Tom Harper: The mosaic of shadows

Armed with long knives which Domenico gave us, we hurried out of his courtyard and down the hill. His house was unscathed, but barely fifty yards away the devastation began. You could almost see where the crowd had stopped, the high-water mark of their destructive flood: one moment the houses we passed were intact and unharmed, the next they were roofless ruins, their doors beaten from their hinges and every window shattered. Smoke filled the air, the acrid fumes of human misery, and I had to hold my sleeve over my face to keep from choking. Domenico had spoken of a mob, but there must have been a method to their savagery for not a single building had been bypassed or forgotten. Even now, the dull wind brought more shouts of havoc and spoliation to my ears.

I shivered. ‘The Lord God help us if they get inside the city. He Himself could not have visited greater destruction here.’

We descended lower, Domenico leading us uncertainly through smouldering streets and rubble-strewn alleys. We saw no-one, living or dying, and fear whetted our ears such that we were quick to hear if any approached. Several times we crouched in the ruins until we were sure that danger had passed, and our progress was fitful until at last the slope tailed away onto the flat ground by the shore. We came onto a broad street — the same, I realised, that we had trodden that morning. We had felt strong then, invulnerable, but how many from that column were alive now?

Domenico scuttled across the road, into the shadow of a warehouse, and beckoned us after him. It had probably been empty even before the looters reached it, and though it was scorched black, the new bricks of its walls had saved it from the worst effects of the flames. Its door had not been so fortunate, but that was to our advantage as we followed Domenico under the charred lintel.

He swept an arm about him in melancholy. ‘Once, this was to be the cradle of my fortune; now it is its tomb. But in this week of all weeks, we should remember that salvation also can come from the grave. Help me raise the floor.’

We crouched on our knees, and pressed our fingers into a groove where he directed. When we tugged, a broad square of planking came up in our hands, opening a shallow pit to our view. On the packed earth within lay a small boat.

‘The wise merchant guards against every risk,’ said Domenico proudly. ‘And thus never loses everything.’

‘If you can get us across the Horn, you will gain a great deal more.’

We bent over the hole and lifted out the boat by its prow. I was glad of Sigurd’s strength, for Domenico did little but fuss: together we managed to haul the craft across to the door by the wharf. The hull rasped and grated horribly as we dragged it over the floor, the noise redoubled by the towering walls, but the barbarians must have exhausted their appetite for plunder, or indulged it elsewhere, for none came to trouble us.

With a final push, Sigurd heaved the boat over the edge of the wharf and watched it splash into the black waters of the Horn. There was a ladder bolted to one of the pilings which even the Franks had not bothered to destroy: we slid down it, and soon we were splashing away from the dock, away from danger, away from the horror that had once been Galata. Though looking across to the far side of the Horn was no comfort, for by some unknown devilry there seemed to be flames there as well. I lay back against the thwart and stared at the sky, floating between the shores of a world on fire.

It was like some vision of the apocalypse, for around the entire sweep of the bay flames licked into the night. In Galata they were burning out, dying slowly, but along the coast the barbarian’s progress could be measured by the heights to which the fires still rose in every village and settlement. To my horror, they did not stop at the bridge, but continued back along the southern shore even into the city itself. I stared out through the darkness, trying to judge if any were near my own home, but it was hidden in the hills. Where were the barbarians now? Had they entered the city, as Baldwin had promised they would, as the flames seemed to herald? Was the empire betrayed into slavery? I wanted to weep, but tears would not come. The last time there had been violence in the city I had spent three days and nights at my door, sword in hand, refusing to sleep lest the mob come for my family. There would be no consolation if I had failed them now.

Sigurd made a crude boatman, but he managed to bring us across the Horn, between the moored ships, and towards the walls. They were clear to see, for on that night even the waves burned: sea-fire had been spread over them, to deter all who might approach and illuminate any who did. I could smell the oily smoke, hear the spitting as the flames danced and swayed on the water.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked Sigurd. We seemed to be heading north-west, towards the headwaters. ‘Take me to the gate of Saint Theodosia, so I can return to my house and find my children.’

Sigurd never looked back. ‘We’re going to the new palace. The Emperor will be there, unless he has changed his ways. We need to warn him of the danger he faces.’

I almost laughed. ‘Look around you — he can guess at the danger, if he still lives. I must see to my family.’

‘We all have families, Demetrios. But if the empire falls to the Franks, we will wish they had never been saved.’

I was too feeble to argue, and I said nothing more as Sigurd sculled the boat to the stone pier by the new palace. We were close to the barrage of sea-fire now, and I sat up in the terror that the current would carry us into it, but a small opening had been left and Sigurd deftly worked us through it. Guards came running, and I saw with relief that here at least Romans still held the walls. Their faces glowed orange in the firelight, as indeed did the stones, the water and even the air about us, but there was mercifully little panic in their faces.

‘Who approaches?’ they challenged. ‘Declare yourselves, or we will burn you into the sea.’

‘Sigurd, captain of Varangians, with news for the Emperor. Is he here?’

‘He is. He directs the war on the barbarians from his throne.’

‘War?’ I echoed. ‘Is there now a war between us. Have they entered the city?’

The guard laughed. ‘They have sacked the outer villages, and paraded before the walls, but it will take more than a rabble of men and horses to force our defences. The city is safe enough — for the moment.’

‘But what of the fires?’

‘Our own mob. They came into the streets this afternoon, demanding that the Emperor unleash his full might on the barbarians and make the Lycus red with their blood. When he refused there was violence, and some set fire to the tax collector’s office. But the Watch have the ringleaders now, and the streets are under strict curfew.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ I breathed.

‘Thank Him when it is finished,’ reproved the guard. ‘There are still barbarians beyond our walls, and great anger within. But for now, I will take you to the court.’

We scrambled out of the boat and came through the water-gate into the new palace. Everywhere was in turmoil: companies of soldiers hurried between the walls, and in the courtyards whetting wheels scraped plumes of sparks from steel blades. Spears and shields were stacked all about, while serving boys from the kitchen laboured under baskets of arrows. We climbed many stairs, often pausing to let files of guards push past, until at last we came to the great bronze doors. A dozen Patzinaks, armed and helmed and with spears in their hands, barred the way.

‘The Emperor is in council,’ their sergeant growled. ‘He will not see petitioners. The secretary. .’