‘God created the entire world through the power of his word,’ I say. ‘In the beginning there was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God…God doesn’t want you to deprive me of words.’
The priest raises his hand. ‘Only a demon uses God’s words against him.’
From behind me, in this chapel filled with the women with whom I have spent my entire life, for whom I cook and clean and carry, I hear a faint cheer.
The priest lays a hand on my forehead. ‘Hear me, child. This will be a day of pain and misery for you, but you are storing up riches in Heaven.’
‘God gave us words!’ I cry.
‘Let her stand,’ Father Eser orders. His skin has developed a silvery sheen and become quite translucent. He is not the handsome priest the nuns talk of. His muscles are grey, his veins pulse darkly and his eyes are bright red. No one reacts. I’m the only one who can see this. I look down. His feet are those of a gigantic bird, sharply taloned.
‘I’ll say one more thing. It benefits no one to engage with demons,’ Eser continues. ‘I do God’s work in silencing evil and temptation.’
Even when I find the courage to speak, no one listens.
There’s another rumbling noise.
‘It’s the demon!’ Father Eser yells. ‘It will gain power until the girl is silenced. We must be quick!’
He wrenches my mouth open. I scream as I have never screamed before.
The chapel fills with light. For a moment, I wonder if angels have appeared to save me.
‘Sisters! Sisters!’ I hear someone yelling.
Startled, Sister Aysel releases me from her grip. I collapse onto the stone floor. Father Eser drops the blade, and it clatters near my hand.
Three monks run into the chapel.
‘We moved your stone,’ one says. I fumble for the blade.
‘What?’ demands Father Eser, confused. I inch away from him and grab hold of my basket.
‘The soldiers have set up camp,’ the monk explains. I reach the door of the small chapel and turn, knife raised, ready to fight.
But, at least for the moment, they have forgotten me.
‘You need to know,’ the monk says, as I slip from the room.
I’m in the highest gallery. The door, stone moved out of place, is just a sprint away.
‘They will not be here until tomorrow. Lock yourselves up then,’ the monk says. His voice is very faint to me now.
Holding on to my basket, I run. Mother, I vow as I go, I’ll come back to you. I’ll find the strength to help you somehow and I’ll come back.
I head for the convent opening. Outside there’s nothing but ripples of sand and dry fairy towers. I don’t know what’s more dangerous—desert thirst, or the violent soldiers I’ve dreamed of.
But I do know I can’t stay here. I have a voice, I have words. I run to a future where there’s the possibility of using them.
CHAPTER 6
Twenty-six moons
CONSTANTINOPLE
Luca
Two sevennights pass before we pause, staring down at the vast city of Constantinople from a nearby hilltop. Perched above the dark waters of the Bosphorus and surrounded by unbreachable three-tiered stone walls, the city has grown in brilliance and splendour over the six hundred years of its existence. Clearly visible are its countless rooftops, the famed Basilica of St Sophia in its centre like the jewel in an ornate neckpiece.
‘Will we be allowed in?’ Mattiolas wonders.
‘Only if the Emperor wishes,’ Father says. ‘Alexios Komnenos worries about our violent reputation. So do the Princes. I have to pass on their commandment against fighting. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Alexios Komnenos has ordered our tents be erected outside the city walls. After mid-afternoon prayers, we find Byzantines covering the fields with tentpoles and corralling our horses. Heralds record locations where knights fly their banners, using rolls of parchment to create locality maps. The parchment shows our two de Falconi crests very close to the silver dragon of Ramberti’s shield and banner. Father is curious about my choice of location. He knows how much I dislike Ramberti. But I want to know what he’s up to, and I want to be nearby if the tall man from my dream contacts him again.
I don’t have to wait long, as things turn out. Shortly after we arrive, I’m sitting beside my tent making necessary repairs to my chainmail (links loosen over time) when, on the other side of the thin tent, I hear Ramberti speaking.
I lean around the side of my tent to see who he’s speaking to, careful not to give myself away. Outside Ramberti’s tent, which is far more grand than my own or Father’s, the priest is busy in conversation with the mysterious iron-caped knight.
