‘The king-breaker, yes.’
‘Do we know anything about him?’
‘No, but be sure that he is already at work, guided by the hand of the Khoraxané dede Babik and by other Alevi conspirators.’
Skiouros chewed his lip. ‘And even if we assume that they have managed to place only one of their number among the princes’ courts, what is to stop them doing so again, if we foil their plans?’
Dragi nodded seriously and Skiouros cleared his throat and straightened. ‘We need to find a new place from which to work. I believe we were being observed by at least three different people on our way back to the house from Yedikule.’
‘Seven, in fact,’ interjected Don Diego, cleaning a fingernail with the point of his knife. ‘I rather suspect they watch this place even now.’
Old Mustafa and his council showed no surprise or concern over this, though Dragi seemed a little taken aback. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘I know Phanar and Balat well, even after all these years. There are streets and alleyways in Phanar that few of us have ever trod, and I have friends in Balat who will help us.’ He hoped to God that was true. The last time he had seen David Ben Judah and his family had been in the aftermath of his father’s murder, for which Skiouros had been at least indirectly responsible. Hopefully, the old man he’d met that time would remember him and David had forgiven him. One thing of which he could be sure was that the house of Ben Isaac would be safe from the eyes and ears of this mysterious Romani opposition. The Jews of Balat were as suspicious of the Romani as were those in the Greek enclave, if not more so. ‘David Ben Judah and his family will find us shelter, I’m sure. Just the four of us, though, I think. And we will have to pay them for their aid.’
‘Of course.’
Parmenio drummed his fingers on his cup. ‘Are you seriously talking about sneaking into an Ottoman palace and hunting an assassin on your own?’
Skiouros gave a bleak chuckle. ‘You might recall that this isn’t my first time sneaking into a palace on nefarious business.’
‘Still, it’s stupid to even think of doing it on your own. We’re not talking about some foreign lunatic hiding out in a disused house in the city. We’re talking about a well-placed, well-prepared killer in one of the most secure and monitored locations in the entire empire. For the love of the blessed Virgin, you’re talking about infiltrating an imperial palace.’
‘There’s no other way we can do it. And I’m no novice. Remember the Palazzo Orsini in Rome?’
Diego nodded. ‘He’s right, Parmenio. But we can still be useful. If we all move location without pursuit, then you and I can turn the tables, start checking up on them, see what we can find out. Watch the watchers, so to speak.’
‘Good,’ Skiouros smiled, gesturing to the old man. ‘We will leave for Phanar and Balat as soon as it gets dark, and I’ll lead Dragi, Diego and Parmenio through some of the lesser byways. I don’t care how clever or observant our watchers are, I can lose them there. And hopefully, when they realise that we four are no longer here, they will leave Mustafa’s house alone. Otherwise, I fear, there is a good chance that this place will be attacked. Be prepared in any event. Arm yourselves and watch your surroundings carefully. If you need to speak to us after we leave, have someone scratch a message into the wall of the bloody church of Saint Mary. We will do the same.’
The Romani elder sucked his teeth fretfully but nodded his agreement.
‘In the morning one of ours will attend the Yedikule record office and work out how to get you into the old palace. We will send you a message as soon as that is done.’
‘Good.’ Skiouros sat back and pushed the wine cup away. ‘Clear head for the next few hours, then, I’d say.
*
‘Are they still with us?’
‘Two men a few hundred yards back, lurking in the doorway of a tavern. No sign of the other two, but be sure they’re there somewhere.’
Skiouros nodded to himself at Diego’s answer. The four of them had left the Romani house under cover of darkness not in an attempt to disappear unnoticed – he was well aware that they would never manage to exit the place unobserved. But the benefit of the hours of darkness would become clear in another minute or so, now that they were in Phanar and in streets he knew well.
‘You’re sure things won’t have changed here?’ Parmenio asked. ‘It’s been five years, after all.’
