his person that condemns us?"
Skiouros shook his head. "He's a professional. He wouldn't carry anything that dangerous with him. I doubt anything will lead back to us. He's a Mamluk - an enemy of the empire - with an assassin's weapons, dead in an alley. In the Greek quarter no less and, if anything, the Greeks hate the Mamluks more than your Ottomans. He'll be stripped bare of anything interesting or valuable and will turn up on the doorstep of the nearest guard post in the morning."
"That might be good" Lykaion smiled unpleasantly. "Would be a nice message to Bin Murad and his friends."
"I certainly doubt it will be an end to it, though. We can't go back to my room." It was said with a deep sense of regret - not because he'd become emotionally attached to the place, but because he knew it inside and out; knew how to defend and protect himself there and all the quick exits. And because he was still paid up rent-wise for weeks.
"So where do we go?" Lykaion asked quietly. His years of service in the army, either in battle against the Mamluk or policing the streets of Ottoman Istanbul, had failed to prepare him for the possibility of being on the run in the old city where the Turkish influence was small. He felt utterly lost.
"I have an idea. You might not like it, but we're running low on options so you'll just have to trust me."
Glancing suspiciously at him, Lykaion gestured onwards.
They ran.
Not once in the next ten minutes did they pass into a place that Lykaion recognised and it surprised him just how little he knew of the area. There was, of course, a bright side to that. If he, as a Greek-born Janissary, knew so little of the city, then very few of his comrades would know any more. Essentially, they were relatively safe from the Turkish authorities here.
The same could not be said about Greeks hungry for rewards.
Or Mamluk assassins, of whom Lykaion had to remind himself there were still at least two in the city.
Suddenly, they rounded a corner and the thief leading them came to a halt. Ahead, where the street opened out into a wide area of grass, stood a sprawling Byzantine church.
"You have to be joking" Lykaion said sourly, a cold shiver running through him.
"Find me a better hiding place and I'll think on it" Skiouros said quietly. Lykaion glanced around as they took a few steps forward to the edge of the grass. Old Greek tombstones jutted here and there, but many were lost. Much of the grass was deep and untended, while in one area off towards the left the grass and tombs had been cleared entirely. A blocked-in arcade fronted the building, though the central arch contained a solid door, and the others presented a high arced window at the top, where the blocking had stopped to allow light to penetrate within. Some of the closed arches had heavy beams resting against them.
"What's happening here?"
"Your noble sultan is planning to convert the place into a mosque. Work started last year and they've done bits, but all the workers were pulled off the project this spring and sent to some other work. The place has stood empty half a year. Welcome to the former church of Saint Saviour - the 'country church'."
As Lykaion eyed the building with discomfort, his brother padded across the open ground towards the building. Following him, Lykaion glanced around. The church was surrounded by the grassy cemetery but beyond that the jumbles of timber housing formed an almost continual circular perimeter with very few windows or gaps. Seemingly the occupants had no wish to look out upon the graves of their ancestors. The only thing that gave him an idea of their location was the looming bulk of the city's great walls jutting up behind the buildings.
Despite his inherent discomfort with the idea of taking shelter in a house of the Christian God, he had to admit that it was as good a hiding place as they could hope for.
He quickly caught up with his brother at the central door arch as Skiouros was finishing some arcane manoeuvre that ended with a click and the portal swinging open. The thief put away his tools and smiled at Lykaion.
"I realise that you don't like this but bear in mind that our deal still stands, and you'd be a lot more comfortable on a Venetian merchant ship."
Lykaion shook his head and nipped past his brother into the darkness of the church's interior. Skiouros shrugged and followed him, closing the door behind them and allowing a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had been in here a number of times over the years. The church had stopped serving as an active place of Christian worship following the city's fall to Mehmet, and the interior had begun to decay with the surprising speed that such buildings do with only a decade of neglect. Indeed, the Ottoman workers and architect had done nothing on their plan for 'Islamicising' the building beyond repairing some of the worst damage and removing broken or dangerous stonework. It had become a useful place to pass the time when angry eyes were searching the enclave for a young thief.
Strolling into the outer narthex - the church's entryway - he trod lightly on the hexagonal tiles and passed through the archway and into the inner narthex, a highly decorative passage with streaked marble walls and a ceiling of mosaics. Barely glancing left and right, he stepped on through the doorway opposite and into the main church.
Despite his care and time in allowing his sight to adjust, he still almost fell over a bag of mortar mix next to a barrow left carelessly beside the door by a departing worker. Walking on past them and cursing with words rarely heard in a church, he entered the naos and moved into the very centre beneath the dome. Looking up, he saw the beautiful mosaic picked out strangely by the moonlight shining in through the small, high windows around the circumference. Glancing around and through the door, he spotted Lykaion in the side chapel, his neck craned, looking up at the astoundingly complex and ancient mosaic ceilings.
