James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

Di Vetriano frowned. He turned to Omar. ‘It would seem that he’s done it again. Magoris seems to have infinite cunning when it comes to escape. First Monemvasia, then my friend Rufio’s boat. Now this monastery.’ He paused and walked up to Omar, his head the height of his waist. He looked up. ‘Where is he, old man?’

Omar didn’t answer. He was looking at the Venetian with calm and some interest. He knew him now. ‘Di Vetriano.’

The Venetian performed a little bow. If he was surprised by the acknowledgement, he hid it well. His face, pointed and sallow, was a mask. Venice was good at masks.

Omar continued: ‘Why would the Serenissima’s most infamous sea captain be looking for Luke Magoris?’

This time the Italian didn’t respond. He didn’t know who Omar was but he felt a power emanating from the old man that was beginning to unsettle him.

Omar said, ‘Why would this sea captain, the same that brought Luke Magoris’s mastic from Chios to Venice, be searching my young friend’s baggage for a capsule ?’ He paused. ‘A capsule of what?’

Di Vetriano frowned. ‘You ask too many questions, old man,’ he said. ‘It will be my turn soon.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Fabio, take some of these animals and make another search of the monastery.’

His companion gestured to two of the Karamanids and left. Another candle went out with the draught.

Di Vetriano went over to one that was still alight. He set down the crossbow and prised the candle from its holder with both hands. Hot wax dripped on to the back of his hand and he swore. He returned to Omar, climbing to stand on top of the saint’s tomb so that they were facing each other.

‘I’m told that old men’s skin burns like parchment,’ he said genially. He was holding the candle in the space between them and lifted it so that the flame was almost touching Omar’s nose. ‘Now, once again, where is Luke Magoris?’

Pieces of Omar’s beard and eyebrows were curling and there was the acrid smell of burning hair. The only movement in his face came from the clenching of teeth. He stared straight into the Italian’s eyes. ‘I don’t know. He left this morning without saying goodbye.’

Di Vetriano laughed softly, a dry sound. He broke off a piece of wax from the top of the candle, studied it for a moment and then pressed it to Omar’s cheek. There was a smell of scorched flesh and the old man flinched but no sound came from his lips.

‘Do I have to ask you again?’

Then Omar blew. He lifted his beard and puckered his lips and the candle went out. Di Vetriano stared at the smoking wick in amazement.

Omar said, ‘You need to listen, not talk, di Vetriano. You’ve made a mistake.’

The sopracomito’s smile was, just for a moment, unfastened from his face. He took a step backwards, lifting an arm to keep his balance on the curve of the tomb.

‘It doesn’t do what you think it does,’ said Omar.

Di Vetriano had gone very still. ‘And what do I think what does?’ he asked slowly.

Omar didn’t directly answer the question. He shifted his weight and looked up at an arm. A trickle of blood was running down from his wrist. He looked back. ‘I was in Venice when your ship came in,’ he said. ‘With my friend Plethon. We were there to meet with your doge. We saw your ship held in St Mark’s Basin flying the flag of plague. Yet there were men brought ashore. We speculated why.’

Di Vetriano was watching the man in front of him closely, his arms folded tightly to his chest. He had not relit the candle.

Omar shifted his weight again. ‘You will permit,’ he continued, ‘that the lands of the Prophet have been far more advanced in the field of medicine than Christendom? Indeed, remain so, yes?’

Di Vetriano didn’t answer.

‘We have long understood that a mixture of mastic from Chios, orange blossom and other ingredients can offer some amelioration against the onslaught of the plague.’ He paused and then he said, ‘It can delay the plague’s advance for a matter of weeks, but it can do no more.’

There was sweat now on the Venetian’s brow. A bead broke free and ran unrestricted to the bank of his moustache. His eyes were unfocused.

Omar spoke again, quietly and with sympathy. ‘Signore, your agreement with the Serenissima would seem voided.’

Below the crypt, below the flagstone with the ring at its centre, the cistern was filling fast.

Luke was in the tunnel with the siphon on his back, the straps biting into his shoulders. At his waist was an oilskin containing the stuff to make fire. The pipe was bigger than he’d thought it would be but it was dark and slippery and rose at an angle that meant he had to use his elbows to make any progress forward. The pain was excruciating.

He stopped, closed his eyes and listened.

Nothing, except the steady fall of water into the cistern ahead. He adjusted the siphon on his back and inched forward. Around him was a black woven so dense that it seemed palpable. For a moment, he thought of the labyrinth and a dream that had brought forth a village. Without darkness, there could be no light.

He stopped and listened again. The sounds ahead had changed. There was silence now. No water meeting water. Just silence.

Then something else.

Water was coming towards him and was approaching fast. It sounded like a huge snake slapping its flesh against the sides of the pipe. He took a deep breath and ground his body into the sides of the pipe.

Coming. Coming. Com …

Then it was upon him. He just had time to brace himself before it hit, pushing him backwards so that he had to use his knees as well as his hands to stop himself from going with it. It filled his nose and his ears and plastered his hair to his skull. The noise was deafening. It went on and on.

Luke felt himself slipping and his lungs ready to burst. The straps of the canister were like knives in his shoulders, pulling them from their sockets. He pressed every part of his body into the wall in one last effort.

Hold on .

Then it was gone.

As quickly as it had come, the water vanished and Luke opened his eyes, shaking his head and blowing water from his nose. He was breathing hard, the sound filling the space around him.

It will come again. I must move fast .

Taking another deep breath he began to edge forward. He could feel air on his face. He must be almost there.

Then he was. He could see nothing but blackness but his head and shoulders were suddenly in a bigger space and there was an echo to his breathing. He’d reached the cistern. He pulled his body through the end of the pipe and down into the deep water, his legs working to keep him afloat. It was bitterly cold.

He reached up and found only air. Then he crouched down and launched himself up as high as the siphon on his back would let him. This time his fingers touched stone. He sank back into the water and listened, clamping his teeth together to stop them chattering. The only sound was the rush of water into the cistern.

I don’t have much time .

He looked up, his eyes raking the darkness. Nothing.

Then he saw it. A tiny sliver of light that meant a wellhead.

The crypt .

Shifting the siphon into a more comfortable position, he swam towards it. The sound of falling water was lower here and he could hear faint voices above. He looked beyond. There was another sliver of light, just as the monk had said. It had to be the refectory where the other monks were being held.

He paddled over to it and waited. He could hear nothing above.

He ducked deep under the water and brought his fist into a clench. He rose and his knuckles hit wood.

Now there were voices. It was so, so cold. His teeth were hitting each other so hard he felt they must break.