Luke awoke the next morning to a choir. Every bird in Chios seemed to have gathered at his window, determined to display its individual repertoire. He’d slept deeper than he thought possible and had been untroubled by any wound of shoulder or memory. For a long while, he lay looking straight up at the white ceiling above his bed, its colour mirroring the emptiness of his mind. He wondered idly what time of the day it was and, were he to rise, what clothes he should put on.
This question was answered by closer inspection of the room. Draped over the back of a chair was a suit of clothes with leather boots and his sword propped neatly against them. They looked much too grand for him.
There was a knock on the door and a servant entered. He bowed from the waist. ‘The lord Longo begs your company downstairs when you feel sufficiently rested,’ said the man. ‘May I help you to dress, sir?’
‘What hour is it?’ asked Luke.
‘It is still early, sir, and the weather on the Kambos is fine,’ replied the servant and, as if to prove it, drew back the heavy curtains to reveal a sun shining straight into the room. Luke blinked and shielded his eyes from the glare. Then he swung a leg over the edge of the bed and walked over to the pail.
Ten minutes later, he was looking at himself in a long mirror and thinking he quite liked what he saw. Luke was not vain, but the tall, elegant figure in its smart leather doublet and riding breeches looked as impressive as it did unfamiliar.
And that was exactly what Marchese Longo thought when, five minutes later, Luke presented himself for breakfast on the pillared veranda.
‘Now, that’s much better,’ he said with a smile as he rose to greet Luke, looking him up and down with satisfaction. ‘I hope you slept well?’ Longo walked over to a side table on which there were plates piled with fruit and a jug standing in a bowl filled with ice. ‘Will you honour me by eating some fruit and cream from the estate?’
Luke sat down to eat amidst a pile of papers, a peacock quill stuck into an inkstand and an up-ended blotter. He noticed that Longo’s fingers were stained indigo as were the two tips of the melon slice that he’d half eaten. Luke helped himself to melon, plums and cherries and pulled off a chunk of the rye bread sitting on the table before him. As he ate, he looked into the courtyard below where palm trees ringed tulip-beds surrounding a wide, circular area of coloured cobbles. Two saddled horses were standing side by side in the shade of a tree.
‘I have to leave for my estate at Sklavia after breakfast and I was hoping you might accompany me,’ said Longo, following his gaze. ‘It’s a morning’s ride. It will give me a chance to show you something of our island.’
Luke was used to a world where kindness was shown for a reason. Marchese Longo was being more generous than the situation warranted and was a shrewd man of business. Without any unease, he wondered what his purpose might be.
‘I should be delighted,’ he replied.
Longo was silent for the first part of the journey and Luke was able to enjoy the bustle and colour of the outer town. Every race imaginable seemed collected there, from tonsured monks to shaven-headed Moors, from skullcapped Jews to plaited Scandinavians,
and the harbour was a forest of masts and rigging. Cargoes were in constant transit, from cart to quay, from quay to hold, and the shouts of warning, the curses of contact, were hurled between ships, barrels and people like rotten fruit. And the smells! Luke lifted his nose like a hunting hound and breathed in the scents of cinnamon, cloves, liquorice and nutmeg that spoke of distant trade.
Coming into the bay was a huge galley, its oars unscrolling from the water to stand erect as combs and the silk canopy of its aft-deck winking its fringe in the early sun. Above its mast flew pennants emblazoned with the calligraphy of Allah and Luke turned to Longo with a question on his lips.
‘No, not the same one,’ said the Italian. ‘Yours was a war galley; this one is a trader. See: no ram at its front and much less smell. The cargo will see to that.’
‘What will it be carrying?’ enquired Luke.
‘Oh, some spices, I would wager, for us to take on to Genoa.’ Longo paused. ‘But see that big round ship coming in behind it?’
Luke capped his eyes with his hand and squinted into the light. The ship was big and riding low in the water, its steering paddles nearly horizontal.
‘Now that’s a valuable cargo,’ Longo said. ‘That ship is carrying alum.’
‘Alum?’