Smiling at the fascination that seemed to hold the attention of a man who was nervous over even entering a Christian church, Skiouros strolled across the naos and through the connecting doorway.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
Lykaion nodded absently, his face upturned. "They are astounding. Don't have them in the camii - the mosques. They're forbidden. This will all be plastered over when it changes. I love Allah and his prophets, but there are aspects of my worship I would change if I could." He frowned. "The prophet looks sad. I fear he looks at me, actually, with sadness."
"The prophet?" Skiouros fell in alongside his brother.
"Isa. Christos as you call him. He seems to disapprove of me."
"Perhaps he wants you to go board a ship for Crete?" Skiouros replied with a weary smile. "Watch out!"
Lykaion looked sharply at Skiouros as the younger brother leapt forward and grabbed him, hauling him aside and preventing him from striding straight into the deep hole in front of him. Had Lykaion continued to walk forward with his gaze locked on the ceiling, he would most certainly have fallen in.
"You see?" he said as he teetered on the edge, peering into the darkness. "Isa Christos disapproves of me."
"It's the crypt. They're replacing some of the flags and repairing the church's sub-structures. Just be careful. There may be other holes. Now settle in. I'm going outside to wash my head and clear off this blood. I think the cuts are drying up."
Lykaion stared down into the black, trying to decide whether the pit might just be the entrance to hell. Or whether, given the past two days, it could instead be a convenient exit from it?
Chapter 7 – A house divided
* Cumartesi (Saturday) morning *
Skiouros awoke with that strange lurch of a person who feels they should be doing something and have been caught napping off-guard. His eyes rolled around and his surroundings reasserted themselves in his consciousness. The church; they were in the church. Nothing untoward had happened; it was just morning. His cheek and ear throbbed with yesterday's dulled pain.
His roving eye scanned the building in the watery, cold morning light that shone in through the high windows and the glazed triple aperture in the
east wall. The church's extensive decoration which flooded the senses was all the more startling and eye-catching in the light, and it took a moment for Skiouros to notice Lykaion's cloak lying rumpled beside the straw mattress on the floor across the room, where he'd slept. The sudden sense of alarm that he felt disappeared almost instantly as he heard his brother's footsteps off in the parekklesion chapel, the sound of Skiouros' old worn boots familiar even with someone else's feet in them.
Slowly, shivering in the church's chilling air, he unwrapped the cloak from around himself and then, standing, fastened it about his neck once more. Quietly, he padded over to the door that led to the extraordinarily decorated side chapel, a pleasant and awe-inspiring assault on the senses. Every wall and every inch of ceiling was cluttered with painting or mosaic, the floors tiled in fascinating marble shapes.
Lykaion stood close to the hole down which he'd almost fallen the previous night, his cloak and the cold apparently forgotten, his neck craned as he studied the images, chin cradled in one hand.
"Good morning."
Lykaion turned at the voice and nodded at his brother before returning his gaze to the ceiling.
"It is, of course, an affront to God to have images like these. Just as the bible condemns idolatry, so does the Qur'an. But I have to admit to sadness at the thought that these will all disappear under white plaster soon."
"Paintings can be repainted" Skiouros replied with a shrug.
"Some things can never be replaced, brother. Something similar can be put in its position, but it will never quite be the same."
He unfolded his arms and uncradled his chin, pointing at the frescoes.
"See there? That is the most appalling image to a true believer. The prophet Isa - Christos - resurrecting, as though he were God himself. That is why the faiths will never be at ease. And yet, I feel no discomfort looking at it."
He turned, a strange look on his face. "Do you realise how odd that is? I've avoided setting foot inside a church for so many years, not because it's forbidden or because I hate them, but because I was a little nervous about how it would feel."
"It's only a building."
Lykaion's nose wrinkled a little. "To you, perhaps. You were never a pious boy, if I remember rightly. I was Father Simonides' little disciple, while you were always in search of the next thrill. It seems somehow ironic that you who are still an open worshipper of the Christian God devote so little of your soul to him while I who am a true son of Allah was once a devoted child of the Church and can see more grace and power in these images than you."
He turned and gestured to the various frescoes with a sweep of his arm. "I wonder if the other Janissary converts feel like this? It is not a subject openly discussed in the guard. I find that, despite knowing in my heart that Allah is the only God and Mohammed his prophet, I feel comfortable with the idea of Christos rising as the offspring of Allah. After all, we in the Janissaries follow the Bektasi - a Holy Trinity of sorts; if I can feel comfortable with that, why not with a 'son' of God."
Skiouros frowned. It was strange to hear his brother in such frank and reasoned discussion after so many years of heated argument between them, but the simple fact was that the subject was counter-productive… or was it?
"There is still time for us to leave the city, you know? To turn our back on all this trouble and seek out some peace, like both holy books urge."
"No. Sometimes there are things that have to be done, even if there is no chance of success or possibility of reward. I think you misunderstand my thoughts, brother."
"You've come to some sort of understanding, I see. It would certainly make it easier for you if we went to Crete."
