Siege

by Jack Hight

  The gate's three archways were each over thirty feet high, and the central gate was wide enough to allow twenty men on horseback to pass through side by side. Beyond the gate was a walled courtyard, filled with pedlars' carts and a milling crowd. William had never seen so many different kinds of people in one place: local peasants in belted tunics and leather breeches; wealthy Greeks wearing wide-sleeved caftans of blue or red silk, embroidered with threads of gold and silver; Turks in turbans; bearded Jews in skullcaps; and olive-skinned Italians in trimmed velvet doublets and tight hose. There were blued-eyed men from the Caucasus, Wallachians with their dark hair, pale skin and pointed features, and Africans as black as the night sky. They spoke a bewildering variety of languages, none of which William could even identify, much less understand. And the goods being hawked were just as varied: exotic spices whose powerful scents competed with the general odour of unwashed humanity and animal excrement; steel swords short and long, curved and straight; nervous horses and camels impassively chewing their cud; meat roasting on spits; and dirty prostitutes caked in unnatural-looking makeup. Hasim did not pause to look. He spurred his horse through the market and into the city.

  William found himself on a broad, paved avenue. The street was crowded on either side by low buildings, and looking past them to his left, William could see broad fields where cattle and sheep grazed on the dried wheat stalks left from a recent harvest. To the right, the land sloped down to the sea wall and the Sea of Marmora beyond, blazing red under the setting sun. William watched a ship sail slowly across the water and thought of how it would be to be onboard, tasting the sea spray as he sailed back to England. The ship disappeared from view behind a low but massive church, fronted with fat columns and topped with a broad dome. It was nothing like the tiny chapel at home.

  Past the church, the road began to climb, passing a sprawling monastery and several more churches. At the crest of the rise, they came to a gate set into the crumbling ruins of an ancient city wall. Past the gate, William was assaulted by a nauseating odour. The city was denser here, with houses built one upon the other, and the streets ran with filth — a foul mixture of emptied chamber-pots, animal manure and offal from a nearby butchery, all draining away towards the sea. At intervals, narrow alleyways led away from the main road. In one of them, William saw wild dogs snapping at each other as they tore at an animal carcass.

  The road emptied into a wide square crowded with shouting merchants and squealing pigs packed into pens. In the middle of the pig market, a column soared high above even the tallest trees in the square, its entire length decorated with spiralling bands of stone-carving depicting battles and ceremonies, their meanings long lost. Hasim did not pause. He rode on, pulling William behind him, deeper into the city. They climbed another hill to a square that looked out over a valley spanned by a monumental aqueduct, well over a hundred feet tall. At the square, they turned right. On the distant hills before him, William saw a massive church, its many domes gilded by the last rays of the setting sun, and to the church's right the crumbling ruins of a huge Roman arena.

  As the twilight gloom began to settle around them, they turned on to a wide street that ran down towards the Golden Horn, the inlet that bordered Constantinople to the north. The street was lined on both sides by columns that supported sheltered promenades. After a short time, Hasim dismounted and occupied himself with his horse's saddle, unknotting the rope that had pulled William across Anatolia to Constantinople. He took the rope and pulled William after him into the dark shadows under the promenade on the right. Before William's eyes could adjust to the dark, he found himself shoved forward, and he stumbled until he ran hard into a stone wall. The lead-rope landed next to him, and he heard the clang of an iron gate as it slammed shut behind him. William turned and slumped to the ground with his back to the wall. He was sitting in a small cell, no more than three feet deep and three feet wide and closed off by iron bars.

