Tom Harper - The mosaic of shadows

The door resisted my first touch, but a frantic kick broke through the rust on its hinges and it swung open. I turned to call Sigurd back, for here we could wait until the barbarians passed, but the shout died in my throat.

A barbarian had found me. He stood behind me watching curiously, almost lazily, though there was nothing the least slack in his arms and shoulders. The blade he held at my neck did not tremble an inch.

He had both grown and withered in the last two months. His beard was now full, though still close to the chin, and hunger had chiselled away at his face to reveal the man beneath. But he was thin, far thinner than after weeks of the monks’ hospitality, and if work had kept his arms and legs hard with sinew it had also stooped his back a little. What had it done to his spirit?

He seemed unsure what to say, but this was no time for long silences. ‘Are you going to kill me, Thomas? Or turn me over to that demon Baldwin to be dismembered?’

‘You are the enemy of my people,’ he said harshly.

‘I am your friend. I saved you from death, once, you remember.’

‘You tied me up like a thief.’

‘And then set you free.’

I saw the tip of his sword decline just a fraction before his arm stiffened again. ‘You are the enemy of my people. You try to starve and kill us.’

‘Will you orphan my daughters because we serve different masters?’

The mention of orphanhood must have bitten his conscience, for he went very still, and suddenly the eyes which stared at me seemed to be those of a child again. I thought to say more, to evoke his own parents, but I did not want to twist the knife of memory too far. He would not have forgotten them, I told myself: if their loss could sway him, then it would be so, and if not, then I would die.

‘I do this for your daughter,’ he whispered at last. ‘And because you save my life.’

‘Thank you.’ I could hear more shouts, and the echo of horses’ hooves drawing near. ‘Can you help me get to the harbour? To find a boat?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘No boats. The Greeks take them all. And my people look for you there. Go away. Go up to your friend on the hill.’

Panic and incomprehension stalled my mind for a moment, before I realised whom he meant. ‘The merchant Domenico? You mean him? Is he still there?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘I see him sometimes. He help you.’

That was something I would discover myself. I had not seen the merchant Domenico since before the Feast of the Nativity, and he was closer in kin to the barbarians than to the Romans. But Thomas spoke truthfully of the alternatives: the Emperor had ordered all boats away from Galata, to complete the barbarians’ isolation, and it was in the lower reaches of the city, around the docks and gates, that the search for us would be thickest.

‘Will you lead us?’

Thomas did not answer, but turned his back on me and began moving up the street at a half-run. I followed with Sigurd, who had watched my conversation with Thomas in silence.

‘Do you trust him?’ he whispered as we approached the corner.

‘I would not choose to trust him. But it is not my choice to make.’

‘It may still be the wrong choice. We should have knocked him down and left him in a corner. Then at least we would have had a sword.’

‘It will take more than a sword to escape from this trap.’ I spoke shortly, for ahead of me Thomas had not stopped at the corner, but had run straight out into the crossroads, and I heard frantic shouts erupt as he came into view. He turned to acknowledge them, and I watched in helpless despair as he shouted back, waving his arms confidently. Were we betrayed? I could scarcely stand to wait there, helpless, utterly ignorant of whether he summoned our doom or our salvation. Beside me I felt Sigurd tensing himself, as if to spring forward and strike Thomas down, and I touched his arm to stay him. If Thomas had revealed us to his countrymen, we would be powerless.

Thomas turned and began walking towards us, moving with an almost insouciant air. Only when he was out of sight of the main road did he drop the pretence and hurry to meet us.

‘I tell them you are not here,’ he said curtly. ‘They go.’

‘You sent the Franks — your people — away?’ As I listened, I could hear the truth of it, for the noises which had been almost upon us were now fading to a few lingering shouts. We waited until they were almost silent, then followed Thomas away from that place, up into the streets which led inland from the harbour. Thomas was a sure guide, and as the shore and barbarians receded he grew ever quicker, darting around corners and seeking out crevices if danger threatened. Once he was so fast I thought he might intend to maroon us, but he always reappeared, beckoning us upwards.

And suddenly we were in the mouth of an alley which faced a lime-washed wall, and the gate I had passed through once on a December afternoon. Thomas pointed at it.

‘Domenico.’

I took his arm to thank him, but he drew away abruptly.

‘You can come with us,’ I told him. ‘After this you have earned your freedom. You can live in the city and make a new life.’

He did not answer, but disappeared back down the hill. Back to the barbarians.

We crossed to the gate, and endured a terrified wait while the suspicious doorkeeper approached, argued with us, took our names to his master and finally returned, grudgingly, to admit us. The courtyard was little improved from when I had last visited — worse, in some respects, for the orange trees had not taken to their soil, and had shed most of their leaves onto the unpaved ground. The facade remained incomplete and unpainted, but there was no sign of the workmen or their tools. I doubted Domenico would have wanted too much ornament with barbarians for neighbours. Somehow, though, through invasion, siege, famine and war, the little merchant had managed to keep as plump and well-groomed as ever. Only the rims of his eyes told the strain he was under as he welcomed us to his house.

‘You stretch the laws of hospitality, Demetrios,’ he admonished me as we sat in a cool, unwindowed room deep in his house. ‘I do not usually entertain outlaws.’

‘Nor do you now. The law of the empire still holds here.’

Domenico giggled nervously, and wiped his brow on the arm of his gown. ‘Is it the law of the empire that imperial soldiers are executed in a public square by a Frankish lunatic? That a hysterical mob rules the streets of Galata with the justice of the sword?’

I leaned closer, urgency in my eyes. ‘Were you there in the square? Did you see what befell us?’

‘Me? No, indeed no. But I hear much.’

‘There was an argument between two of the barbarian captains, the Duke Godfrey and his brother Baldwin. Do you know what they said?’

We were interrupted by the arrival of a servant bearing a flagon of wine and a plate of smoked partridge. I downed my glass as soon as it was offered, and gobbled the tender meat like a glutton.

‘You no longer observe your fast,’ Domenico observed.

‘Not today,’ I admitted between mouthfuls. I could serve my guilt later. ‘But tell me of the barbarians.’

Domenico sucked some fat from his fingers. ‘My report is that Baldwin, the younger of the pair, declared that the Emperor had shown his true intentions, that after penning them up, starving them of food, and heaping indignities upon their holy quest, he had declared war. To this, he averred, there was only one response. They must invade the city itself, and drag the impious usurper from his throne. Only thus would the honour of God be satisfied.’

‘Let them try,’ snarled Sigurd. ‘I saw no siege engines in their camp. If they assault the walls and legions of Constantinople with their rabble, they will learn what happens when the Emperor goes to war.’