"It is the very reason we cannot do so. I and the good men in the Janissaries are sons of Allah, but we were all once sons of the Church. I suspect it gives us a unique perspective. And yet, the Sultan Bayezid seems to have a level of acceptance that I had not understood until now. He is - more even than I - a son of the prophet and of God until death, and yet he advocates peaceful coexistence with the Christians and the Jews; even the thrice-cursed Armenian ones. He can see beyond the trappings of their religion to the fact that they are men, and he treats them as such."
"He taxes them heavily."
"Mere mortal commerce. Imagine what would happen if that throne were occupied by a Mamluk zealot? Or a man such as Hamza Bin Murad? Someone has to try to stand in the way for the sake of all that is good and reasonable in the world."
Skiouros sighed. "I was uncomfortable enough with the 'honour' thing. Let's not turn this into a crusade as well."
Lykaion smiled oddly. "Interesting choice of words from a Christian. But that is the long and the short of it, brother. The Sultan will paint over these images and inscribe the teachings of the Qur'an over the top, but some churches are still yours, and he does not attempt to rework men's beliefs the way he reworks a church - beyond the necessity for the Janissary intake. If he is removed and his enemies take the throne, we may see every Christian and Jew in the city placed on the hook, or the cross, or the stake. Imagine Phanar and Balat full of pointed pales, each bearing a stinking, screaming, writhing body. Could you in all truth flee to your wonderland of Crete and leave that to happen? I, for one, would suffer with a dreadful conscience for the rest of my life."
"I believe I could live with it, since the alternative is very possibly ending up on one of those spikes myself."
"But I could not. And if you were a 'good' Christian, neither could you." He sighed. "Anyway, we took vows over the altar of your patron vow-taker in that ruined church. I promised only to leave when I saw no alternative, and I still see an alternative. You promised to stay and help me. Well once you've done what you said you would do this morning, I will free you from that vow."
"Lykaion…"
"No. I must stay and face whatever comes my way and try to stop this, but if you do not feel the same call to the task, you should leave; I want you to leave; to know that at least my brother is safe somewhere, and hopefully away from the path of crime."
"I'm not going and leaving you here. You and I are the only ones left." Skiouros grinned. "Besides, you'd not last a day on these streets without me."
Lykaion scratched his chin. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps not. But I will welcome the aid for now. You will go soon enough, though."
"Not yet. For now, stay here and keep out of sight. I must go to the market and grab a few things quickly. I'll be back in ten minutes."
The older brother nodded and waved Skiouros away calmly, going back to his study of the figures on the walls and ceilings.
With a last glance at his quiet, serious sibling, the thief rubbed his hands together for warmth and strode off towards the church door. Carefully, he peered through the grille near the handle to make sure the front was unobserved and, seeing no one, opened the door and scurried outside, closing it behind him.
The sun was still low enough that its presence behind the houses was only indicated by a lighter patch in the sky, and a white frost had formed on the grass around the church. Skiouros did up the collar of his doublet and pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders before hurrying out into the street beyond the encircling wall of wooden housing, his breath creating a white cloud that drifted away on the chill breeze.
It occurred to him briefly that there was the faintest possibility that he too was now being sought after the events of last night, but the chances were small. There was no obvious tie between the Mamluk's body and Skiouros' room and, while the information could easily have been leaked from the Mamluk assassin and his master to Bin Murad, that was obviously not the case, or it would have been an orta of guards that had come for the them in the night, and not a single killer. Clearly at this point the assassins were still working independently of the Janissaries, thank the Lord.
Satisfied at his logic, Skiouros moved into the streets and made his way to the spice market that filled the open space between the Petra monastery and the Aetios gardens. Already, the
market was thriving, with new arrivals still filling their stalls and early shoppers moving about haggling and arguing over the quality of the goods on offer.
A cold chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran through Skiouros as he moved among the stalls. A mere three days ago he had strolled into another market in the district after a meeting with his brother, and the events of that morning had snowballed into somewhat cataclysmic proportions.
Trying not to think too much on the matter, he perused the stalls until he spotted a Syrian merchant balancing the last of his wares on his trestle. Such foreign traders were uncommon in much of the Greek enclave, but were not an uncommon sight in the spice markets, since such goods naturally came north and west through Syria, Persia and Arabia. The better of the traders would spend five days of their week in the city selling in the great Spice Market in the Ottoman centre, and would then spend two days touring the outer enclaves to rid themselves of the lower-quality or excess goods before returning to their caravans and heading south once more.
"You see something you like?" the merchant oozed at him, his Greek language surprisingly good, but with a thick Syrian accent.
"This is the last of your cinnamon. You have no more? None fresher?"
"Fresh? Pah! It is sealed in containers for the journey and only open this one week."
"And we shall not mention the half a year it languished in there first?" Skiouros asked with a grin, the familiar cut and thrust of the haggle taking over.
"For you I offer cheap, yes? Ten akce for a bundle."
Skiouros pulled a face. "Ten? Are you insane? The sandstorms of your desert have worn away your brain, my friend. Even many times fresher I would only offer you five."
"Then you waste my time with your babble, Greek. Move along and bother someone else."
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