James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

Anna had walked to the church, hand in hand with her mother, the Despot and Plethon either side of them. Black hung from every window and whispers hung over the people lining the streets like a shroud.

Simon Laskaris was to be buried at last.

For most, it was a relief. Since Serres, he had acted as a man deranged, walking the streets at night in his bedclothes, his white hair unkempt, his beard brittle with food. People had ached to see such a man shorn of his dignity and they remembered the cause of it and wept.

Tonight, they stood beneath their torches until the Despot’s party had passed and then followed them up the hill to stand in silent vigil around the church of St Sophia.

Those inside the church took their seats in the side chapel where the leaders of Mistra had been buried for generations. Anna, Maria, Theodore and Bartolomea sat in the front row. Behind them sat the highest-ranking men of the court and their wives.

Now the singing began and the incense swirled and the candles fluttered in the small draught that came through the windows high in the chapel’s walls. The Despot rose to stand beside the body of his oldest friend and spoke a solemn eulogy that told of greatness and friendship.

And Anna watched it all with dry eyes.

Simon Laskaris dead. Alexis dead. Luke as good as dead .

For no reason, she thought of Zoe. Had she come?

Zoe had come. Her rank permitted it and she was deemed unguilty of the sins of her father and brother. She had crept into the chapel after the service had begun and now stood at the back. Her eyes were fixed on the wall behind the altar.

It was dark by now and difficult to see much above the weak light of the many candles. But she could just make out a figure, then another.

Yes.

It was a scene she’d seen before, a scene she’d covered with paint in a Varangian church in Constantinople..

It wasn’t identical, but the composition was the same: the open tomb, the guards lying asleep around it; one guard, his sword pointing. But there was something new in this picture.

She looked up. Her heart was beating fast.

Yes. There it was. The risen Christ.

She had lied to Plethon. She’d found nothing in Siward’s tomb in Constantinople. She had come to Mistra hoping to find something.

And there it was.

Luke and Benedo Barbi rode into the village of Seyit Gazi beneath a steady cascade of rain that drilled into their backs without mercy. By now, the steppe around them had turned into a brown glue that gripped their horses’ hooves and made every step a journey. Sound, at least, was obliterated by the downpour. They felt invisible.

Above them, somewhere, was the monastery, but the rain was too dense for it to be seen. They reached a little square where the bulbous dome of a mosque could just be made out on one side. There was a man beating his fist against the door.

Luke kicked his horse and rode up to him. The man was dressed as a monk and his sodden robes clung to his body like a second skin.

‘Are you from the monastery?’

The man turned and began to back away.

Barbi said, ‘We are friends. We’re not with the Venetians.’ He wondered if he understood Greek.

The man stopped and stared up at them. He was shaking with cold and fear and rubbing his palms against the sides of his tunic as if they might somehow dry.

Luke asked, ‘Are they inside the walls?’

Now the monk stepped forward, bringing his hands to his head and pushing his long hair away from his eyes. His face was shiny with wet and filth. ‘They were dressed as pilgrims. For the vigil. The saint’s vigil.’ He looked from Luke to Barbi. ‘We thought they were pilgrims.’

Luke dismounted, unsticking himself from the saddle with pain. The insides of his legs were raw. He approached the man. ‘How did you get out?’

The monk looked behind him, up at the louring bulk of the monastery somewhere beyond the rain. ‘I swam,’ he replied. ‘There is a cistern and a pipe to the outside for when it over-flows. I came out through the pipe.’

‘And the others? Did others manage to escape?’

The man shook his head. ‘Only me. It’s too dangerous now. All this rain will fill the pipe.’

‘How many Venetians are there?’

The monk considered this. ‘They’re not all Venetian. Just two. The rest are of the Karamanid tribe.’

Luke had heard of the Karamanids. They were the neighbouring tribe to the Germiyans and their enemies. They had yet to succumb to Bayezid. He walked back to Barbi, who was still on his horse. He looked up, shielding his face from the rain. ‘Can you swim?’

Barbi shook his head. ‘Never learnt. Can you?’

Luke grinned. ‘Like a dolphin.’

Barbi dismounted. ‘Luke, you heard him. It’s too dangerous.’

Luke shrugged. ‘It’s the only way in. They’ll have barred the gates and manned the walls. It’s the only way to get inside and you can’t swim.’

‘But you’ll drown.’

‘Not if we hurry.’ Luke turned to the monk. ‘Father, can you show us this pipe?’

Minutes later they were leading their horses across the square to the edge of the village where they tied them to a fence post. Luke patted his animal and then stopped. He’d had a thought. He walked over to Barbi.

‘Have you got the Greek fire in your saddlebags?’ he asked.

The Italian nodded. ‘I have two siphons and the solution inside it. Do you want them?’

‘Bring them.’

The monk leading, they began to climb the hill, their feet slipping in the mud. The siphons were heavy and Barbi struggled to keep up.

Then they were there. The monk stopped. He was kneeling next to the opening to a clay tunnel. It was not much more than a man’s width across.

‘It’s still dry,’ said the monk. ‘But the moment the water inside the cistern reaches its level, it will come out in a rush. You’ll need to be quick.’

Luke had taken off his cloak. ‘Give me one of the siphons,’ he said to Barbi. ‘Help me to strap it on to my back.’

The engineer lifted the siphon and helped Luke into its harness. Water was drumming against its metal and splashing into their eyes. Luke tested the straps, then: ‘Let me tell you my plan,’ he said.

But Barbi was shaking his head. ‘I already know your plan,’ he said. ‘And it’s insane.’

Inside the monastery crypt, all was yellow. Tall tallow candles cast their unreliable light over the tombs of the saint and his Byzantine princess, bathing them in a wash of quince. Around the tombs were low arches supported by stout pillars and the floor was squared by flagstones rippled by the flow of time. The only metal objects were rings, some driven into the beams above the tombs and one large one in the floor. Around the walls, half in shadow, stood men dressed in the clothes of pilgrims, their hoods drawn back. All had the wind-blasted features of men of the steppe.

Suspended above the tombs in the pose of crucifixion, with his hands inside two rings, was Omar. He was naked to the waist and, in the candlelight, his skin had the texture of unfeathered chicken. His feet were resting on the giant’s tomb.

Before him stood the Venetian di Vetriano. He had his short sword at his side and was holding a crossbow that was pointed at Omar’s heart.

There was a sudden gust of wind as the crypt door opened and the candles jumped and cowered. One went out. A man dressed in black had entered and shook the rain from his cloak. ‘We found nothing,’ he said to di Vetriano. ‘Just his bag.’

‘And you searched it?’

‘Nothing. No capsules, nothing.’

‘What of the monks?’

‘Locked in the refectory. They’re not talking. I don’t think they know where he’s gone anyway.’