Guards were now moving down the stairs from the wall, gestured on with a simple flick of the hand from their lord. All was still among the seven people near the lemon trees for a long, drawn-out heartbeat and then suddenly, with no warning, Yayan Dimo shoved the old woman at them and bolted. Knowing that they were sealed in the palace, Skiouros had not been prepared for such a move, and it took him a moment to recover.
The young Romani disappeared into the dark doorway of the ancillary building to the northwest, beside the great and powerful city walls even as arrows tried to track his running form. Skiouros stared, only becoming aware after precious further lost moments that the guards were now flooding down to the courtyard and that Diego, despite his wound, was moving for that doorway in the wake of the young Romani traitor at a fast hobble.
He glanced around at Parmenio, who was leaning on the standard and who shook his head like a parent despairing of a child’s lack of sense. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘Go!’
The Genoese sailor raised the standard almost like a weapon and grunted at the pain this caused, pointing the crescent-mounted end of it at the witch, who was spitting fury and spinning in circles looking for a means of escape as the forces of Şehzade Selim closed in on them. Skiouros and Dragi broke into a run, making for that same doorway into which Diego had just vanished, the arrows of numerous guards following them, the archers uncertain as to what was expected of them.
In the heavy, old, Byzantine building, Skiouros and Dragi entered a vaulted room, the roof supported by four pillars. The far end held two doorways, both as black as the maw of hell, and Diego, clutching his side and gasping, was lurching towards the left-hand of the two. Dragi and Skiouros raced after him but brought themselves up short in blind shock as the Spaniard stopped in the doorway and turned, his sword brandished – the point aiming at them.
‘Diego, what are you doing?’
‘Stop. The pair of you, just stop.’
‘We have to catch the man, Diego. He is still dangerous. Can’t you see? He’s no lackey. The witch serves him. In fact, he’s probably that self-professed holy man who found the witch in the first place! He won’t stop. He’ll do all this again somehow!’
‘Yes, I know.’
Skiouros stared.
‘I really didn’t want to do this, Skiouros, but they’re right. The Hospitallers are right. You two just can’t see it. You Orthodox lot hate the true Church more than you do any Muslim, and Dragi’s people are too blinded by their faith. The only hope for a settled future is for the empire to merge with Christendom. Can you not see that? Ahmed will make that happen. Selim and Korkut will prolong the world of crusades and bloodshed for centuries. It needs to end.’
‘Diego…’
‘No. You said you didn’t want to interfere? Then don’t.’
The young Greek drew his sword and took a step forward, but Diego flourished his own blade threateningly. ‘Let him go, Skiouros.’
‘Diego, the Şehzade will kill you for this. By the hook!’
‘I’ll be dead soon enough anyway, Skiouros. That bolt pierced my innards and I’ve been pissing and shitting blood for half a day now. But heaven’s gate will open for me if I do one more good, righteous thing before I go.’
Skiouros closed his eyes. ‘I cannot let the Borgia villains get their claws into the empire, Diego. You haven’t seen them – they make Bayezid and his Turks seem like angels by comparison. They’re not pious, holy men. They’re evil men. Wickedness given human form. Now get out of my way.’
‘No.’
Skiouros stepped left and flicked out with his sword. Diego easily caught the blade and turned it away, though the effort drained him and he clutched his side suddenly. Seeing his path coming clear, Skiouros dodged right and tried again. Diego again easily turned the blow, but staggered back against the archway in pain.
Skiouros looked around to see where Dragi was, suddenly realising he was fighting Diego alone, but there was no sign of the Romani sailor. Gritting his teeth, he lunged again, feinting at the last minute and coming from another angle. Despite his wound and ebbing strength, still the Spaniard was there, his sword knocking Skiouros’ aside and managing to score a painful line up his forearm into the bargain.
Amazingly, he still couldn’t get the better of Don Diego de Teba, even with an apparently mortal wound in his favour. He lunged again and again, trying everything he could to trick and exhaust the Spaniard, but the man’s blade was always there, turning his blows aside. Sooner or later, of course, the man would collapse with the effort, but every sword blow was buying Dimo more time to escape.