‘The Greeks of the city stick together, my friend. Just watch.’
With just a low whistle of warning, Skiouros suddenly jinked left into a small side street, leaving the more major road. Whereas the main street had been occupied by sporadic scattered groups of locals – often drunk – this large alley was almost deserted, barring one tired whore taking the night air and a vagrant sitting on a step and hugging his knees.
‘I don’t like this,’ Diego murmured.
‘That’s because you don’t know the place.’
‘And because it’s filthy, disreputable, and an excellent place to lay an ambush.’
‘That’s precisely why I do like it, my good Don Diego.’
As the four of them reached the heart of this narrow way, Dragi, who was running at the back, his gaze repeatedly thrown over his shoulder, coughed ‘here they come.’
Sure enough, as Skiouros glanced back he saw now all four of the men who had shadowed them menacingly since the Romani house turn into the alley with more haste than a careful pursuer should display. Amateurs! Well, they were dealing with a professional, even if he was rusty by five whole years…
‘What now?’ Parmenio asked as the four friends closed on the end of this narrow street.
‘Now, I’m home,’ Skiouros grinned and, cupping his hands around his mouth, bellowed ‘Avthentis Memeti!’
The others frowned as Skiouros suddenly burst into a jog. The Greek words echoed along the street, bouncing off house fronts and walls. Master Mehmet - a reference to the conqueror of the city and a phrase that carried deep seated feelings of resentment in the heart of most Greeks in the city. More importantly: a trigger from the old days…
Glancing back once more, Skiouros saw the four pursuers break into a run at the sight of their quarry fleeing, but in seconds they were lost to sight as every door in the street opened and the population of Phanar emerged en-masse into the narrow street – some of the whores still mostly naked, men in nightshirts yawning, drunks laughing and choking, children still carrying chicken legs from their evening meal. Utter chaos. In mere moments the alley had changed from a dark, deserted backstreet to one more crowded than a lunchtime market. Shouts of concern from the alley’s far end were almost drowned out by the population, but not before they took on a tone of desperate fury as the four hunters struggled to push through the milling crowd. One was even flattened by an answering punch from an angry drunk.
Skiouros grinned at his friends as they rounded the corner at the end of the alley and emerged into the market place where five years ago he had cut a purse and changed his life forever. Scurrying through the now-empty square, he ducked into a narrow gap between two dilapidated wooden houses and pounded along through the filth and waste, clambering over a low wall at the end. With a deep breath he dropped down into knee-deep undergrowth surrounding the moss-coated grey-green ruins of the bathhouse where he had hidden on that fateful day five years earlier. The other three followed him down and through the shattered structure, emerging at the far side into a dusty street, breathing hard.
‘They’ll not find us now,’ he announced in a whisper as the four of them passed from the strange, incongruous ruin and back into the streets of the city proper, though as he passed that place where he had first encountered the Romani ‘witch’ he half expected to see her again.
Ten minutes later, they were descending the wide street in the Jewish quarter of Balat, the moonlight gleaming on the low ripples of the Golden Horn ahead, beyond the walls. The streets here were deserted, though the shuttered and draped windows glowed with warm life.
Chewing on his lip, Skiouros led his friends on toward that high stone building among the wooden ones which had once been the church of Saint Theodoros. The closer he came to the house of Ben Isaac, the less sure he now was that they would be welcome. It had seemed like such a good idea back in the comfort of the Romani elder’s house, especially knowing they were becoming increasingly unsafe there, but like most great spur-of-the-moment ideas, its greatness seemed to be decreasing with every step in the real world.
He found as they approached the door that he was holding his breath, and he released it slowly and deliberately. Reaching up, he grasped the bell cord, clanging it three times, then rapped on the wood, also three times, pausing and then repeating. The old code, if it was still remembered. The worrying silence that followed dragged out for several heartbeats and Skiouros found himself in equal amounts panicking that the family of Ben Isaac had packed up and moved on, leaving the house empty, and also strangely hoping that was the case.
