Skiouros frowned, and Cesare turned to him and threw him a questioning look. ‘Outside?’
‘I think so.’
‘Shall we accompany you?’
After a moment’s thought, Skiouros nodded. ‘Perhaps it’s best, given our activities this summer. I was never short of enemies, but I suspect in His Eminence’s service, that list has reached new lengths. A man with a sword might be nothing, but it could be trouble.’
Leaving Girolamo and Helwyg undisturbed in their room, the four men followed the priests out, along the corridor and into the garden. The indigo sky and evening air were pleasant, though the temperature was dropping rapidly as the hours passed. On one of the rustic benches in the garden sat a figure Skiouros did not recognise. Dressed in nondescript tan, he was neatly shaven and barbered, with a sword slung at his side.
‘Can I help you?’ Skiouros enquired, stepping to the fore.
‘You are the Greek?’
‘I am.’
The man stood and inclined his head politely. ‘I bear an invitation, sir.’
‘From?’
The man cleared his throat and drew a long breath. ‘His Imperial Majesty Andreas Palaeologos, Despot of the Morea, Basileus, Sebastos and Emperor of Byzantium, invites you to dine with him this evening. His Majesty apologises for the lack of forewarning, but he is recently returned to the city and only learned of your own presence quite by chance. Also he apologises for the method of delivery, but His Majesty’s household is small. He hopes that you will be able to accept his invitation and, if so, I am to escort you to his apartments.’
Skiouros tried not to allow the sudden leap of hope in his heart to show on his face. The exiled Byzantine! That friendly, excitable man he had met in the aftermath of the siege of Roccabruna was back in Rome and actually seeking his company in the Imperial apartments… the very heart of the Vatican!
He turned to Cesare with a strange smile. The nobleman chuckled and looked past him at the messenger.
‘My friend Skiouros of Hadrianopolis would be delighted to attend. Would you please wait here while he attires himself suitably?’
The man bowed and then returned to the bench and Skiouros found himself being propelled gently back towards the guest house. ‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.
Cesare rolled his eyes. ‘You have been invited to dine by royalty. Royalty in exile, but royalty nonetheless. And in apartments within the Vatican, no less. This is no occasion for your usual rough scruffy attire. This is the time to raid my spare clothing and see what we can come up with.
Skiouros followed the man-at-arms, whose name he had learned was Paregorio, through as-yet-unseen halls in the Vatican complex, all the time trying not to tug uncomfortably at the stiff formal collar of his black broadcloth doublet stitched with silver thread. Even his own comfortable linen shirt beneath, which he had insisted upon keeping next to his skin, could not ease the discomfort of Cesare’s doublet, which almost fit right - at least to the naked eye. His hose of fine wool with one leg in grey and the other in black were itchy and new, and the less said about the boots the better, except that Cesare must have unusually narrow feet. Over the top of it all, he wore a pleated and scalloped cioppa robe in grey and black. In the face of Cesare’s insistence, he had flatly refused the sable hat with the silver feather and had at least managed to win that one. He felt like a monochrome peacock. Or the board for a game of ‘Queen’s Chess’.
Close on Paregorio’s heels, Skiouros stepped out from a staircase and emerged onto a landing, looking down three storeys to the marble floor of the hall below. The walls here were painted with scenes of nymphs and satyrs cavorting through woodlands in a most unchristian manner for such a holy place, and Skiouros found himself actually blushing at a couple of the ensembles they passed.
Finally the man-at-arms stopped before a doorway and stepped to one side, motioning for him to enter. Skiouros halted beside him and turned to peer through the door. The room within was clearly a hall or vestibule of some kind, well-furnished and remarkably tasteful given everything else Skiouros had seen throughout the apostolic palace. Beyond, a set of double doors left open led to a large chamber which was brightly lit with numerous lamps, the centrepiece: a huge oak table laden with platters and goblets and wine bottles. As he stepped in through the doorway at the prompting of the man-at-arms, a figure he’d not previously been able to see for the long table’s clutter rose from the seat at the far end.