‘Yes. We take it from the Phocaean mines beside Smyrna, which we run under license from the Turk. Then we transport it to our port at Foca further up the coast and bring it here before shipping it on to Florence. We took two hundred thousand pounds’ weight there last year. For the Arte della Lana. It’s used by the dyers for fixing their colours.’
‘But why do they stop here?’ asked Luke. ‘Why not go straight to Italy from Foca?’
‘Because we have something even better for them to take back,’ replied Longo with something like pride in his voice. ‘When you rode across the island, you must have seen rows of small trees, hardly bigger than bushes? Trees giving off a strange smell?’
Luke nodded, drawing his horse closer to Longo’s to hear above the noise of the harbour.
‘Those are mastic trees and they are one reason we Genoese are here on this island. On Chios, there exists a sweet combination of climate and soil that means that this is the only place on earth where this kind of mastic can be grown.’
‘But what is mastic?’ asked Luke.
‘Mastic is the juice that we take from the trunks of those trees and turn into a sweet that the Sultan’s harem cannot get enough of. The women love it to chew because it sweetens the breath. The harem alone takes a week’s crop!’
The two men rode on in silence. By now they had reached the outskirts of the town and the broad sweep of the Kambos stretched out in front of them.
‘When did you Genoese come to Chios?’ asked Luke, as they passed an arch crowned with the emblem of a sphinx holding a bunch of grapes.
‘Fifty years ago,’ replied Longo. ‘At that time, twelve nobles of Genoa, of which my father Tommaso Longo was one, formed a
campagna
, or society, which they named the Mahona Giustiniani. Each family added their surname to that of Giustiniani so as to underline our loyalty to the Byzantine Empire, which, after all, owns the island, Justinian being the greatest of their emperors. All newcomers to the campagna are obliged to do
likewise when they buy into it. The society was given a thirty-year lease by the Emperor John Palaiologos to exploit the island and, so successful has been the enterprise, we’ve extended it.’
The Italian pointed up at the sphinx emblem. ‘Originally we came to make wine and that emblem can be seen above the gates of many estates of the Kambos. But then the Turks discovered a liking for the mastic and everything changed. For the better and worse.’
Longo paused as he doffed his hat in greeting to a passing rider. ‘Better,’ he went on, ‘because the mastic has made use of the southern part of the island where it proved impossible to cultivate the grape. Worse, because we have had to move families there to grow it and these have become the target for Turkish slave traders. Now many of them have lost children and wish to move back to the north. They feel safer there – and who can blame them?’
Longo turned in his saddle to look squarely at Luke. ‘But that is not the real problem. The real problem is that the Greeks don’t trust us to protect them. They see the Genoese almost as much as an enemy as the Turks. They have hated us ever since we came here. What we need is someone down there who they will trust.’
Luke began to understand why Longo might want to befriend him. A man trained in the Varangian tradition of fighting, and Greek to boot, might prove useful. But what of his plans.
Luke looked down at his sword, at the dragon head that moved with the rhythm of the horse. What had his father said about Siward?
He left behind the sword that you now have. He did that for a reason
.
But the reason was in Mistra, not Chios. He was on this island by a quirk of fate. Should he let fate play its hand a little longer?
As the sun climbed to its zenith in the sky, the hour of the devil’s horns that Plethon had talked of, and the horses began to hang their heads low and their riders to yearn for the cool shade of stone, the two men began the long climb out of the plain and up to Sklavia. As the slope got steeper, the path wound its way through ever-narrower terraces of vines, olives and citrus groves with water channels bubbling cool water to feed conduits in between. Looking back over his shoulder, Luke could see the Kambos laid out like a rich patchwork quilt as it stretched its way to the sea beyond. No wonder Longo chose to live here.
They entered an avenue of tall cypress trees casting small stabs of shadow in the noonday sun like dragon’s teeth and providing no shade for the riders. At the far end, Luke could see a magnificent arch and beyond it, just visible between its pillars, the shimmer of water. Soon they were riding into gardens of exquisite colour and proportion. Pools sparkled amongst lawns full of wandering peacocks. Exotic flowers tumbled over low hedges and on to paths of coloured pebbles, and ranks of cypresses lined the perimeters, standing guard over the giddy chaos within.