Once upon a time this door was never shut, for Judah Ben Isaac’s business never closed.
Skiouros gave a start as the door suddenly jerked half-way open and a looming figure appeared in the gap. David looked more than five years older. His ringlets had greyed considerably and his frame seemed to have shrunk and withered, for all it was still large. He hunched as he leaned forwards, his eyes narrowing.
‘Yes?’
‘Shalom David. David Ben Judah? Do you remember me?’
The big man peered almost myopically at him, taking in the cut of his clothes, his sea-weathered bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair and the tips of his tattoos emerging from the collar of his shirt. No sign of recognition emerged until the man’s gaze reached his eyes and settled there. A strange mix of surprise and bitterness began to fill that expression as recollection dawned.
‘Skiouros of Phanar?’
‘In the flesh.’
‘Thought you were dead. People said you were. Looks like we weren’t so lucky.’
‘I’ve been away. Is your uncle home?’
‘Uncle Yeshua has been in the loving Shechinah of God for near two years now, peace be upon him.’
Skiouros felt his spirits sag. First old Judah, and then Yeshua. Who was in charge of the business now? David? Surely not. Judah’s son was no businessman. A good enforcer, but not much of a thinker. Perhaps the business had simply ended? One thing was sure: David would be unlikely to be kindly disposed towards him, since he had once suspected the Greek of being responsible in some way for the death of his father. Indeed, the big man’s expression darkened as he picked out the details of the motley trio that surrounded Skiouros in the gloom.
‘Shalom, David. We find ourselves in need of sanctuary and I felt that perhaps in remembrance of your father’s dealings with me, you might be willing to find us a safe place to stay, in the spirit of divine compassion… and for the appropriate recompense, of course.’
The big Jew’s expression faltered not a jot as he continued to glare at the four of them.
‘Get you gone, storm crow.’
Skiouros’ sagging spirits collapsed. This reception was exactly what he’d hoped not to find, and it made the perfect culmination of that despondency that had been building as he walked.
‘Please, I…’
The door was suddenly opened wider and a second figure appeared alongside David. The woman was clearly of advanced age – greater than either Judah or Yeshua had been. Perhaps she was David’s grandmother? Her long dress was midnight black, as were the kaffiyyah engulfing her head and the black rope wound around it. Her gnarled feet were bare in the hallway, and her face was lined as ancient parchment, the eyes a rheumy grey. But her face was a welcome sight after David’s for at least it smiled.
‘Invite them in, David.’
‘Ama, this man is trouble, and he brings a Turk and gentiles with him.’
‘Look closer, David. This is no Turk, but one of the zigyan. We have no quarrel with gentiles, and I told you the zigyan would come.’
David’s expression darkened, which impressed Skiouros, given the unpleasantness it already conveyed. ‘Ama, you should not speak of such matters. The Talmud forbids the sorcery of ov, and…’
‘Do not concern yourself with sacred teachings, David. Just find some of the mevushal wine and gather some of the pastries and sweetmeats left from the evening meal and arrange them in the communal room.’
‘Ama, I…’
‘Just do it, David.’
With a disgruntled frown, the big man lumbered off along the passage.
‘Shalom, my lady,’ Skiouros said politely. ‘We did not intent to intrude so. I was hoping to find master Yeshua and come to some arrangement of safe accommodation. I know that master Judah once owned at least three or four properties in Balat that he would…’
‘Come in,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Be welcome in the house of Judah Ben Isaac.’ As she waved them in and the four entered the passageway, bowing their heads respectfully as they passed, the old woman gave a smile and then reached out for the door, tapping along the wall until she found it, and then closed it and turned an unshifting gaze back onto them. She is blind, Skiouros realised with a start, and tried not to think too hard on how she might have recognised with unseeing eyes that one of their group was zigyan – a Jewish term for the Romani.