Andreas Palaeologos, exiled Emperor of Byzantium, appeared every inch the Italian nobleman from his neatly tended beard and carefully trimmed hair, through his fine attire and to the elegant bow he gave Skiouros.
‘Good evening, my friend. I am so immensely pleased that you were free to accept my invitation.’
Skiouros returned the bow with a clumsy echo and strode through the double doors, smiling at the thought that he might have been too busy to come. Such was certainly not the norm. Inexpertly, he unclasped his robe and shook it out, draping it across a stand by the door, next to a green one of similar design. He smiled.
‘I had kept my ears open these past months, Majesty, but every time I heard tell of you, you were somewhere to the north accompanying this or that Papal force on endless punitive campaigns.’
Palaeologos made a face. ‘Endless. Absolutely endless. Or so it felt, at least. I am fairly certain that Bishop Lando would still have me sat ahorse somewhere high in the Apennines had the danger not driven us south once more.’
Skiouros stopped at the table’s foot, shuffling to adjust his uncomfortable doublet, his brow puckering. ‘Danger, sire?’
It was Palaeologos’ turn to frown as he gestured for Skiouros to take a seat in a chair not far from his own. ‘The danger. Have you not heard? The French crossed the border weeks ago with a force the size of which has not trod Italian soil since the days of the Caesars’ - a slight self-deprecating smile accompanying that last. ‘They are marching south determinedly, though their vast swathes of earth-shaking artillery slow their pace and give His Holiness a little time to prepare.’
For some reason, despite the months passing so slowly, the threat of French invasion had slipped from the fore of Skiouros’ mind and he had all but forgotten it in the convoluted politics and internecine fighting of the central Italian states. Now, with the news of Charles’ approach, the fear that Cem sultan’s capture was on the cards arose anew. The months of wasted time inactive in the monastery of Sant’Agnese rankled all the more.
He bit down on his cheek. All the more reason then to concentrate on the task and make the most of this night, which offered the possibility of true progress. With a serious expression, he rounded the table’s corner and walked along its length. ‘I had heard that the Papal forces were moving out of the city in bulk, but the word is that it is some exercise or other in the Romagna.’ It had not unduly excited any of their group. Papal forces marching into the Romagna seemed to be an almost-monthly occurrence.
‘Word put about so as not to panic the population,’ Palaeologos replied quietly. ‘The entire Papal force has moved as far as Tuscany and now awaits defeat and probable obliteration at the hands of the French, who purportedly outnumber them twenty to one, even with the allied lords and numerous condottieri at the pope’s call. I am relieved to find you here and not attached to that army. But enough of such dark thoughts. I have to confess that after all these months I had entirely forgotten your name, but that of the Orsini is too ever-present an appellation to forget. Upon my return I asked around among the remaining guards here after an Orsini condottiere with a single lance of men. Lo and behold you were located for me with remarkable simplicity. Come. Sit.’
Skiouros nodded easily. The more information he could gain tonight the better, but intimate details of the French invasion were of limited interest and so that subject could be let go. All being well he and his friends would be done and gone before Charles of Valois arrived in Rome demanding crowns and hostages and pointing his infamous cannon at the
walls of Saint Peter’s.
‘Let us talk instead of my homeland and what you remember of it,’ Palaeologos smiled. ‘I want you to dredge up every memory you have. Every sound, sight, smell and taste of the east. And for the love of all that is simple, do stop weighing me down with titles and honorifics and use my name. No one - other perhaps than His Holiness and the bishop - believes I am anything more than a burden on the Vatican treasury.’
Skiouros smiled and allowed himself to relax slightly. It was hard to remain too formal in this man’s presence. Pausing on a whim as he moved along the table, his hand reached out to a fruit bowl on the sideboard, and Palaeologos half-rose from the seat urgently.
‘Not that one, my friend. Here… there is fruit on the table for us.’
The Greek paused for a moment and looked down at the bowl. The apples gleamed red, and there were grapes, pomegranates and cherries. They looked fresh and appetising. He frowned and turned his puzzled gaze upon his host.
