Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Hero stepped back. ‘I can see you’re wary of strangers. Do you know anyone in Constantinople? I have a friend in the city who could give you advice on joining the military. In fact I’m here to visit him.’

‘You don’t take no for an answer, do you? I don’t want to share your food. I don’t want to meet your friend.’

Hero coloured. ‘You’re too quick to twist motives. That’s not a trait that will take you far in Constantinople. The city has a reputation for eating strangers.’ The ship was approaching the Golden Horn. ‘I won’t impose on you any further.’ He laid a few coins down. ‘No, don’t throw them back. I know you need them. I bid you goodbye and good fortune.’

Discomfited by the encounter, Hero gathered up his luggage and prepared to disembark. On landing, a customs official noted his name, place of origin and purpose of visit before waving him through onto the teeming quayside. A dozen porters surrounded him, clamouring to know where he wanted to go and offering competing fares even before he’d answered. He let the squall blow out before announcing his destination. ‘I’m travelling to the home of Count Vallon, a Frankish officer in the imperial army.’

One of the porters thrust aside his competitors. ‘I know Vallon. He’s a general now.’ The man pointed across the Golden Horn at a hilly suburb. ‘He lives in Galata, right at the top.’

The porter took Hero’s luggage and hurried towards a ferryboat. At the water’s edge, Hero looked back to see that the passengers had dispersed, leaving the Frankish youth alone on the quay. Their eyes met, then the porter took Hero’s arm and assisted him into the boat. When the two oarsmen were into their stroke, Hero turned a last time to see the young Frank walking towards the city gate, pestered by touts. A laden cart shut him from view, and when it had passed, the Frank was gone, swallowed by the city.

Watching the shore approach, Hero experienced a tingle of pleasurable anticipation. Nine years had passed since he’d last seen Vallon, and though they had exchanged a few letters, he didn’t know what changes time had wrought in his old companion. He was delighted to hear that Vallon was now a general — a promotion long overdue in Hero’s opinion. Vallon’s correspondence shed little light on his military career. His letters, written in laboured Greek, were mainly about his family and the observations he’d made on his travels.

Despite his pleasure at the prospect of meeting his friend again, Hero couldn’t suppress a twinge of resentment. The request — more like a summons — to journey to Constantinople had meant leaving his prosperous medical practice and a comfortable tenure at the University of Salerno. What rankled most was the formality of the letter — not a personal request from Vallon himself, and therefore to be met without hesitation, but a stiff demand from the Logothete tou Dromou stating that Vallon was engaged on important imperial business and had insisted on Hero joining him without delay.

The ferry reached the opposite shore. The porter gestured at the hill. ‘You’ll be wanting a mule.’

‘I’ve been at sea for two weeks. I’d prefer to walk.’ Hero saw the porter’s disappointment. ‘Of course you must hire a mule to carry my bags.’

They entered Galata through a gate and climbed past handsome walled villas with feathery black cypresses and gnarled mulberry trees growing in courtyard gardens.

‘Mind if I ask where you’re from?’ the porter said. ‘You speak Greek like a proper gentleman, but you aren’t from Constantinople. I can tell.’

‘I grew up in Syracuse and now I live in Salerno.’

‘Travelled a fair bit, I’d say. I heard you talking Arabic to one of the porters.’

Hero smiled. ‘A fair bit.’

‘Like where, sir? I enjoy hearing about different places. I’ve met people from all over — Spain, Egypt, Rus. Me, I’ve never been no further than the Black Sea.’

Hero bowed in passing to a respectable couple. ‘Well, I’ve been to the land of the Franks and I’ve visited England.’

‘Lord, that must have been a trial.’

Memory loosened Hero’s tongue. ‘From there I sailed to Iceland and then journeyed south to Anatolia and the court of Emir Suleyman, now the Sultan of Rum. That was nine years ago.’

The porter’s eyes popped. ‘You met that devil Suleyman? Well I never. Forgive me for asking, sir, but if it was that long ago, you must have been awful young.’

‘I was eighteen.’

The porter had to wrench his gaze away. ‘I’d love to hear more, sir, but here we are at General Vallon’s residence.’

Hero faced the door and took a deep breath. The porter jangled the bell. Bolts scraped free. The gate opened and a thickset man with moustaches like wings stepped out. Both of them gaped, then Hero stumbled back.

‘You!’

Wulfstan swept him up in an embrace. ‘Hero, my old friend.’

Hero wrenched loose. ‘You’re no friend. What are you doing here? How did…?’ He broke off in confusion. The last time he’d see Wulfstan had been on the River Dnieper, when the Viking and his companions had deserted Vallon’s company to pursue a Russian slave ship. Shock made Hero pant. ‘You left us to die. You promised to wait for us at the estuary.’

Wulfstan scratched his head and grimaced. ‘I know it must have looked that way. We came back for you, found your campsite, the fire still warm. We missed you by hours.’

‘But how did you find your way into Vallon’s service?’

‘Long story.’ Wulfstan took Hero’s luggage from the open-mouthed porter. Only then did the Sicilian register that the Viking had lost his left hand and his arm ended in a stump. This he threw across Hero’s back before shepherding him into the courtyard. Hero took in his surroundings with dazed approval. The whitewashed villa formed a square C, with a vine-clad loggia running the length of the main dwelling. In the garden, blossoms covered fruit trees in a haze of pink and white.

Wulfstan winked at Hero. ‘I can’t wait to see the general’s face when he claps eyes on you.’ The Viking cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘General Vallon,’ he called. ‘Look who’s here.’

Vallon emerged from the villa, followed by a young man. Vallon stopped stock still and his jaw dropped. ‘Good lord,’ he said. Then he ran down the steps. ‘Hero, my dear Hero. What a delightful surprise.’

He seized Hero’s hands and they stood smiling at each other, taking stock. Age had not been unkind to Vallon. The same lean and upright frame, the nose more aquiline and the face more lined, the auburn hair beginning to grey at the temples.

Vallon steered the youth forward. ‘You’ve heard me speak of Hero many times. Well, here he is, and looking most distinguished. Hero, may I present Aiken, my English son by adoption. His father was a companion in arms.’

Hero shook Aiken’s hand. The youth had a pleasant, intelligent countenance and a quiet and courteous manner. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, sir.’

Vallon laughed. ‘I still can’t believe it. Caitlin will be devastated to have missed you. She and the girls are visiting friends in the country. They’re due back tomorrow.’ He draped an arm over Hero’s shoulder. ‘But what brings you to Constantinople? Why didn’t you write to let us know you were coming?’

‘A letter wouldn’t have reached you in time. I sailed as soon as I received the summons.’

Vallon stopped. ‘Summons? I sent no summons.’

‘From the Logothete tou Dromou, asking me to join you in Constantinople with all haste.’

Vallon’s hand dropped from Hero’s shoulder. His gaze drifted away. He plucked at his mouth. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What’s wrong?’