  Peering through the bars, he could just make out Hasim as he walked out of sight. From the darkness to either side of his tiny cell, William heard hushed noises — muffled crying, whispers, scuffling feet, occasionally punctuated by a loud curse in some foreign tongue, or, further off, the baying of dogs. William drew his knees to his chest and sat shaking. Cold had descended along with night, and with it fear. Yet, even as he shook, he permitted himself a smile. After hours of struggle, he had finally managed to slip the bonds that tied his hands. The sun had only just risen, casting the world in a grainy golden light, when Longo splashed across a ford on the Lycus river and Constantinople came into view. He reined in his horse on the far bank and breathed a sigh of relief. He had caught up with his men several miles from the battlefield, but it had been a tense journey from Kossova. They had passed through the heart of the Ottoman Empire, travelling within fifty miles of the Turkish capital at Adrianople. It was land that held bad memories for Longo — dangerous land, too, overrun with bandits and thieves, not to mention Turkish troops. Longo had pushed his men hard, avoiding towns and driving them as far and as fast as their horses would allow. Now that they had reached Constantinople, they were as safe as they would be anywhere. But how long Constantinople would remain a safe haven, Longo could only guess. In Selymbria, he had heard that the emperor, John, was dead. If his brothers fought over the throne, then the ensuing civil war would leave Constantinople an easy target for the Turks.

  Longo's men came up behind him, joining him on the river-bank. He had taken over one hundred men from Italy to the fields of Kossova, and just over fifty remained. Their armour was battered and dented. Many were wounded and some might not survive the sea voyage back to Genoa. Most were long-standing veterans of Longo's campaigns; a few, like Tristo, had fought alongside him since they were boys. Longo had led the survivors safely out of the Turkish lands, but he knew that would be little comfort to the wives and children of the men who had died. They would blame him, and he did not begrudge them their anger. He blamed himself as well.

  Tristo interrupted Longo's sombre thoughts. 'It's good to see the old city again, eh friend?' he said. A notorious joke-teller and wit even in the midst of battle, Tristo could always be counted on to brighten Longo's mood. 'We'll finally have some easy living after all these months of war,' Tristo continued with a grin. 'No more stale bread and dried meat.'

  Longo eyed Tristo critically. He was a huge bear of a man — a good two hands taller than Longo and almost twice his weight, and Longo was not small. 'Easy living is the last thing you need,' Longo told him. 'I should put you on half rations.'

  'Nonsense,' Tristo replied. 'I need to keep up my strength. I have a duty to the women of Constantinople.'

  'I thought you had a duty to your wife.'

  'I do, indeed. That's why I need the practice: to make sure I get the rust off before we return to Genoa.'

  'We'd best hurry then,' Longo said with a grin. 'I'm sure you're very rusty.'

  'I am indeed,' Tristo said and spurred his horse down the hill and towards Constantinople. Longo shook his head and galloped after him. William woke with a start to find the day already bright and the street before him bustling with life. Outside his cell, a stooped Greek in a dirty linen caftan had begun loudly hawking a collection of clay pots.

  William stood gingerly, stretched his stiff legs, and peered out of the cell. To his left, other merchants lined the street, peddling their wares to passers-by. Far to his right, the street opened into a small square, where a large crowd had gathered around a raised platform. A portly Turk wearing a blue silk caftan and a towering turban stood on the platform, and as William watched, he hauled up a dazed, naked young boy to stand beside him. Immediately, men in the crowd began pointing and shouting. It was a slave auction, William realized. The boy sold quickly to a Greek and was dragged off. William turned away and sat down. If he did not want to share that boy's fate, then he would have to be ready when Hasim came.

  William took the rope that had bound his wrists and wrapped it around both arms so that it
appeared as if he were still bound. Last night, he had made a noose of the long rope that Hasim left behind, and now he placed the noose in his lap, hiding it from view under his hands. He did not have to wait long before Hasim arrived, accompanied by the portly man from the auction and a large, well-muscled Turkish guard. Hasim and the slave-trader were arguing loudly. Hasim smiled and pointed repeatedly at William, and each time he did so, the slave-trader frowned and shook his head. William's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay still. Finally, an agreement was reached. The slave-trader produced a pouch and carefully counted out a dozen coins.