In the dying afternoon light, it’s even more apparent that the knight is no ordinary man. His hair is as brightly metallic as the moon. Ramberti yells at him, while I return to the seclusion of my tent. I can hear him clearly.
‘You wanted me to drown?’
The iron-caped knight murmurs something.
‘I have the blood,’ Ramberti says. ‘Enough.’
They are silent for so long, I step outside again to see what’s happening. Could Ramberti have recovered his temper?
Ramberti is actually bowing before the knight, as though they’ve made a deal. While I watch, they separate and walk off in different directions. Who should I follow? The iron-caped knight appeared in my dream. If I can work out his part in this, I might be able to see Ramberti’s bigger plan. Is he a demon? I choose him but lose him all too quickly.
I pass a woman outside her own tent, throwing leaves into a cooking pot. ‘Where did that knight go?’
She continues throwing leaves. ‘What knight?’
I scan the teeming campsite. The knight has disappeared. I’ll follow him more closely next time.
I return to my own tent. After some time the lamplight in Ramberti’s is extinguished. I lie down. Now thoughts about demons tumble through my mind. Ramberti can do something I thought no one could do—physically interact with demons. If he can cut off a demon’s head, does it work both ways? Could a demon attack him—or me?
Loud singing wakes me before the matins bell. I go outside to investigate. Father joins me a moment later, soon followed by Narlo.
‘The Saracen call to prayer,’ Father explains.
‘Saracens pray?’ Narlo asks. Like me, he knows little about Saracens—just that we’re on our way to reclaim Jerusalem from them.
Father nods. ‘In Jerusalem I saw Christian churches and Saracen mosques side by side.’
‘If they also pray, why must we fight them?’ I ask.
Father looks down at his splayed fingers. ‘Brother Bonaccorso asks the same question. But there are some orders a knight can’t disobey.’
‘Who do they pray to?’ Narlo demands.
‘To their god,’ Father says. ‘He’s not so different from ours.’
Father must notice something about me. ‘You’ve not been troubled by more dreams?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
Narlo waits until Father has turned away, then makes his version of a demonic face, pulling his lips wide and flaring his nostrils. I can easily ignore him. Narlo’s antagonism means little after the bizarre things I’ve seen. He wanders off.
Behind us, Constantinople’s thick walls rise to a blue sky. Mattiolas joins me and the camp comes to life around us. Young knights play football with an inflated pig’s bladder. Grooms lead horses to blacksmiths near an anvil by the river for horseshoe checks. Father leaves to attend a meeting with the Princes. Raymond of Toulouse and Bohemond of Taranto have spacious pavilions that, like castle great halls, are furnished with heavy oak benches carried on carts when we travel.
Soon Father returns, shaking his head. ‘Alexios has demanded all knights swear loyalty to him. All Princes except Raymond have agreed.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Mattiolas demands. ‘We all owe fealty to someone.’
F
ather gives him a reproving look. ‘Raymond says his only fealty is to God. You need to consider who you want to follow.’
Mattiolas shrugs. ‘Alexios is very powerful.’
‘We want to win Nicea for God,’ Father reminds Mattiolas. Nicea is the first city we plan to attack.
Mattiolas runs his fingers through his hair and grins. He’s not intimidated. ‘For God and for Alexios Komnenos. That doesn’t mean we can’t make ourselves rich!’
Father sighs. ‘Make the most of your time here. We’ll be leaving soon enough. Nicea won’t be easy to capture. And you need to be thankful—both of you—to God for everything you already have.’
Rebuked, I pull out a soft cloth to polish my sword’s hilt. Mattiolas looks confused. Then he shrugs and strolls away, whistling.
Mattiolas runs to me shortly after noon prayers, his face flushed and excited.
‘Come with me to Constantinople! They’re letting pilgrims in, six at a time. Let’s go!’
‘All right,’ Father agrees. ‘Don’t stay late. We march in the morning.’
I grab my sword and join Mattiolas, the two of us swishing through long grass in the dry moat as we follow the line of Constantinople’s unassailable walls. Alexios has allowed only one gate to remain open. We pass a train of camels grazing in the shade, each wearing a colourful woven blanket and a set of reins decorated with bells.
