James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

Which was why they saw the riders.

They were far, far behind: tiny specks that never got closer. When they stopped, the specks stopped too. There were many.

‘They’re following us,’ said Luke.

‘Yes, and not caring much if we know it.’

‘Who are they?’

Omar shrugged. They had stopped side by side and were looking back at their pursuers. ‘One of the tribes curious to know why we’re here? I don’t know.’

It was late afternoon and the day was beginning to darken. A sudden gust of wind lifted the horses’ heads and Luke looked into the distance. Curtains of rain were moving fast towards them, their shadows mottling the ground like a disease. Lightning branched out across the sky and the horses pricked up their ears and pointed their noses towards the danger. Luke leaned forward and whispered words into a quivering ear and the ear was still.

Omar spoke. ‘We are still far from our destination. We need to hurry.’

It took three days of hard riding for Plethon, Anna and Zoe, and their Varangian escort, to reach Mistra. They’d left Edirne at dawn and ridden without conversation all day. The others had changed horses but Anna had Eskalon beneath her and he’d looked ready to ride the same distance again when they stopped at an inn south of Corinth on the first night.

The truth was that Anna hadn’t really known what to say to Zoe.

Certainly, Zoe had helped her in the past and she’d believed her a friend. But she’d lied to Anna about Suleyman, whom she now knew to be her lover, and she was certain that her interest in Luke went beyond concern for his welfare.

So, at the first opportunity, she’d gone to find Plethon. He was washing his face from a bucket outside the inn.

‘Why is she here?’

Plethon’s face had been pressed to a towel. He emerged, blinking. ‘Because she may or may not help me to find the Varangian treasure in Mistra,’ he said. ‘Her interests may just coincide with mine.’

‘She is Suleyman’s lover,’ said Anna.

‘And you are to be his wife. We are not all free to be what we want to be.’

The conversation had ended there. They’d gone to bed, slept for a few hours, and been back in the saddle before dawn, so it was in a state of some exhaustion that they dismounted to enter the little city of Mistra on the following night, leaving their horses at the city gate. Anna bade farewell to the Varangians who were to stay at the palace barracks, while she, Plethon and Zoe would sleep at the Laskaris house.

All except Anna were entering for the first time. Plethon’s travels had taken him everywhere except, surprisingly, Mistra, and for some time he’d longed to see the place that some were calling the Empire’s finest jewel. Zoe had found no cause; her family did little business with the city and, in recent times, no Mamonases would have been welcome there.

Anna had not seen her home for two terrible years and her tired eyes strained to conjure memories from the shadows around her. It was approaching midnight and the streets were deserted apart from the cats darting from door to door like messengers, their tails aloft. The street lights were newly extinguished and a faint smell of resin hung in the air. There was a cry from an upper window, perhaps a dream of a time when Suleyman had stood before their gates with a young girl before him on his saddle.

The moon emerged from behind a cloud. Plethon had stopped and was looking up at the dark mass of the Despot’s palace. There were lights in its windows.

‘The Despot works late,’ said Anna, stopping beside him. Zoe had wandered on ahead. ‘We go there tomorrow.’

They walked on and caught up with Zoe and were soon turning into the street where the Laskaris house lay.

Approaching the door, she saw a small woman standing alone beneath a street lamp, bent with waiting. The light from it turned the woman’s hair into a long, disordered veil of mourning white, ribboned by scissors. Not the colour of her mother’s hair.

When she got closer, when she realized that it was Maria standing there, she let out a cry and brought her balled fist to her mouth. Then she was running, running as fast as her tired legs would allow to reach this woman who had suffered two deaths and then a third: her very will to live.

Moments later Maria was in Anna’s arms, and in her raised face, wet with tears, Anna could see the deep scars of her pain. She held her mother’s head between her hands, the white strands of hair spilling through her fingers, and whispered the four words she knew might bring her back from the dead.

‘ I am in love .’

That night was the last that Omar and Luke would spend together before reaching the tribe.

They had arrived at an old Byzantine monastery perched on a hill above a small village called Seyit Gazi. It now held a mosque with outbuildings gathered within stout walls. They had ridden up the path to its gate in the rain and dark on horses whose heads hung low with fatigue.

Omar was both well known and loved by the men of this place. As soon as they’d ridden through the gate, they were surrounded by torches held high above faces shining with relief that they’d arrived late but safe.

One came up to Omar and embraced him as soon as his feet touched the ground. He seemed to be of similar age. ‘Welcome, old friend!’

Omar kissed both of his cheeks. ‘There are men following us, Abraham.’

‘Then we will bar the gates and post guards,’ said the monk. He gestured to another, who hurried away. ‘This monastery is difficult to break into.’

While Omar went into the mosque to pray, Luke was led across the courtyard by Abraham and down some steps into a large vaulted room with cells on either side. In the middle of the room was a long table with plates neatly laid out and a cup by each place. There were candles in wooden holders and baskets of bread and earthenware jugs in between.

Abraham sat and gestured for Luke to sit beside him. ‘We were worried for you. The steppe is not a place to spend the night if you are not a nomad.’ He lifted one of the jugs. ‘And there is more rain coming. Much rain.’

Luke looked around him. Some of the cell doors were shut.

‘Each door leads to a cilehane ,’ said Abraham, ‘“a place of suffering”, in your language. Men come from far away to live in them and, while here, they will fast, talk to no one and read only the Koran.’

‘As I did,’ said Omar, who’d arrived to take the seat next to Luke, ‘for five years; with Abraham, who chose to stay.’

‘Why?’ asked Luke. ‘Why here?’

Omar leant over and took a basket filled with bread. He offered it to Luke. ‘Because it has special significance. It is the shrine of one of our saints, Battal Gazi. He was a giant Arab who fought the Greeks many centuries ago and ran off with the Emperor of Byzantium’s daughter. Theirs was a great love. Her tomb lies next to his in a vault below.’

He looked around at the cells, then he turned to Abraham. ‘The cells are taken?’

‘Many already. People come early.’

Omar turned to Luke. ‘It is the saint’s birthday tomorrow and there will be a vigil in the crypt tomorrow night. Many pilgrims have come already. More will come tomorrow.’

Much later, when they had eaten hot food and the last of the monks had gone to bed, Luke and Omar walked across the rain-splashed courtyard to the room they would sleep in. There were two beds in the room and a fire in the grate and a stone canopy above it shaped like a holy hat. Chairs had been placed before the fire and a jug of wine sat on a low table between them.

‘I don’t usually drink wine,’ said Omar as he sat, ‘but tonight I’ll make an exception. I’m sure Allah will overlook it.’