Dragi reappeared suddenly from the shadows, ploughing into Diego and taking him down to the floor in a heap, his sword skittering away. The Spaniard hissed in pain, reaching to draw his knife from his belt as Dragi struggled to pin him. The Romani looked up.
‘Just go!’
And in a heartbeat, aware that he had left a wounded Parmenio in a courtyard facing an army he could not even understand, and his other two best friends struggling to kill one another in a dark room, Skiouros took a deep breath, hefted his sword, and ran into the dark tunnel.
Chapter sixteen – Of the bones of Blachernae
May 28th – The last day
PARMENIO watched the wild-eyed Romani witch spinning in a panic as soldiers flooded down the stairs and into the courtyard, others pouring out of the ancillary buildings and cutting off any possibility of escape. The woman hissed and began shouting something at the Genoese sailor in a language that he did not know and yet was sure was not Turkish. None too gently, he pushed her with the crescent-tip of the standard, keeping her at a safe distance even though every nuance of the action sent waves of tightly-bound pain through his torso. She was likely just a mad old Romani woman, and Parmenio had had enough of a practical, prosaic life to take stories of witchcraft and magick with a pinch of salt, but everyone else seemed to consider her wicked and dangerous and only a fool ignored so much correlating opinion.
Despite the frenetic energy of the scene, there was still an odd, eerie quiet, barring the woman’s curses and the jingling of armour as a large number of very experienced and professional-looking soldiers began to form a circle around them.
‘Shut up, woman,’ Parmenio snapped, beginning to tire of the unintelligible yet clearly virulent stream of invective. The woman merely continued her harangue unbroken and, with irritated pursed lips, Parmenio smacked her on the head with the metal crescent, interrupting her flow and dropping her to her backside, dazed, even as he had to ground the standard once more and lean on it, huffing at the agony in his side.
‘Yeter!’ bellowed the musical huskiness of Şehzade Selim as he strode out along the wall and down the stairs towards the scene in the courtyard. The word was thrown out in Turkish, and Parmenio had no idea what precisely the prince had said but, from the tone and inflection, the meaning was clear: Enough…
The guards parted like Moses’ sea as the crown prince approached the pair at the centre of the ring and rattled out a short question aimed at Parmenio. Behind the prince, his man Sefer nodded vehemently.
The sailor swallowed nervously, and answered in Greek.
‘I am afraid, Şehzade, that I have little command of Turkish. Do you know Greek?’
Selim frowned in surprise and folded his arms.
‘Language of the ancients. Most of the empire was once Greek. In fact, two generations ago this city spoke little else. It would be a foolish man who could not read the words of his predecessors. You have no Turkish and yet serve as standard bearer to a paşa?’ His accent was flawless – he could have been a native of the Morea – and his tone suggested that he was intrigued enough by this development that he was temporarily overlooking the urge to have his men seize them both. The oily Sefer gave Parmenio a disapproving look and opened his mouth to advise his prince, but the sailor interrupted him, coughing nervously. ‘Your pardon, Şehzade, but I am the paşa’s friend, not his guard.’
&n
bsp; ‘You are wounded?’
Good lord, the man was astute. No blood had leaked out through his armour, and his hissing in pain could as easily have been arthritis at his age.
‘I am, Şehzade. In the course of removing members of a conspiracy to put your brother Ahmed upon the throne.’ It was blunt, but only curiosity on behalf of the prince had so far saved Parmenio from being restrained, and he needed to take every opportunity to keep Selim’s good faith. Sefer was still glaring at him suspiciously, and the Genoese knew he might have a struggle there.
The old Romani woman started to rise to her feet, spitting angry curses in Turkish, but the crown prince reached out a heavily-booted leg and pushed her back down to the dirt.
‘On the matter of this Greek, I am undecided. You, crone, will sing a türkü lullaby loud and long under the heated knife of my most inventive man until the truth of this matter is made clear.’
The woman’s angry badgering changed tone in an instant, becoming desperate, wheedling and panicked. Selim gestured to two of his men and took his foot from her as the pair dragged her up and restrained her by the shoulders.
