Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

‘I would have liked to talk longer. Unfortunately, I have to rehearse a formal reception for the Venetian ambassador. Let us meet again at your convenience. In the meantime…’ The Logothete handed Hero a small codex volume bound in ivory.

Hero opened it. There on the title page was Hunayn ibn Ishaq’s signature in flowing calligraphy on papyrus. His bemused gaze darted up.

‘A gift,’ said the Logothete. ‘Consider it small recompense for any misunderstanding I might have caused.’ He raised a hand. ‘No, no. I insist.’

‘Thank you,’ Hero said. ‘Thank you.’ He looked around with delight, his smile withering under Vallon’s jaundiced leer. He cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered in English, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Said the fly to the spider.’

Hero moved his table to catch the early morning light and opened the book. He had long admired Hunayn ibn Ishaq for his breadth of scholarship, but until now he’d been able to read only a fraction of his work, and that in poor translations. Hunayn, a Nestorian Christian born in Iraq at the beginning of the ninth century, had studied medicine in Baghdad and mastered Greek and Persian in order to translate scientific treatises written in those languages. He was no mere copyist, though. He interpreted and refined, applying his own practical experience to the books he rendered into Arabic or Syriac, and he also wrote more than a score of original works, including the Ten Treatises . His reputation stood so high that the caliph had appointed him his personal physician and placed him in charge of the House of Wisdom, a school dedicated to the transmission of classical knowledge.

Hero leafed through the pages and came upon a detailed drawing of the human eye, all its parts illustrated. He studied it for some time before turning back to the beginning.

Peter interrupted to ask if he would be joining the household for breakfast, but Hero was so absorbed that he declined the invitation without raising his eyes from the page. He had read about half of the book when someone knocked on the door. He covered the text with his hand.

‘Come in.’

Vallon entered, bade Hero a good day and crossed to the window. He stared across the strait. ‘I’ve arranged your return passage. A merchant ship sails in three days. You’ll slip aboard just before she casts off. You’ll be beyond the Logothete’s reach before he discovers that you’ve gone.’

Hero rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry to have put you to unnecessary trouble. I hope you didn’t pay the fare in advance.’

Vallon turned. ‘You’re going on that ship if I have to carry you aboard myself.’

Hero gave him a quick look. ‘Have you noticed anything amiss with my eyes?’

Vallon’s brow furrowed. ‘I know your vision isn’t sharp.’

‘Examine my left eye. Closer. Do you see it — a veil over the iris? The clouding is caused by what the ancients called a “cataract”, or “foaming water”. Every month it grows thicker. The condition doesn’t correct itself. It becomes more acute with time and usually spreads to the other eye. If left untreated, I calculate that in five years I’ll be blind.’

Vallon’s throat pulsed. ‘All the more reason to spend those years in profitable study rather than wasting them on a foreign adventure.’

Hero continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Apart from the company of friends, reading is my greatest delight. Without books I can’t acquire the knowledge I need to advance my medical skills. Without clear vision, I won’t be able to practise those skills. In short, if I lost my sight I would lose my purpose.’

Vallon splayed a hand across his face. ‘Hero…’

‘I come to the point. The book the Logothete gave me discusses diseases of the eye and their treatment. Cosmas told me that physicians in China have perfected an operation to remove cataracts by surgery. There. Isn’t that a good enough reason to make the journey?’

Vallon swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised.’

‘So let’s agree that my mind is settled. Actually, it was settled the day I arrived.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Vallon said in a husky voice.

‘Quite sure. My motives are selfish, but I hope that what skills I’ve learned as a physician will prove useful on what I know will be a difficult journey.’

Vallon hung his head. ‘Oh, Hero. You don’t know how much your…’ He broke off, his hand going to the hip where his sword should have hung. Hero heard a shout. Vallon wrenched open the door and Wulfstan appeared, almost falling over himself in glee.

‘What the devil’s got into you?’ Vallon snapped.

‘Beg pardon,’ Wulfstan gasped. ‘Some kid just arrived with a message. An Englishman and his family, all wearing Seljuk dress, have landed at the Harbour of Theodosius, claiming they know Vallon the Frank.’

Hero and Vallon gaped at each other. ‘It can’t be.’

‘It is,’ Wulfstan said. ‘The lad didn’t give a name but said the man had corn-coloured hair and his woman had hair as pale as flax. And they’ve got a giant dog with them and two kiddies. The harbour guards won’t let them leave.’

Vallon pushed past Wulfstan and strode into the hallway. ‘My lady, come quick. Amazing news.’

Caitlin bustled in. ‘What now? I can’t take any more alarms.’

‘Wayland and Syth have arrived in the city. We’re going to collect them.’

Caitlin steepled her hands in front of her mouth and screamed. ‘I’m coming with you.’ She ran for the door. ‘What about the girls?’

‘Bring them with you. Aiken, too. Wulfstan, order a caique. It will be quicker than riding.’

On the ride down the Bosporus they worked themselves into a fever of speculation over what could have brought Wayland and his family to Constantinople.

‘The Logothete must have sent for him,’ said Hero.

‘No. Wayland wouldn’t uproot his family on the minister’s say-so.’ Vallon gestured towards Wulfstan and put a finger against his lips. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

The Harbour of Theodosius on the Marmara coast was Constantinople’s largest port, built to handle Byzantium’s grain imports from its former Egyptian colony. Vallon’s party hurried down the quay, dodging stevedores and fishermen unloading catches.

‘That must be them,’ Wulfstan cried, pointing at a cordon of soldiers.

Their officer strode forward and saluted. ‘General Vallon?’

‘I believe you’ve detained an English family.’

Behind the soldiers, a tall blond man with Viking blue eyes rose from a bale. Up darted a slim lady, holding in each hand a tow-haired boy and girl, the boy clutching a miniature bow, the girl with tear-swollen eyes folding a doll to her chest. Beside them stood a long-limbed Anatolian shepherd dog with a tucked-up waist and shaggy cream and grey pelt.

‘Syth!’ Caitlin shrieked, and ran forward and gathered the woman in her arms. Vallon advanced at a stroll, smiling from ear to ear.

‘Wayland.’

The Englishman smiled a lazy smile. Years of staring into the sun had etched a fan of lines around his eyes. He looked weary and his quilted tunic was travel-stained.

Syth smiled the lovely smile that still glowed in Vallon’s memory. Two children hadn’t spoiled her figure, and her eyes remained as clear as northern skies.

Wayland kissed his old companions. ‘Captain Vallon, it’s good to see you again after all these years.’

‘He’s a general now,’ said Hero.

‘There are no ranks between us,’ said Vallon.

‘Hero, I’ve often thought of you and I’m delighted that you look even cleverer than when we parted.’ Wayland noticed Wulfstan and laughed. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see.’