The Walls of Byzantium (42 page)

There were frowns on every face around the table now, except that of Fiorenza. Gabriele Adorno’s frown was the darkest of all.

‘But, Luke,’ he said, ‘I can think of at least two reasons why this is a bad idea. First, why would we want to lose profit on our alum? Second, why would the Turk be any less annoyed with us if the fleet goes to support the crusade being sent against them?’

‘My lord,’ Luke went on, ‘surely it’s better to make
some
profit on our alum rather than the none we’ll make if it rots in our warehouses here? In former times you might have expected help from other Genoese carriers, but they are all in the Black Sea and cannot get past Constantinople.’

‘All right,’ said Longo, ‘but what of Gabriele’s second point? Surely the Turk will punish us for giving the fleet shelter?’

‘Possibly,’ acceded Luke, ‘but he may punish us more for not giving him his tribute. And we can only do that if we sell the alum which, you must be aware, is reaching record prices since the Venetian convoys from Trebizond can’t get through.’

Now the first of the nods began and, Luke was pleased to see, it came from Longo, who said, ‘Am I right in assuming your mastic plays a part in this somewhere?’

Luke nodded. ‘Yes, it does. We’ve discovered that the mastic works well as a sealant for wounds. Very useful for an army. It may even do what alum does. It will fetch a good price in Venice.’

The nods were universal now. No matter how hard the signori poked at it, the plan seemed sound – even brilliant. It would allow them to do what they most desperately wanted to do before knowing the outcome of the impending crusade: remain neutral.

Marchese Longo rose. ‘Let us prepare ourselves for the Megas Doux then.’

What Luke knew, Fiorenza suspected and the signori didn’t, was that the Megas Doux had never had any intention of going to Constantinople. It had always been his plan, indeed his orders, to go to Chios and then on to Venice and the support of the Crusade.

Standing at the top of the long ramp down to the sea, Luke was studying the impressive heavy artillery on board the ten galleys that had dropped anchor in the bay. He smiled in anticipation of meeting certain members of the party now being rowed towards him in the best of the campagna’s barges. He thought of that meeting with Plethon all those months ago.

The Venetians only listen to money and that’s the one thing that the Empire doesn’t have
.

The barge was a gilded affair and, curiously, modelled on the Venetian version. It had eight oarsmen to a side, all in Giustiniani colours, and a low silk awning at the back beneath which the Megas Doux and his entourage would be sitting in great comfort. Above the tall rudder flew two flags, those of the Campagna Giustiniani and the Empire. The flag of the Empire was on top.

A pale moon had risen above the bay and the sun was setting in a riot of red and orange that threw its colour across the water like spilt paint. A dozen ducks rose and arranged themselves in formation and headed noisily inland and everywhere was the low burble of excited talk. This was an event not to be missed by the people of Chios. Or Scio.

‘They’re taking their time,’ said Longo irritably, who stood beside Luke dressed in magnificent black and gold figured silk.

Luke stared out across the water. He would have to find the right moment to tell them of his decision to leave, although he suspected that one of them, at least, already knew it. He looked at Fiorenza and saw that she was entirely composed. She was dressed in the Trapezuntine, rather than Genoese, style, in a high-necked, narrow gown of pale cream damask with buttons of embroidered silver at its front. The cloth glowed slightly in the last light of the sun and its long, fluted sleeves half covered her folded hands, corded with rings. Her expression was unreadable.

Soon the barge was close to the quay and its oars were in the air and a trumpet sounded amidst the banners behind. The reception party readied itself to receive the Admiral of the Byzantine fleet.

The Megas Doux turned out to be a small man of middle age weighed down by cuirass and gold and, perhaps, the responsibility of preserving his little fleet. Nevertheless, he was a man of energy and he leapt nimbly from barge to quay and the welcome of the twelve signori of Scio.

But Luke hardly glanced at him, or at the ten captains that followed him. Instead he looked into the dark area below the awning for its other passengers. Then there they were, emerging one by one and dressed as he’d never seen them before.

Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius. All in the uniform of the Varangian Guard.

It was two years since he’d seen them last and the tread of seasons seemed to have left little imprint. Matthew had a new beard, a thin thing of no direction, while Arcadius was stouter and limping. Luke had seen him in boats before and suspected a heavy wave. Nikko, finally, had less hair and seemed to be going the way of the entirely bald David. But all were ruddycheeked and filled their fathers’ Varangian armour to an inch.

Luke was behind the reception line, watching them search the crowd for him and whisper to each other. The Admiral and his captains had been properly greeted and were now moving slowly up the ramp towards the gates, led by Longo and two Genoese soldiers with flambeaux held high.

‘What took you so long?’

‘Luke!’ cried Nikolas, spinning around.

‘And what are you wearing?’ asked Luke, stepping back to take in the Varangian splendour. ‘They
gave
you those?’

Then the four of them were laughing and huddled together in a circular embrace and were boys again. And as they laughed and jostled each other, Luke felt a wave of love and memory break over him. They were boys without brothers who were
better brothers than any he knew. They had shared stories and girls and blows on the training ground since they’d learnt to walk. They had a friendship that was higher than mountains and deeper than oceans and were any one of them to call out in need, be it only a whisper, it would be heard by the rest.