‘Why did your Paşa not simply approach me about the matter?’ Selim asked, puzzled.
Parmenio took a deep breath. The wrong words here could see them all condemned along with the Romani woman. With a quick prayer to almighty God and a hope that it wouldn’t anger the Muslim god who might be watching with interest, he cleared his throat.
‘A conspiracy of Alevi Romani exists with the intention of placing Şehzade Ahmed on the throne.’ He noted impatience growing in the prince’s expression, and came quickly to the point. ‘Men were in place here and at Şehzade Korkut’s palace with the intention of killing both of you at the same moment – tonight – in order to prevent any warning of what was to come reaching either of you. Then tomorrow, on the day of the festival, the sultan would have met with a nasty accident, and suddenly Şehzade Ahmed would be the only successor. We removed the threat to your brother Korkut, but if we had brought it to your attention, Şehzade, there was every chance that the plans would be brought forward and everyone would die before we could do anything about it. We chose to move carefully and nullify the threat first.’
Selim tipped his head to one side and tapped his chin. ‘Why then did my turban wrapper not simply try to take my life once you had saved my brother?’
Parmenio had been wondering that himself, but believed he had the answer. ‘I think, Şehzade, that the enemy were attempting a last try at carrying out the plan entire – there could be no other reason for the witch to be here at the palace, endangering herself in your presence. They were still hoping to pull the plan back from the edge of the fire.’
Selim nodded. ‘You understand that I will not simply let you go, Greek. Even with the best of intentions, you broke into my house. I will have your friends found and you will await my pleasure while I have the truth of the matter uncovered in the Yedikule. If your tale rings true from the mouth of the crone, you will have your freedom. If not…’
Parmenio swallowed and hoped against hope that the woman was not tough enough to spin out lies even under torture. He caught the look on Selim’s face as the prince gestured for his men to take the woman away to the dungeons of Yedikule and decided that even a rock would tell its life story if it met with what was about to happen to the Khoraxané dede Babik. He was saved having to speak as the prince’s attention was suddenly drawn past him to the ancillary buildings. Parmenio turned to see Dragi half-supporting, half-dragging Diego from the doorway of the building. Etiquette forgotten, Parmenio called out to them.
‘Where is Sk… where is the paşa?’
Diego opened his mouth, but simply coughed and heaved in deep breaths. Parmenio frowned as he peered at them and, despite not being able to see clearly, formed the deep suspicion that the Romani’s arm behind the Spaniard was not so much supporting him, but keeping Diego’s arm twisted. The Spaniard looked broken. Not physically, but hollow, somehow.
‘The paşa is on the trail of the assassin.’ Dragi paused and, turning, bowed respectfully to the prince before addressing him in Turkish. ‘Selamun aleyküm, Şehzade Selim. It is good to see you in continued health. I am Dragi Abbas bin Pagoslu, Reis of the imperial navy. I must offer humble apologies on behalf of both myself and Sincabı-Paşa for this violent intrusion into your august presence. It would be my pleasure to explain the matter at length –‘
Sefer took an angry step forward and snarled in his strange sibilant voice: ‘the knives of the Yedikule will…’
Selim held up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. ‘Your Greek friend here has explained the situation. The Romani woman is on her way to Yedikule to either confirm or deny the tale’s truth.’
Dragi nodded as behind him the gate swung open and shut, ten soldiers dragging the old Romani woman away to the torturer’s knives. For just the briefest of moments, the friends caught sight of two black-clothed figures out in the square beyond the gate, in the last of the sunlight. ‘Then I humbly offer up myself and my friend Parmenio here for hostages,’ the Romani announced, ‘until the matter is resolved. If the great Sincabı-Paşa succeeds in removing the assassin, as he once did for your noble father, I remember, then I have no doubt he will return and rejoin us. I must, however, ask a boon of you.’
The prince’s brow folded again at such presumption, but he nodded to continue, regardless.
‘I would beg your indulgence while I deal with this man.’
