James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

Anna felt faint. Her head was swimming. She was standing on the edge of the grave and, looking down, could see nothing but black. She closed her eyes and saw a hole beneath a tree, a box that smelt of fish, a cave with a lamp that had gone out. They couldn’t be thinking …

‘Get in,’ said Zoe. ‘Or I’ll fire this crossbow and you’ll fall into it. It’s up to you.’

Anna’s legs nearly gave way. She felt that every nightmare she’d ever had was gathering in that chapel, gathering amongst the saints and sinners on the walls, amongst the visions of hell and damnation, crowding in to finally drive her into madness. She swayed.

‘Get in.’

Then she was pushed.

Her head hit the side as she fell and her breath left her in a rush as she landed at the bottom of the grave. She felt the cold earth against her cheek as she lay there between its steep walls, winded and dizzy. She couldn’t move. She was paralysed with fear. The fall had taken the gag from her mouth but she couldn’t speak.

Then the first earth landed on her. She heard, dimly, the scrape of spade on stone above and felt the first gritty clod on her face. Still she couldn’t move. She could only stare out at walls that towered above, up, up … going on forever.

The earth kept coming, more and more, heavier and heavier, a blanket to cover her. Then her eyes were covered and she could no longer see. She could only smell the blood-scent of the earth. Something moved over her gagged lips: a worm. A worm to crawl into her brain.

Her ears were filled with the sounds of the lost, the damned. She heard praying and screaming and the sounds of wild animals trapped in their cages. A convulsion overwhelmed her body, coursing from her toes to her shoulders, one last spasm. She felt herself falling, falling, falling.

And then she screamed.

Inside the palace, Plethon was woken for a second time in a week by the presence of a woman in his room.

At first he thought her veiled. She was sitting at the end of his bed, her head slightly bent and her long hair falling into her lap like moonlit rain. She had made no attempt to touch or speak to him.

‘Maria?’ he whispered.

The woman turned to him and he saw her eyes as two points of light between the strands of her hair. She didn’t answer.

Plethon sat up. He leant forward and took her hand. ‘Why are you here, Maria?’

There was no reply. The woman lifted her head and glanced around the room; once, twice.

‘Are you looking for someone?’

Her eyes came back to his. ‘Anna.’

‘But she’s with you, Maria.’

The woman shook her head. ‘No.’ Certain. ‘No, they’ve gone.’

Plethon frowned. ‘They?’

‘Anna, the other one. They’ve gone.’

Plethon felt something cold trace its way up his spine. He’d seen Zoe after the funeral and they’d agreed to meet the next day to go to the treasure. Had she gone already?

With Anna?

Something was wrong. He let go Maria’s hand and got out of bed. ‘You must be cold. Take my bed, here. I will go and find them.’

Plethon put her to bed and arranged the blankets to warm her. Then he leant and kissed her forehead, his beard against her hair; silver on silver. ‘Don’t worry. Anna will be back.’

She’s all she has .

He went to the door, opened it and walked along the corridor to the stairs. There were guards at the bottom, men of the Royal Guard. As he descended the stairs, they came to attention. He addressed one of them. ‘Go to the barracks. There are three Varangians there. Find them and wake them. Tell them to meet me at the palace gate. Tell them to bring weapons.’

Ten minutes later, Plethon was standing, shivering, just inside the palace gate. The moon was a luminous sickle and free of clouds. The houses on the hill of Mistra were unmoored from their foundations, floating in the pale light like ships at anchor. Plethon looked up at the church of St Sophia. Were there lights inside?

Is that where you are?

He heard a noise behind him and turned to find Matthew approaching, Nikolas and Arcadius behind. They were wearing armour but no helmets. All had swords in their hands and bows slung over their shoulders.

Plethon put his finger to his lips as they approached. ‘We need to be quiet.’ He looked over his shoulder and then back. ‘Aren’t guards supposed to be at this gate?’

Matthew glanced around him. He nodded. ‘Yes. I saw them earlier. Albanians.’

Albanians .

Plethon frowned. He said, ‘we are going up to the church. I think Anna’s inside, with Zoe and quite possibly others. Look to your weapons.’

They set off through the gate, taking care where they placed their feet. Even if Zoe was inside the church, there might be Albanians keeping guard outside it. As the four of them approached the square in front of the church, they saw silhouettes of men sitting on the wall, each with a drawn sword. There were three of them.

Matthew and the other two crouched down beside Plethon. ‘One each,’ whispered Matthew. ‘I’ll take the one on the left.’

‘And I’ll take the one on the right.’ said Nikolas. ‘That leaves the fat one to you, Arcadius. Think you can manage?’

Arcadius grunted. The Varangians drew knives from their belts.

Plethon put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Remember. Silently.’

The three crept forward, more silent than shadows. To Plethon, watching with his breath held, it was as if they’d disappeared. Then, moments later, there was a small sound and no longer any silhouettes on the wall.

Plethon gathered his toga and crept up the street to the wall. At the Varangians’ feet were three soldiers with their throats open. Matthew said, ‘there may be more inside the church. We should arm ourselves.’

Leaving Plethon to find the steps, the three Varangians lifted themselves over the wall and fell noiselessly into the square. They took their bows from their shoulders and put arrows to their strings. They edged their way around the cistern, grateful for the yew’s shadow, their bows at the ready.

Ahead of them, the door to the church opened and two Albanians appeared, closing the door behind them. The men were carrying ropes and pulleys. Matthew nodded to Nikolas. Seconds later, the Albanians lay on the ground, arrows in their necks and the apparatus for lifting all around them. They had died as silently as the Varangians had intended. Five down was good but how many more were there?

Plethon joined them, his toga too bright in the quarter-moon. He rose to go to the door. Matthew’s arm stopped him. ‘No. We go first.’

Plethon opened his mouth. ‘But…’

He got no further. A scream rent the night. He looked at Matthew, his eyes wide with horror. ‘They’re killing her.’

The Varangians rose and drew their swords. Matthew leading, they ran to the door. They turned the handle. Locked.

‘Arcadius,’ shouted Matthew. ‘Break it open.’

They heard shouts inside. Arcadius stepped back, lowered his shoulder and charged the door. It wouldn’t budge. He tried again. No movement,

‘Help me,’ he said and the three of them lined up, shoulders down, and charged together. This time there was a crack.

‘Again!’

This time the door broke and they crashed into the church. Two Albanians were there to face them but fell at the first sword strokes. Then there were two more, better fighters who managed a parry or two before they died.

Plethon came into the church behind them. ‘Quick, the chapel.’ He lifted his toga and ran to it, the Varangians on his heels.

Inside were a man and a woman standing either side of a casket. There were spades and a crowbar leaning against a pile of earth. The man had a crossbow in his hand.