  Hasim pocketed the coins, then unlocked and opened the cell door. As he turned his back, William sprang up, dropped the noose around his neck and pulled it tight. As Hasim clawed at the rope that was strangling him, William took the dagger from Hasim's belt and cut his throat. Hasim slumped to the ground, blood pouring from him. The slave-trader, white with shock, had recovered from his initial surprise and drawn his sword. He swung for William's head. William ducked the blow and slashed out with Hasim's dagger, opening a long cut along the slave-trader's cheek. Grabbing his face, the trader staggered back as his burly guard surged forward. William threw his dagger, catching him in the throat and dropping him. Then he turned and ran, dodging between people and around pedlars' carts. He could hear the shrill voice of the slave-trader calling for someone to stop him. A Greek merchant tripped him, and William went sprawling. But when the merchant tried to grab him, William slipped away and dashed to his right down a wide avenue. There were fewer people here, and he sprinted unimpeded. He ran until he reached a large square, where he paused, bending over to catch his breath. Looking back, he saw the slave-trader some fifty yards back, now accompanied by two more guards. William straightened and ran on.

  Past the square, he left the main avenue, turning off into a maze of narrow alleyways. His pursuers' footsteps echoed between the tall buildings so that they seemed to be everywhere at once. William ran hard, turning frequently until he was completely disoriented. He kept running even as the guards' footsteps faded and his lungs began to burn. Finally, he turned a corner and found himself facing a dead end. He slumped against the wall and then sank to the ground, breathing heavily. He listened intently, straining to hear approaching footsteps over the drumming of blood in his ears, but all was silent. William offered up a prayer of thanks to Saint William of Bury, his patron saint. He had escaped.

  A mangy dog entered the alley where William sat and sniffed cautiously at him from a distance. William thought of the carcass he had seen yesterday being torn apart by wild dogs. A night spent alone on these streets, and he too might end up prey to the dogs. He would have to find some place to sleep and food, too. He thought of the monastery he had seen upon entering the city. They might take him in, if only for the night.

  He rose and made his way through the warren of small streets to a broad avenue, pausing in the shadows of an alleyway until he was certain that there was no sign of the slave-trader or his brawny Turkish guards. Then he set out in what he hoped was the direction of the monastery. He had only walked for a few minutes when he came to the square with the towering column that he remembered from the day before. Fortune was with him. He quickened his pace, but just then, on the far side of the square, he spied the slave-trader on horseback. William froze, but it was too late. Turning to flee, he ran straight into one of the Turkish guards.

  The guard grabbed William's right arm and twisted it behind his back, while with his other hand he held a knife to William's throat. William struggled briefly, but the knife dug in, drawing blood, and he stopped. As a crowd of onlookers gathered, William watched the slave-trader canter up to them and dismount. He said something to the guard, who twisted William's arm further back, forcing his head down. William looked up to see the slave-trader standing above him, a dagger in his hand. William spat at the trader, who slapped him and then put the dagger to William's nose.

  'Serbest birakmak onu!' someone shouted at the trader in Turkish, and he pulled the dagger away. William twisted around to see a lean, square-shouldered man striding through the market towards them. The man wore dark chainmail, and at his side swung a sword that, judging from his strong hands and thickly muscled forearms, he knew how to use. He was strong-jawed and handsome, although the deep creases on his forehead told of a life that had been far from easy. His hair was a sandy colour, surprising for the East, and his eyes were a piercing blue. The slave-trader looked at him for a moment, then spat and put his dagger back to William's nose. Longo looked from the well-dressed Turk to the bone-thin boy with fair skin, reddish-brown hair and not the first hint of a man's beard. He looked no older than fifteen, and he was certainly not from the East. Whoever he was, Longo was not about to let this fat Turk torture and kill him in public.

  'Please, sir. Help me!' the boy pleaded in English.

  'I said, release him,' Longo said again in Turkish and drew his sword.

  'The boy is a slave, bought and paid for,' the fat Turk replied. 'I will do with him as I wish.'

  'Then I will buy him from you.' Longo took a pouch from his belt and tossed it so that it landed heavily at the Turk's feet. A few gold coins flashed in the sun as they rolled free from the bag. 'I trust that will be more than sufficient.'

