James Heneage - The Towers of Samarcand

Anna had told Luke on their arrival in Constantinople as they’d waited for their audience with the Emperor.

‘You’re sure?’ he’d whispered, unable to hide the excitement in his voice and cursing the echo of the marbled antechamber.

‘Of course I’m sure. Why else am I eating like Eskalon?’

Luke had nodded. ‘And your freckles show. You look happy.’

The Empress had guessed at once. Helena Dragaš had looked at the bloom of pregnancy in a dozen mirrors and knew the signs. She’d come to the rescue. ‘They should marry immediately,’ she’d decreed as the couple stood before her. ‘Or the people will forget.’

When the day arrived, a winter sun shone down on the capital of Byzantium. It was a kind sun that bathed everything in a general, mellow light, hiding the patches and fraying of its battered cathedral. Luke and Anna stood in its narthex, awaiting the entrance of the imperial couple, Luke dressed in the ceremonial armour of the Varangian Guard and Anna in a long white tunic of crushed silk embroidered with gold thread. Her red hair, littered with tiny flowers, swept past her shoulders in brilliant sheen. Matthew, still bruised, stood behind them in the dress of the Akolouthos , Luke having insisted his friend be given nothing less than the highest Varangian title there was. Next to him stood Shulen, handmaiden to Anna, also in white but without decoration, flowers or any flush of fertility; she would rejoin Tamerlane later. Behind them all stood Luke’s three Varangian friends. Arcadius held a cushion on which rested Luke’s dragon sword.

Trumpets sounded and they looked across the square to see the imperial party approach. The procession was led by six Varangians of Constantinople, axes on shoulders and eyes straight ahead until curiosity to see their new Akolouthos got the better of them. Then came a frieze of priests, court pages and high officials, the churchmen with their forked beards, stiff hats and long white robes spattered with crosses, the courtiers in towering, elaborate headwear, brocaded skirts and soft boots. There was the Master of Horse, the Megas Doux in his paper-boat hat, the Grand Vestarios and the Candidatoi with their golden wands. This was Byzantium, faded but fine.

At last the Emperor Manuel II Palaiologos appeared with his wife on his arm, the imperial family behind. The Emperor and Empress wore the same: the imperial mitra with its curtain of jewels above long white robes sewn with double-headed eagles and fringed with ermine. They looked ethereal.

The procession swept solemnly into the church and only the Empress Helena cast a smile and a wink at Anna as she passed.

There was a clearing of throat and they looked up to see the Patriarch in a vestment that seemed too heavy for his frame. He was telling them to exchange rings in a voice that quivered to find volume. Then he turned and led them into the church.

It seemed that the whole of Constantinople had come to see them married. Thousands sat in the nave and many more stood behind, and those that were not inside the church filled the square outside. Walking slowly, Luke looked up and remembered what the Emperor Justinian had said when first he saw the finished glory of the Hagia Sophia:

Solomon, I have outdone thee .

Despite age and pillage, the church was still a thing of splendour. The walls glittered with mosaics of the Holy Family, saints and emperors: arch-browed, straight-nosed, their heads buckled with diadems. They walked beneath heaven’s aristocracy, beneath archangels and six-winged cherubs, the vast dome above seeming to float on a halo of light that came in through the windows ringing its base.

Then they were in front of a table of green and white marble on which were set two golden crowns. Beside it sat the Emperor and Empress on backless thrones and on either side of them, straight-backed and solemn, sat their mothers: Rachel and Maria. Luke bowed to them and, rising, saw beyond them Marchese Longo, Fiorenza and Giovanni, seated with the rest of the signori. Beside them sat Plethon, Omar, Yakub and Benedo Barbi.

The Patriarch lifted each of the crowns and placed them on their heads. Then he offered them a chalice of sweet Malvasia wine to share. Luke looked over its rim at his bride and his face creased into a smile.

At last .

Psalms and incense rose around them in scented litany as they walked three times around the table, each holding a candle. The cathedral echoed with holy chant and the saints looked down on it all, moving to the rhythms of light that cascaded from a million tiny tiles. Heaven was inside the Church of Holy Wisdom and its glory touched everything and everyone within it.

At last it was over and the Patriarch was telling them to leave. They turned and walked back to the narthex, their crowns heavy on their heads. Outside, the winter sunshine, soft as spun syrup, made them blink. The crowds in the square cheered and waved and threw their hats in the air. They were joined on the steps by the imperial family, the Despot and Despoena, their mothers and friends. A shower of rose petals, somehow preserved, was released from the windows above. A trumpet sounded from the waters of the Propontis and twenty thousand heads turned to see the twelve triremes of the imperial navy bedecked in bunting, their oars lifted in salute. Beside them were twelve round ships flying the flag of Chios, rocking like tipsy monks in the winter swell. A cannon sounded, then another. The crowd roared its approval and more hats went into the air. The Empire was delivered from Tamerlane and its saviour was before them with his bride. Byzantium was still Christian.

There was a flutter of wings and they looked up to see doves rising into the sun, tiny olive branches tied to their feet.

The Emperor laughed. ‘It’s to celebrate the peace treaty with Suleyman,’ he said. ‘He’s given us back Thessaloniki.’

Luke knew this but perhaps the mothers didn’t. Ferried to safety, the heir to Bayezid had established himself at Edirne and seemed keen to make peace. Thessaloniki, second jewel in Byzantium’s crown, had been returned.

Plethon stood beside the Emperor. ‘Suleyman’s still dangerous, majesty,’ he said. ‘He’s just buying some time.’

The Empress smiled and pressed his arm. ‘Tush, philosopher. Be merry like the crowd. We are delivered. Look.’ She was pointing towards the hippodrome where a single horse stood on a plinth. ‘Now, that is a wedding gift.’

It was Luke’s gift to the city. The four horses of the hippodrome had gone to Venice two hundred years earlier so Luke had replaced them with Eskalon, carved in Chios as the quartet had been centuries ago. The bronze horse shone like a god.

Luke turned to his wife and raising her crown with one finger, kissed her on the lips.

MISTRA, CHRISTMAS 1402

The snow was falling thickly on the hill of Mistra and the little courtyard of the Peribleptos Monastery was deep with it. It was the hour before dawn on Christmas Day and the monks were sleeping in, having enjoyed their annual holy supper the night before. With twelve dishes for the twelve apostles, and straw beneath the table for when the baby saviour chose to come, it had been more fun than last year. The Turks had been defeated and Mistra was still free. They’d even drunk wine.

For the three people in the crypt below the monastery church, the padded silence of snow and sleeping monks was welcome. Although Varangians kept guard at the doors and windows, what they had before them could never be revealed to anyone. For two of them, it was known. For the other, it was a revelation.

Luke, Anna and Plethon were kneeling by the side of an open casket and none of them had spoken for several minutes. Beside them was an empty grave with earth piled to one side. There were torches on the walls and their light made a nativity of the scene. It was very cold and a night creature howled from deep inside the woods beyond the city walls.