Palaeologos was out of his seat now and strode a few paces across to the sideboard. Picking up his napkin, he used it to line his palm like a glove and selected a rosy apple from the bowl. Skiouros’ furrowed brow only deepened until the exiled emperor jerked out his hand and held the apple beneath the Greek’s nose. Skiouros stared as he noted after a moment the acrid aroma of the fruit.
‘I don’t understand,’ he blurted, reaching up and rubbing his nose reflexively, his nostrils pulsing. Palaeologos gently lowered the apple back into place in the bowl.
‘Highly poisonous,’ he replied, carefully folding the napkin and tossing it into the fireplace nearby where it burst into flame. ‘Treated with the ‘poison nut’, shipped in periodically from India. Awful stuff. Tortures the body for a long while before the end.’
As Palaeologos moved back towards his seat, Skiouros stared in incomprehension at the deadly fruit and skirted past it, making for the chair previously indicated while he peered suspiciously at the food upon the table. Palaeologos laughed lightly. ‘Oh fear not, my friend. This is perfectly healthy, but if you are nervous, I will sample anything for you. This is the same food that the cardinals eat, so you can be assured of its efficacy.’
‘But why the poison,’ questioned Skiouros, still shaken, as he took his seat.
‘A man in my position makes enemies through his name alone, my friend. For all my exile and political impotence, a man who effectively holds the rights of two crowns must take care. In my time I have watched three would-be-assassins intent on doing me harm fall foul of just such a fruity trick.’
‘And yet you trust the palace food?’ asked Skiouros suspiciously, peering at the platters before him.
‘A man who meant to poison me would likely poison the entire college of cardinals in the attempt. As I said: I eat the same food as they, and the only time it could be tampered with separately is when it is conveyed to my apartments, which is all done by the three men I can call loyal in my service. You see, I am most careful. I do not even trust a taster, for tasters can be bought, and have developed tricks of their own over the centuries.’
Skiouros nodded dubiously and watched as Palaeologos began to collect food from the various platters onto his own dish, pausing here and there to sample the goods first. The young Greek watched, still nervous, as the emperor began to tuck in to the meal and finally, with a shrug, started gathering the more tantalising dishes from the table onto his own plate. Satisfied that he had enough not to insult, he selected a chicken leg in some sticky sauce and nibbled it carefully. Half expecting to convulse and collapse in agony, he was pleasantly taken aback by the sweet/sharp taste, flavoured with wine and herbs. Clearly the Vatican lavished as much care and funding on its sustenance as it did on its décor.
‘Tell me about Constantinople,’ Palaeologos said quietly between bites.
Skiouros continued to chew, allowing his memory to furnish him with images.
‘I have limited experience, Majesty, in truth. As a Greek in the Ottoman city it was safer to keep to Greek zones. The sultan is surprisingly accepting of his non-Turkish subjects, but even after four decades, the city is a long way from integrated and tensions can run high. By the Golden Horn, close to the city walls lie the areas known as Phanar and Balat. There most of the Greeks live, and many of the Jews in the latter.’
‘But you have visited the rest of the city?’
‘Upon occasion. Many of the churches are now mosques, and more are converted each year, but the sultan continues to allow some churches to serve the Christian communities. The old buildings of the ancient city are often crumbling hulks now, and those that become dangerous the Turks dismantle or convert. Our old bath houses thrive with little change, though.’
‘And what of the Imperial residences?’
Skiouros shrugged, pausing to take a bite of bread soaked in olive oil. ‘The sultan lives in the ‘new palace’ built by his father on the headland above the Haghia Sophia. The ‘great palace’ has been little more than a ruin for as long as anyone can remember. The Bucoleon is now used to house ambassadors and foreign dignitaries… or at least half of it is. The other half is in disrepair and occupied by homeless thieves and vagabonds. The only Imperial palace left in any liveable state would be the Blachernae, but even that was damaged when the Turks breached the walls and is now used more as a prison and barracks than anything else. The area around the Blachernae has become the domain of the Romani.’
Palaeologos sagged a little. ‘My father had fond memories of the Bucoleon and the Blachernae. I have heard reports from ambassadors and merchants, of course, but nothing compares to a true insider’s view. And what of the people, then?’