‘How many camels would need to stand on top of each other to see over the wall?’ Mattiolas wonders.
Imagining such a tower of camels, I laugh. ‘You think of the strangest things!’
‘Go on. How many?’
‘Five, I suppose. Six. Why do you want to know?’
‘My uncle wants letters sent home. He wants me to describe things.’
‘This would be your uncle the Duke of Piacenza?’ I tease.
Mattiolas grins. ‘How can you describe the height of these walls, except in camels?’
‘I suppose cubits are too conventional?’
Mattiolas considers this for a moment. ‘They’re not as illustrative as camels. Have you heard the news about Peter the Hermit?’
‘There’s news?’ The last I heard of Serafina, Peter the Hermit was leading the group she travelled with. She may not be my fiancée, but she’s still an old and dear friend.
‘Not good news. No one knows anything for sure.’
I walk more slowly, my mind filled with concern for Serafina. ‘I hope—’ I begin.
I’ve seen him. The iron-caped knight is walking along a cobblestone road, also leading to Constantinople’s shimmering city gate.
‘What is it?’ Mattiolas asks.
‘Nothing.’ I pick up my pace, careful not to let the cape out of my sight. ‘Let’s move faster. We don’t want to miss out.’
But long before we reach the gate, we reach the end of a queue. The iron-caped knight continues to surprise me. Despite his height, he avoids the attention of any of the other knights, even as he’s pushing in, making his way to the front well ahead of his turn.
Mattiolas slumps, disappointed and impatient. ‘We’ll be here until vespers!’
A knight near us turns, frowning. ‘I hope not. Yesterday at sundown they sent the whole queue back to camp.’
I’m more impatient than Mattiolas. The iron-caped man is nearly at the gate. Then, looking ahead, I notice something. A group of monks is being allowed in without waiting. They have two knights with them. One of the monks is Father’s friend Brother Bonaccorso.
‘Brother!’ I call.
The elderly monk sees me and raises an arm in greeting.
‘Come on, Mattiolas,’ I say. ‘We’ll go in with him.’
Brother Bonaccorso moves aside to include us with his party. ‘I’m as happy to be here as in Jerusalem!’ he says. ‘Perhaps happier. Here, we’re welcome. Is this your friend?’
‘This is Mattiolas.’
‘And are you both here to see the final resting place of Euthymius the Illuminator?’
Mattiolas widens his eyes.
‘A great man, a great, great man,’ says Brother Bonaccorso. ‘He was imprisoned and died here. Back when I was a boy. I never got the chance to meet him. I’ve studied his work all my life. He translated The Wisdom of Balahvar into Latin. You’ve read this, of course?’
‘Uh…no.’ Mattiolas looks like he’d rather be back in the queue than standing here, being accused of having read a book.
‘I have a copy with me,’ Brother Bonaccorso says. ‘I’ll read it to you sometime. One thing about this pilgrimage: there’ll be plenty of opportunities to read. You pilgrim knights will be impressed, I believe, with the story of the six blind men and the elephant. But…ah, the gate.’
‘Yes!’ says Mattiolas, relieved. ‘The gate!’
I’ve seen Rome, but nothing I’ve ever seen has prepared me for the grandeur of Constantinople. Glimpses of its red rooftops and the sparkling blue waters of the Bosphorus are already visible from the gate as smartly liveried guards allow us in. We pass beneath the sharp teeth of a raised metal portcullis into streets thrumming with life. Every cubit of this vast yet tightly packed space is busy. It’s like a beehive, if bees had invented art and architecture—and markets. Near the gate, we pass long tables where merchants sell icons for orthodox pilgrims to take to the great churches. Sweets sellers offer sugary treats in every possible flavour from apple to rosewater. Pastry-makers layer almonds, walnuts and honey. Mattiolas pauses to buy a serve of oxycrate, simply because he’s never tasted it before.
He waves a wooden cup that smells like stale wine beneath my nose. ‘Try some?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Mattiolas takes a long draught, then puckers his lips and runs around the corner to spit into a rosemary bush. ‘It’s like vinegar!’
