James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

Then, to his astonishment, he saw Suleyman ride back to his lines, only slowing to issue a command to the sipahis that had ridden out to escort him. And, miracle upon miracles, the whole Ottoman army turned around and began to march back to its tents, the siege engines rumbling slowly behind them.

It seemed to the Protostrator that a tiny wind had risen across the hillside of Mistra as twenty thousand breaths were released below him and a city’s population looked down at its children and saw a future before them. Then, little by little, the wind rose to a roar, a roar of such jubilation that it seemed the very stones of the houses might be lifted from their mortar.

The city of Mistra was saved.

And out there on the plain below stood its saviours, hand in hand.

MONEMVASIA, SPRING 1392

Luke had never been inside the Mamonas Palace. In all the years he’d passed under its imposing gateway to meet Damian and Zoe, he’d not once been invited inside.

But he didn’t mind. The courtyards, with their fountains and gardens, were cool after the climb and anything that delayed an encounter with the twins was a blessing. The gardeners, too, were always good for gossip and reliable in gauging the mood of their young master and mistress.

But today he would enter the palace and he was not looking forward to it.

Luke and his father Joseph stood together in the entrance hall and waited in silence. Conversation between the two had been difficult since Luke had come home two days before to recount what had happened at the stud. His father didn’t know what to say to his son. He entirely accepted Luke’s version of events but he also knew the Archon. The wait for news from the palace had been nerve-racking. Was Damian maimed for life?

Other worries had kept Luke awake over the past two nights: the beautiful stallion for one. Despite its wildness, the horse had sparked something inside Luke and he longed to see it again. But had they let it live? And then there was Zoe. She’d come to him once Damian had been lifted, screaming, on to the litter to bring him home. He remembered the conversation vividly.

‘You could have stopped that.’

‘What? Zoe, don’t be ridiculous. You saw what happened.’

‘I and no one else.’ She’d paused. ‘I want to know about the Varangian treasure.’

‘You’re blackmailing me?’ He’d laughed then. It was too absurd. ‘I told you, it’s myth.’

And she’d shrugged and walked away.

Now he waited. To distract himself, Luke looked around. Sitting amongst spacious orchards on the Goulas of Monemvasia, the Mamonas Palace was of an opulence unmatched anywhere in the city. An enormous marble gateway led into a series of courtyards of Moorish design inspired by Pavlos Mamonas’s visit to the Alhambra Palace in Spain. Central fountains played into pools in which lily pads gently floated. Gravel paths edged with fruit trees surrounded them, fronting borders full of flowers collected from the many countries in which the family sold its wine. Marble benches stood in the cool shade beneath the trees.

The entrance hall was circular and domed, with large, arched alcoves each holding an exquisite vessel of coloured Venetian glass. A shaft of light from an aperture at the apex of the dome threw their reds, blues, greens and yellows across the curved walls so that the room became a kaleidoscope of moving colour.

Both Joseph and Luke were staring up at the dome when the inner doors to the palace opened and a servant ushered them down a hall and into the audience chamber.

Joseph, unlike his son, had been in this room many times before. Huge frescoes covered every inch of its walls, telling the story of the life of Alexander in vivid colour. The room was rectangular and a narrow carpet ran the length of the marble floor to a dais, on which stood an ornate throne beneath a canopy bearing the Mamonas crest.

On the throne, dressed in a magnificent tunic of red brushed silk and surrounded by his Varangian Guards, sat the Archon. And while Joseph’s fellow Guardsmen looked uncomfortable, Pavlos Mamonas just looked thunderous.

That his son wasn’t dead seemed to Pavlos Mamonas a miracle. After the calamity, the Archon had ridden quickly to the stud with the family physician, who’d spent hours binding the boy’s broken legs into splints while Zoe tried to distract him from the pain.

Pavlos’s mood had darkened further when he’d returned to Monemvasia to find a messenger with the news that Mistra had not been taken. To his dismay he’d learnt that the city had, in fact, been saved by what seemed like the capricious whim of the Prince Suleyman, a man the Archon had thought he could trust.

Now before him stood someone he could vent his anger on. He looked at the boy and thought it inconceivable that he could not have prevented what had happened. And anyway, why had this Varangian been allowed to remain unscathed when his son lay in twisted agony upstairs?

‘Your name?’ he asked, as if he didn’t know it well enough.

‘Luke Magoris, lord,’ he answered, looking his Archon straight in the eye.

I cannot be blamed for this .

Luke felt his father stiffen behind him, as if he’d read his thoughts. He looked at the three Varangians with their great axes sloped on their shoulders. None of them returned his glance.

‘Luke Magoris,’ went on the Archon, ‘do you understand why you’re here?’

Luke didn’t reply.

The Archon looked beyond him to his father. ‘Is the boy stupid, Magoris?’ he asked.

‘Lord …’ began Joseph, but the Archon held up his hand.

‘Please don’t go on. I know he’s not stupid. Otherwise he wouldn’t be allowed near our horses. No, it seems he’s just insolent.’ Pavlos Mamonas rose from his chair and slowly walked down the steps to stand directly in front of him, his hands behind his back.

Luke returned his stare.

‘Yes, insolent. Insolent and more concerned for his own skin than that of my son, who, it might be supposed, he was there to protect.’ The Archon walked slowly around Luke, who stood rigidly still. ‘My daughter Zoe,’ he continued, ‘tells me that, having provoked the horse to charge, you then threw my son in front of you to take the consequences. Is that true?’

Luke was stupefied, but forced himself to stay calm. ‘No, lord. That’s not what happened.’

The Archon stopped. ‘You dare to call my daughter a liar?’ His face was almost touching Luke’s. ‘After all you’ve done, will you now accuse my daughter of lying?’

Luke’s mind was racing.

This is insane. Why is she doing this?

Mamonas’s next words were barely audible to anyone but Luke and his father. ‘Is my daughter a liar?’ he whispered.

Luke didn’t answer. The fear that had grown in him since entering the room was beginning to turn into anger. Then he felt a stinging pain. The Archon had slapped him hard across his cheek.

He heard a growl of protest behind him.

Mamonas turned on Joseph, challenge in his eyes. ‘Magoris, don’t make things worse for the boy.’ Then he turned away, mounting the dais again and sitting on his throne in a hiss of silk. ‘Send in my daughter.’

There was silence as the girl was found, a silence in which Luke looked directly into the eyes of the Archon. His body was trembling.

I must not lose my temper. I cannot win this. I must take what is given or my father will suffer too .

Then the door opened and Zoe walked in. She glanced at Luke and then went to stand beside her father, her hand resting on the back of the throne. If she felt either guilt or discomfort, she didn’t show it.

‘Daughter,’ said the Archon, turning in his seat to address her, ‘is it true that this boy, Luke Magoris, caused a young stallion to charge and trample your brother Damian?’