‘Only the old men remember the days of the emperors, in reality, Majesty.’ He tried not to let memories of his father fill his head, the old farmer complaining bitterly about this man’s uncle - the last true emperor - eschewing the capital and being crowned in the provincial city of Mistra out in the Greek Morea. About the former emperor’s plans to merge the true Orthodox Church with the Pope’s own gilded artifice. Old Nikos the farmer had displayed more respect for the conquering sultan than he ever would for the man who would sell out his Byzantine world to Rome. He had not been alone in that, either. It would not be kind to bring up the uncle’s failings in front of the nephew, though.
‘And what of the man who rules there now?’ Palaeologos prompted, reaching for his chicken. ‘They call him ‘the just’ I understand. Is the cognomen deserved?’
Skiouros felt a moment of suspicion. There was a hunger suddenly in the exiled scion’s voice and he wondered whether the man really wanted the truth or simple vindication? He took a breath.
‘As with all overlords, Majesty, he has good points and bad. He is strong, and relatively accommodating of other faiths and peoples. Those of us without Turkish blood are able to take roles in the Ottoman court and military, though not without converting.’ He noticed a slight darkening of his host’s expression, which confirmed his suspicions, and he sat back. ‘Of course, no amount of minor freedoms he allows his non-Islamic subjects can make up for the fact that his armies roll like a cloud of black conquest across the Balkan lands, annexing kingdom after kingdom, and his pirates who ravage the western seas.’ He was gratified to see these bold anti-Turkish statements pick up the man’s mood a little and banish some of the darkness and for a moment, he saw an opportunity.
‘And his half-brother lives here under the same roof as yourself, his own apartments a gilded Papal cage. It must bring back the injustice of your exile whenever you set eyes upon him?’
Palaeologos paused with a forkful of something hovering before his face. His eyes focussed on that for a moment as he replied. ‘There are moments when the knowledge that he is here raises unhappy memories and dark thoughts.’ He shrugged. ‘But then it is not his doing. His father deposed my uncle by the sword and his brother rules my empire. Prince Cem, however, has done nothing to me. We have far more in common than we do keeping us apart.’
H
e bit and chewed the morsel and Skiouros peered at him in the silence that followed. The man had good reason to despise Bayezid, of course, and no real reason to hate Cem. But that had not been the point of his enquiry. He was about to prompt again when the emperor swallowed and answered his unspoken question anyway.
‘In fact, the matter rarely arises. I see the exiled sultan but rarely and never in personal circumstances. He is valuable to the Pope and, with the added threat of the French bearing down upon us, the ever-present Hospitallers who surround him are all the more defensive and suspicious. For all his status as a glorified prisoner, he is better protected than His Holiness.’
Skiouros nodded his understanding, trying to hide his disappointment. If even this fellow exile who lived beneath the same roof could find no opportunity to gain access to Prince Cem, then what chance did an outsider stand? ‘Of course, the captive sultan’s future is somewhat uncertain, with the French marching on Rome and Napoli,’ he prompted.
Palaeologos gave a strange knowing smile which caused the Greek to narrow his eyes. ‘Not that uncertain,’ the man said. ‘In fact, if what Bishop Lando tells me is true, then Cem might be looking forward to his French liberation. I am led to believe that if Charles of France manages to secure Napoli and launch his crusade, then he will crush Bayezid the Second and place Cem on the throne of Constantinople as a French puppet sultan.’
Skiouros felt a chill run through him. That was almost exactly what the conspirators had been trying to achieve those years ago when this whole mess had started! ‘And you would watch this happen? To your empire?’
The exiled Palaeologos grinned. ‘He would rule the city only in Charles’ name, but to free Constantinople, the French will have to conquer the Balkans, Greece and the Morea. And then one of my titles becomes reinstated. Cem can have his pretend crown with a French sword at his back. I will have the Morea for my own, with the authority of the French King and with Papal investiture. Cem’s lot would improve immeasurably, but after a life in exile I achieve more than I could ever hope for. You see? For all His Holiness has done for me and the terror of the Roman people at the thought of French invasions, I for one am anticipating King Charles’ arrival with some eagerness. And I suspect my fellow exile feels the same.
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