I’m laughing as, still shadowing the iron-caped knight, we take a bend in the road and reach an obviously wealthy neighbourhood. Doors in the honey-coloured streetside walls are fastened, but occasionally one opens, giving a glimpse of gardens and fountains beyond, before a veiled woman bustles out.
‘How can Jerusalem be any grander than this?’ Mattiolas asks.
I shake my head. ‘Jerusalem is the navel of the world.’
Mattiolas stops to stare at a passing woman, heavy ropes of gold wrapped around her throat and arms. ‘All this belongs to Alexios,’ he says. ‘What we find in Jerusalem is ours to keep!’
I laugh, a little uncomfortably. I wonder what Mattiolas imagines. I’ve seen how generous he is to people poorer than himself. He takes bread from his own meal to give to those who have none. In Jerusalem, does he believe women will simply unwind all their gold chains and hand them over?
‘I don’t believe warfare will make you as greedy as you joke,’ I tell him.
‘It’s not stealing to take from Saracens!’
We walk on. The iron-caped knight is tall and easy to follow. He vanishes once, but I find him at the next corner, where roads open up to another bustling square. If Mattiolas is curious about how I choose where to go, he says nothing. He’s too busy discussing everything we pass: tradesmen in their hundreds, dressed for their guilds; men dragging goats behind them in carts, as though the goats were master; priests in robes that look woven from shards of a rainbow; pale, beardless men whose slow steps finally silence Mattiolas for a moment.
‘I heard there were thousands of eunuchs here,’ I say.
‘Eunuchs?’ Mattiolas lowers his hand protectively.
Ahead of us, the majestic dome of the Basilica of St Sophia dominates the skyline. Demons of various sizes and types run up and down its curves like gargantuan cats, occasionally opening wings and gliding short distances until tethers drag them back. The iron-caped knight has increased his speed, his destination now obvious.
‘Where are we going?’ Mattiolas finally asks.
‘Into the Basilica, of course,’ I tell him. ‘What else would we do in Constantinople?’
‘Let’s go inside!’ Mattiolas races ahead.
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We enter a side door, into a crowded prayer service in a monumental open space beneath vaulting yellow walls of mosaics and shadows and light. From high above we’re watched by faces the size of the Hydra head, but these ones are created from mosaics of tiles touched with gold. This church is home to even more demons than the Collegiata in San Gimignano. They scuttle between the feet of men and women bent in prayer. They scamper up the walls and over the tiled faces of saints. On the floor level, cabinets are crammed with relics. A snippet of hair purported to be from the Holy Virgin is tied by strands that look like longer hair to a bent-over demon with long grey skin flaps dripping off it. Nearby, a small golden dish meant to contain drops of the Virgin’s milk is attached to a drooling demon. So is the true crown of thorns that was part of our Saviour’s torture, as he carried his cross up the path to Golgotha. It’s attached to a demon with claws for hands and a long tail that lashes out like a whip. That these items can have nothing to do with the venerable ones whose names they assume has never before been clearer to me.
How will I spot the knight in such a vast space? I look around. Fortunately, his height reveals him. He’s avoided the queues of pilgrims genuflecting at various icons. No one else seems to notice him. Perhaps only I can see him. But what does that mean? Is he also a demon?
‘I’ve never seen so many gold saints!’ Mattiolas says. ‘This is the right place to pray for riches! But God must find all these San Pieros confusing—’
I step away. Scanning the crowd, I’ve seen someone really puzzling.
He’s an exceptionally tall young man, with gilded hair falling from his head in ringlets, over tanned shoulders exposed by the style of white tunic he wears. But it’s not his height or unusually golden skin that catches my attention. It’s the colour of his eyes. They’re like polished copper. He’s looking around the crowd when I first spot him, as though seeking someone out. He pauses and starts walking in our direction.
‘What is it?’ Mattiolas asks, as the stranger approaches.
He walks right up to us, and past us. I gaze after him. I’ve never seen eyes like that. He turns and looks back at me.
The Book of Whispers Page 8