  The Turk lowered his dagger as he glanced at the pouch — easily four times what the boy was worth. He touched the long gash that William had opened on his cheek. 'The boy has drawn my blood. He has killed one of my men. His life is forfeit.' He raised his dagger, preparing to strike.

  'My name is Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, and if you kill that boy, then you will have a quarrel with me.'

  The blood drained from the Turk's darkly tanned face, leaving it a sickly yellow colour. He stared from the sword to Longo's worn chainmail and then to Longo's hard face. 'Katil Turkin,' he whispered. He lowered his dagger and shoved the boy roughly towards Longo. 'The boy is yours, effendi. Take him!' The Turk scooped up the pouch, not even bothering to collect the loose coins, and hurried off down the street, followed by his guard.

  Longo looked at the boy. 'Well boy, what did you do to make him so angry?' he asked in English.

  The boy spat after the retreating figure of the slave-trader and then turned to face Longo. 'He wished to sell me as a slave. I did not wish to be sold.' He looked at Longo suspiciously. 'What did you say to him that made him leave? What does Katil Turkin mean?'

  'It means "Scourge of the Turks". It is what I am known as amongst their kind.'

  'What are you going to do with me?' the boy asked.

  'I have no need for slaves,' Longo told him. 'You are free to go.'

  The boy did not move. 'I have nowhere to go. I have no money, no food. At least give me a weapon so that I can defend myself.'

  Longo looked hard at the boy. Something about him, perhaps the flash in his eyes or his belief that with a weapon in hand he could make his way in the world, reminded Longo of himself at that age. 'What is your name, boy?'

  'William, sir.'

  'And how old are you, William?'

  'Sixteen,' William replied. Longo eyed him sceptically. 'Fifteen, sir. Fifteen next month.'

  'You are very far from home, William. How is it that you came to be in Constantinople?'

  'We sailed looking for spices, but our ship was captured by Turks. I was brought here to be sold as a slave.'

  'I see. Can you fight?'

  William nodded. 'I can hold my own with a dagger.'

  'Can you, now?' Longo pulled a dagger from his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it deftly.

  'The life of my men is not an easy one, William,' Longo warned him. 'We fight many battles, and we are often on the move. I will not lie to you: you are not likely to live to an old age. But if you do live, then there is glory to be won in battle against the Turks. What do you say?'

  'I hate the Turks. They killed my uncle and my shipmates. They beat and sold me. I will fight them gladly.'

  'Very we
ll.' Longo took William's arm and clasped him by the elbow. 'You are my man.' Longo turned to shout to Tristo, who was standing some twenty feet away, his arm around a rather buxom woman selling bread. 'Tristo! Come here.'

  Tristo kissed the woman he was holding on the cheek, while his hand slipped from her waist to her bottom. 'Sorry, love,' he told her. He gave her bottom a squeeze, and then ducked away before she could slap him. He approached Longo with a grin on his face. 'What is it? She was just about to ask me home.'

  'Tristo, this is William, a new recruit.'

  'Glad to have you with us, boy,' Tristo said, and he slapped William on the back so hard that the boy stumbled and almost fell.

  'Tristo will take care of you, William,' Longo said. 'And your task is to keep Tristo out of trouble. He's a little too fond of women and dice. Can I rely on you?' William nodded, and Longo turned back to Tristo. 'Take him to the ship and prepare to sail. We leave tonight.'

  'Where will you be?'

  'At the royal palace. I should pay my respects to the empress-mother. With the emperor dead, she may have need of our services.' Sofia stood at the window of her bedroom within the women's quarters of the Blachernae Palace and looked out at the market square beyond the palace courtyard. The view — normal people going about their lives — had always comforted her, but it could not do so now. Many of the people she saw were dressed in black, returning her thoughts to the grim events of the past few days. It was less than a week since the funeral of Emperor John VIII, and her future and the future of the empire were both uncertain. Constantine, the eldest of John's brothers, was far away in Mistra, at the heart of the Peloponnesian peninsula. The second brother, Thomas, was rumoured to be closer. As for Demetrius, the youngest and most ambitious of the three, nobody knew where he was.