Luke rode in wonder through garden after garden until they reached two high pillars on which sat the sphinx and its grapes, carved in the same vermilion stone. Through them was a courtyard containing a wide stone staircase that led up to a three-storeyed building with white marble pillars running the length of its veranda. At the other end of the courtyard was a large cistern, adjacent to which stood a vertical wheel of oak. Nearby, a donkey munched placidly into a nosebag.
‘That is a
manganos
,’ said Longo, pointing at the wheel. ‘We use it to draw water from the well.’
Two grooms appeared from the space beneath the steps and took the horses’ reins while the men dismounted. Longo took Luke’s arm and they climbed the staircase together.
‘Marchese!’ came a voice from above.
And looking up, Luke saw the greatest wonder in this day of wonders.
Standing there was, quite simply, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CITY OF SERRES, RUMELIA, WINTER 1394
The snow lay thick upon the ground and the air was colder than brass. Anna’s horse picked its way through the uneven cobbles of the street leading to the city gate, the ballooning fog from its nostrils shifting the scene of misery on every side. It was eleven years since the Turks had taken Serres from the Empire and the contradiction of rape and renewal lay all around. The carcasses of churches stood next to gleaming new minarets while sparse stalls of fruit and vegetables raised some colour amidst the ruins. In between the stalls stood braziers around which the transactions of survival took place in hand-rubbed exchange.
Anna was dressed in quilted felt, her head veiled and haloed by ermine. She wore thick rabbit-skin gloves and layered leather boots, also lined with fur. She was, to all intent and purposes, Turkish, from her stirruped toes to the crown of her padded head. And, as her retinue had left from the harem’s Gate of Felicity, the citizens of Serres jostled to gawp (and discreetly spit) at the small party as it rode past.
The riders approached the city gate and a platoon of janissaries paused to bow deeply, their tall white hats tapping the
ground like fingers. As the men straightened, fourteen hands rose to curl fourteen moustaches and fourteen eyebrows arched in appreciation of the sight before them.
As was proper, Anna ignored the courtesy and kept her gaze firmly on the street ahead.
The janissary commander made himself useful by clearing a path before them, swirling his baton to left and right with unnecessary vigour while waving them forward with his free hand. Anna’s companions closed up to assist the process, reaching out to hold on to one another as their horses whinnied and stamped.
Then they were through the gate and finding balance amidst the frozen ruts of the road that ran south. The janissaries saluted and turned back and Anna kicked her horse forward in the direction of a hill where stood the forest of tents and banners that made up the field headquarters of the Sultan Bayezid.
The road was busy with traffic going in and out of the city. Shawled families, sitting astride their roped possessions, exchanged uneasy glances with swarthy
akinci
, the gazi tribesmen bribed to bring their lives west to settle this new land and pave the way to the next conquest. The cold, dense air muffled the sound of movement and the shouts of encouragement or warning drifted quickly away above the mist of animal breath that hung over everything.
Anna had arrived at Serres in the early autumn with the Mamonas family, following a rushed departure from Monemvasia. The family had fled aboard a Venetian galley under cover of darkness and had landed at Thessaloniki further up the coast. From there, they’d taken the road to join the Sultan at Serres, passing Ottoman messengers rushing east to carry their
ruler’s firman summoning all fighters to the planting of the Horsehairs.
And now the huge lance was there before her. It was surrounded by a guard of janissaries and several fur-clad eunuchs armed with pens, there to record the first arrivals to join Yildirim in further conquest within the Dar ul-Harb, the Abode of War.
It was planted in the centre of a large plateau and a breeze splayed and twisted the hairs while little eddies of snow curled around its base. At the other end of the field, groups of sipahi cavalry, dressed in the skins of wild beasts, charged in turn at a suspended brass ball, shooting arrows from the saddle as they went.
Anna walked her horse around the edge of the field in the direction of the tents. She assumed that her companions would know which belonged to Devlet Hatun, wife of Bayezid, to whom she had been summoned. She guessed it would be splendid, as befitted the mother of the Sultan’s second son, and as quiet and well ordered as the harem itself.