Luke remembered a rain-lashed jetty and a girl he’d meant to escape with. A girl they’d yet to mention. Did he dare? Not yet.

‘So you delivered the message?’

‘The Admiral didn’t think twice,’ said Matthew happily.

‘And the holds are empty?’

‘You can put in as much alum as you want, and there will still be room for all your money. I hear you’re rich.’

‘Not yet, but I’m practising,’ said Luke, still whispering. He paused. ‘But you’ve not told me of Anna. Where is Anna?’

The jostling stopped.

‘We don’t know,’ said Nikolas. ‘She went with Suleyman. It was part of the deal struck by Zoe to save our lives and to let Rachel leave the palace and go home. She’s probably at the camp at Constantinople.’

‘With Suleyman?’

There was silence in the huddle and Matthew was the one to break free. He stood in front of Luke and held his friend’s arms above the elbows. It was almost dark now, the flambeaux having gone with the signori, and they were enveloped by the deep shadow of the citadel wall.

‘You should know,’ he said quietly, ‘that Prince Suleyman is enamoured of her. I don’t know why … something to do with their first meeting at Mistra. And I don’t know if he’s even touched her yet. If he has it will have been against her will, you can be sure.’

Luke shook his head, unbelieving.

Anna at Constantinople. With Suleyman?

‘I shall go and get her,’ he said.

But Matthew shook his head. ‘From the Sultan’s camp? That’s impossible. You’d be killed.’

‘I have to try! What else can I do?’

A voice came from the shadows. ‘You can go to Venice, Luke. As you intended.’

Luke turned and saw the woman who, last night, had lain beneath him. Now she was half in shadow and that part of her face lit by the moon was solemn. She moved away towards the gate and Luke followed her.

‘That was prettily done, Luke,’ she said softly when they were beyond the hearing of the Varangians. ‘Getting a message to the Admiral via your friends. You knew the fleet was going to Venice anyway?’

Luke was silent.

‘What would Marchese say if he knew you were deliberately diverting Giustiniani funds to aid the Empire?’

‘He would approve,’ answered Luke. ‘He is a good man. And a wise one.’

‘And would he approve of what happened last night?’ she asked.

‘No. He loves you.’

‘And I him.’

‘So why …?’ asked Luke.

‘Can’t you guess?’ The Princess from Trebizond reached up and put a soft hand to Luke’s cheek and let her thumb gently stroke its curve. There were tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve been used, Luke, yes. And you will hate me now and forgive me later.

‘So that’s why you must go. You must go to forget and, I
hope, to forgive. You must go to Venice where Plethon awaits you. He’ll need you there to sign over to the Empire your profits from the mastic, as I know you’ve determined to do. And then you’ll go to the crusade with your friends and you’ll win. And when you come back, you’ll bring Anna and you’ll be rich, for the signori have, this afternoon, agreed to make you one of their number.’ She paused. ‘And, God willing, you might even greet our son.’

Then the Princess from Trebizond stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘You are
Escrivo
, Luke,’ she said, and turned to go.

Three days later, Luke was standing on the stern deck of a trireme galley as it rowed to the beat of a drum out of the port of Limenas. The wind was boisterous under a leaden sky and his hair and cloak snapped in the blow as he watched the island of Chios, his home for two years, blur into distance.

Next to him stood the captain, his hand raised to deliver the order for the oars to be shipped and the two giant lateen sails raised. Luke looked up beyond the mast basket and saw the pennants of Byzantium stretch and buckle and point back towards the island. Towards Fiorenza.

Then the order was shouted and carried through the ship by others and the galley shuddered as the sails broke out and bellied, and 170 rowers, three to a bench, bent over their oars in relief. Luke looked down the long central gangway to the marine crossbowmen gathered on the fighting-stage of the prow next to a single catapult. He thought, without connection, of Eskalon. This galley was a
katergon
rather than a
taride
and therefore not adapted to carry horses. He’d had to leave
Norillo behind and he’d been surprised by how little it had mattered to him.

Eskalon. Are you somewhere in this world?

Luke looked out at the grey expanse of sea, at the curve of the waves as they rose, white-tipped, in a rising wind and pounded the sides of the ship. They were alone in this sea, the other galleys having left, with his friends aboard them, from Chora two days before. Nine galleys with holds crammed with alum while his was filled with bales of mastic. All were headed for Venice.

And, as agreed with Marchese Longo all those months past, the entire profit from the sale of this first shipment from the new port of Limenas would go to Luke. He smiled.

Or to the Empire
.

Luke knew that Plethon would be in Venice. He’d worked with Benedo to create a compound of mastic and other elements that might or might not work as a dye fixative. They’d know for sure in Venice since it was the colour capital of the world. If it did, then the profits could be enormous and Plethon would know how best to use them to the Empire’s advantage.

The reunion with his three friends had been, at least in part, joyous. He’d learned that his mother, while still a prisoner, was now at least imprisoned in her home. He’d make sure that a small part of the profit from the mastic would somehow get to her. He’d learned that Monemvasia was little changed by the presence of a regiment of janissaries within its walls and that the little city on the edge of the sea continued to prosper as it had always done. But over everything had hung the cloud of Fiorenza and what he’d done with her, and of Anna, whom he’d betrayed.

Anna who was now with Suleyman
.

Luke shivered and drew the cloak around him.