James Heneage - The Towers of Samarcand

You will be tall. Like him .

*

Since the sinking by storm, a year past, of most of the ships blockading it, Chios had not seen the Turks. What was left of the Ottoman fleet sat in the Propontis facing the walls of Constantinople and not even Venice’s Arsenale could build ships quickly enough for it to blockade Chios as well. And anyway, Bayezid had forbidden it.

As a result, the campagna grew richer. The Genoese joint stock company that leased Chios from the Empire of Byzantium was in the business of alum, mined across the straits in Phocaea, and alum was achieving record prices in the markets of the West. Their mastic was doing even better. Uniquely grown in the south of the island, Dimitri’s miracle was filling teeth, softened by sugar, from London to Baghdad. The harem in Edirne was buying it by the shipload to sweeten breath held in nightly anticipation of a visit by the Sultan. And, by a curious irony, that part of the mastic profit belonging to the campagna’s youngest partner, Luke Magoris, was being spent by Plethon at the Arsenale on bribes to delay the cannon intended for Suleyman’s siege.

All of which explained why Marchese Longo Giustiniani, acknowledged leader of the campagna, was looking the right way down the barrel of a gun. It had been filled with grapeshot and was aimed at the thickest group of Turks in the square in front of them. Fired at this range, it would be lethal.

He was standing next to the engineer Benedo Barbi in the village of Mesta. The village was strewn with Turkish dead, their faces blistered by boiling water, their bodies punctured by crossbow bolts shot from above. At every turn in the village, at every bridge or balcony, at every dead end, the Turks had been hit by missiles fired from places they couldn’t get to. And every time they’d broken down a door, it was to find no access to the pounti above. When they’d staggered outside, it was to see men escape across roofs. This wasn’t fighting; it was a fiendish game. And it was a game they were losing.

‘Well, he was wrong about that,’ Longo whispered.

‘Wrong? Who was wrong?’ asked the engineer.

‘Luke,’ replied Longo. ‘He told me they’d never reach the tower.’

Barbi grunted. It was evening, and the heat of the day had passed but he was still uncomfortable. His armour was biting into his shoulders. ‘They’re not supposed to be here at all. I thought that had been the price of Dimitri filling the Sultan’s teeth with mastic.’

Longo shrugged. ‘Well, it may not be Bayezid giving the orders. Prince Suleyman is running the siege at Constantinople. Perhaps these are his men.’

Barbi wiped his brow. He didn’t much care whose soldiers these were. ‘When can we fire?’

‘When they’ve all come into the square.’ Longo turned to the gunner behind him. ‘You fire and we’ll rush them. Then reload and fire at any that come to their aid.’

‘There are no Greeks there?’ asked Gabriele Adorno, oldest of the signori.

Longo shook his head. ‘Every man, woman and child of the village is inside that tower, Gabriele. They’re on the upper level where the Turks can’t get to them.’

It was two years since Luke had shown Longo his idea for villages that were also many-levelled mazes. Now there were five such villages in construction among the mastic groves of the south and Mesta was almost complete. The village was a labyrinth with a tower at its centre and every villager could reach the tower without his feet touching the ground.

I have much to thank Luke for .

But this was worrying. These men had landed at the new port of Limenas, arriving in ten huge galleys and, thought Longo, must number well over a thousand men. Looking at them now, he could see that they were different from those that had come before. These were not casual raiders. These were a disciplined force obeying orders from mounted knights that looked to him a lot like sipahis. These were the Sultan’s forces.

Or Suleyman’s .

The engineer beside him spat. ‘We might clear them out this time,’ he said morosely, ‘but what about next? And what if they bring cannon?’

It was what Longo had been thinking. But that was the future. For now they had to throw these Turks out of Mesta.

Marchese Longo knew about fighting. As a young man, he’d learnt the art of war from one of the greatest condottiere of the day, Gian Galeazzo Visconti, fighting against the forces of Padua. Now Visconti was Duke of Milan and still friend to Longo. It was he who had sent the ribaudequins. These, and Barbi’s flame-throwers, were what he was relying on.

The engineer had recently rediscovered how to make Greek fire, an art that had been thought lost to the Byzantines. He’d used it to help Luke escape from the assassin at the monastery of Battal Gazi, where Omar had been tortured by Venetians. Now it was time to use it to defend Chios.

‘Now!’

The fuse was lit, the little cannon threw out death and the nozzles of three canisters spewed forth the flames of hell. The distance was less than a hundred feet and the grapeshot and fire tore into the Turkish ranks, throwing them against the tower walls and turning men into fireballs.

Then the Genoese charged. They were no more than fifty strong but well armed and had the advantage of surprise. They fell upon the Turks, hacking and stabbing and finding the gaps in their smoking armour into which to plunge their steel.

‘Retreat!’ yelled a sipahi knight. ‘Get back to the boats!’

The Turks began to withdraw to the side of the square. By now the cannon was reloaded and another hail of metal drove into their ranks, shattering mail and armour like glass. More men went down and the cobbles were slippery with their blood. On the walkways that connected the tower to the surrounding streets, men were now running to take up positions ahead of the fleeing Turks.

‘Lord Longo!’

The shout came from the top of the tower and Marchese looked up. ‘Dimitri! Is everyone safe?’

The Greek was standing on the battlements, a crossbow in his hand. His face was black and his shirt stained with blood. He was grinning. ‘All safe.’

Longo ran to a corner of the tower from where he could see the Turks streaming into the empty side streets beyond. Then there was a flash as the first of the villagers’ booby traps ignited. Screams echoed through the alleyways, adding to the confusion. It seemed that death was all around them. But there was one street that the villagers had left clear: one street, narrow and endlessly cornered, in which the villagers had posted no men in the bridges and walkways above.

It was the street that led out of the village and back to the boats.

*

Later, when the Turks had left, Longo sat with Barbi, Dimitri and the rest of the signori in the little square, talking and drinking iced Chian wine. A light rain had just fallen, leaving as quickly as it had arrived, doing nothing to wash away the blood on the ground around them. At least the bodies had been removed.

‘Sit still,’ Longo was saying to the engineer whose arm he was bandaging. ‘I bet you wish you’d never returned from Mistra.’ A vessel containing a compound of mastic, vinegar and rosemary stood on the table beside them.

‘It’s just a graze,’ said Barbi ‘You wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t taken off my armour.’

Longo ignored him and turned to Dimitri. ‘What are our dead?’ he asked.

‘No dead, lord,’ said the Greek, wiping the sweat from his eyes. ‘Only a dozen or so wounded, including the poor engineer here.’ He paused to scowl at Barbi, whom he’d warned a thousand times not to join battle. He was too valuable alive.

‘And them?’ enquired Zacco Banca. He was cleaning blood from his armour which, like the rest of the signori, had the Giustiniani arms emblazoned on its cuirass. ‘How many did they lose?’