Perplexed but interested, Selim motioned for Dragi to go on. The Romani turned towards the north end of the complex. ‘Open the gate.’
The soldiers remained in position, having so recently closed it behind the squad accompanying the witch, but Selim, his confusion still very evident and ignoring Sefer’s respectful disapproval, gestured for them to do as the sailor asked. As the door was unbarred and pulled open, Dragi turned and for the first time, the watchers could clearly see how the Romani held the other man’s arm pushed tightly and painfully up behind his back. Parmenio stared.
‘Dragi, what are you doing?’
‘I will explain later, my friend,’ the Romani replied in Greek as he shoved Diego roughly through the passage and out into the air. ‘Come,’ commanded the Şehzade, gesturing for Parmenio to walk with him as the large group of soldiers gave them adequate space, their weapons still readied in case of any unexpected move from this foreigner. Striding over to the gate, they paused at the inner arch of the passage and watched Dragi and Diego out in the evening light of the square, the shadows now stretching most of the way across as the last arc of sun peeked out above the city wall.
Parmenio shook his head in confusion at the change in Diego and Dragi. Though one of the men across the square was old and grey-bearded, the black cloaks identified them well enough to Parmenio. The prince’s confusion simply deepened.
‘Who is this?’
Parmenio huffed nervously. ‘A knight of the Hospitaller order, Şehzade, who we have found ourselves pitted against this last week and, I would guess, his master.’
Across the square, Dragi came to a halt and pushed Diego roughly towards the knights, the younger of whom held out a hand to stop the staggering Spaniard, but did little to support him.
‘Take him with you,’ Dragi said in loud Greek. ‘If I ever see his face again, I will put a blade through it.’
The Hospitaller Preceptor looked, for a moment, almost as confused as prince Selim, and the small group was still standing in the city wall’s shadow, the knights watching them and the Spaniard’s face lowered to the ground, as Dragi stepped back into the archway and bowed at the prince.
‘All is finally as it should be, Şehzade Selim, and if the prophet is kind, then Sincabı-Paşa is even now cutting the throat of the last of our enemies.’
‘Hardly,’ murmured Parmenio.
‘What?’
The Genoese sailor turned to the prince and cleared his throat. ‘Hardly the last. The main conspirators have
been removed, Şehzade, but their nest remains.’
He caught sight of the furious warning glance on Dragi’s face, but straightened painfully, ignoring it. ‘A small fortified community of Romani live in the Sulukule district, supporting this conspiracy. They harboured, directed, assisted, and probably even armed and trained the killers who were sent against you.’
‘They have done nothing wrong,’ Dragi snapped. ‘We have the conspirators!’
‘I beg to differ, Reis,’ Parmenio replied. ‘For a military man, you are not thinking very tactically. Never leave an enemy behind. In the wake of a monster’s demise, all the lesser monsters start to crawl out of their holes, looking to take control.’
Dragi glared at him as Parmenio proceeded to detail the opposition’s community and its location, but the former sailor let the Romani’s anger bounce off him, undaunted. Finally, they were at the end of the matter, but if it was to end, it had to end completely.
There was only one loose end to take care of...
*
Skiouros staggered out of the mouth of a tunnel, clutching his still-painful shoulder that he’d bashed on a wall in the darkened passages of the complex, and looked down in the dim light. The sun was sinking fast now and tracking the fleeing Romani was becoming much harder. He could just see the footprints in the muddy ground where the ruined corridor split off into two, and turned left, following them, a heavy tower and attached complex that formed part of both the city walls and the Blachernae palace ahead, only the top of it still in the sun.
He must still be close behind the Romani. These ruinous passages that had once been substructures of the great palace complex were clearly unused and rarely, if ever, visited, and it had become instantly clear as he lurched out of the Tekfur complex and into a muddy puddle that any footprints he found would be his enemy’s. The man knew this area well, having lived among Mustafa’s Romani in this district for some time, but he would have to be careful nonetheless. Dimo could not guarantee that word of his true loyalties had not already reached the old man and his people, so he would have to avoid potential contact with his former colleagues.
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