‘I had a dream, you know?’ she said amiably as she hustled them down the corridor. ‘That zigyan would come. David disapproves because foretelling is forbidden in the 19th chapter of Leviticus, but to my mind, when it comes unbidden during sleep, it is the gift of the malakim – the angels. And if the malakim tell me to welcome the zigyan, then the zigyan will be welcome, and all who accompany them too.’
Skiouros felt himself heave a sigh of relief. The Romani opposition would be highly unlikely to track them here, and even if they did it would take long enough to buy them the time they needed. Thank you, grandmother! Now all Skiouros had to worry about was infiltrating an imperial Ottoman palace and wheedling out an assassin…
Skiouros was somehow aware that he was dreaming even within the dream. His lucid mind, trapped in the dreamscape of nightmare, railed against the inside of his skull, trying to wake him. But still the young Greek could see only the ruined room around him, with that impossible clarity that only dream can have, for he could see well despite the fact that this sealed room with the three ancient, charred Byzantine columns was in absolute darkness, no apertures in the walls.
He was not alone. His reasoning mind told him not to react, since this was only a dream, but regardless, he felt the beginnings of panic as he looked upon the figure that shared the ancient ruined room. It was a monster – a demon. It was a devil in the old style, though its features seemed to shift constantly such that sometimes it had one horn, or two, or three, and sometimes, none. Its face was red, and sometimes black and oily, and sometimes sickly green. And it carried an aura of evil that chilled him to the bone. Skiouros tried to back away, even though his lucid mind knew he was really lying in a comfortable bed, but in the dreamland he could not move – he was trapped. And then the demon was closing on him, between two of the fractured columns. He stared in panic while his conscious mind battered against his skull, and the demon was almost on him. The thing reached out, and Skiouros suddenly found his hands able to react. In panic, he lunged and tried to push the thing away, but the face slipped under his fingers like a badly-secured silken garment, and came off in his hand where it evaporated like dust.
He stared in horror as the bones beneath the demon mask resolved into the shape of a knight with a scarred face, his sword at his side and his white surcoat so drenched in blood that only a small cross-shape remained pristine in the middle. But even as he felt relief at the sight, the knight opened his mouth in a roar and, within, the teeth were a wolf’s fangs, dripping with evil, the fires of hell glowing deep in the throat like hot coals.
Again automatically, his hand reached up and pulled away the silken face, which crumbled to dust leav
ing a grinning, leering priest in the robes of the inquisition. He ripped at it again…
…and his blood ran cold as he stared into the mirror of his soul, for beneath all those masks was himself, though somehow sickly and corrupt, as though his flesh displayed everything he disliked about himself in the form of an open cancer.
His hand reached up…
…and finally his eyes snapped open to reveal the low ceiling of the small room he shared with the others. He was drenched with sweat and shaking, though three different pitches of snore greeted him, so at least he had not been crying out enough to wake the others.
He lay for long moments, still twitching at the memory of his dream-self, which made him want to leap up and check himself in a mirror, and yet also left him terrified to do so.
Above the snoring, he could hear the gentle hum of life in the building, and there was a strange smell. Rolling his eyes, he realised that what was choking his senses was the remnant of Dragi’s hemp, which the man had left smouldering as he went to sleep.
So that was what had been causing the dreams! He realised with relief that his previous awful, seemingly-prophetic nightmares had both been in rooms where Dragi had been inhaling his smouldering hemp.
With relief, he lay back in his sweat-soaked bed and vowed not to let the Romani burn his hemp in the room where they slept. At least he knew now what was responsible for the dreams and could dismiss the feeling of prescience that they brought.
They were just dreams, after all.
And yet after an hour of trying to get back to sleep, still he could not jemmy the images from his mind.
That face…
Chapter nine – Of the Eagle’s eyrie
May 22nd - Seven days to the festival
Pasha's Tale Page 16