James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

‘Duck!’ yelled Matthew, pushing Plethon to the floor as a bolt whistled over their heads. Another arrow flew, this time from behind them. He looked up to see Richard Mamonas thrown back against the wall of the church, an arrow in his chest, amazement on his face. He fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft, then pitched forward onto the stone. He was dead.

Zoe was looking around for something.

‘Don’t’ said Matthew, rising. His bow was aimed at her heart. “You’d be dead before you got to it.’

Plethon got to his feet. He raked the chapel with his eyes. ‘Where is she?’

Matthew was looking at the open grave ‘She’s in there. Nikki, Arcadius, get her.’

The Varangians ran to the grave and Nikolas jumped in. A moment later he’d risen with Anna in his arms. Her head to one side and her eyes closed. She was a figure of clay, her hair a tangle of roots plucked from the earth. Plethon went over to her, looking down into a face without movement. There was blood on her lips.

We were too late .

‘Lay her down. There.’ He turned to Zoe. She was perfectly still, staring at the casket. ‘Did you hurt her?’

Zoe shook her head, her eyes vacant, unseeing. ‘She fell.’

Plethon knelt. He took a fold of his toga and began to wipe the dirt from Anna’s face, the blood from her lips. Her mouth was open.

She’s breathing .

Her eyelids fluttered. He lifted a corner of the toga to them, using it to take away the earth. She opened her eyes. She looked at Plethon for a long time before she spoke.

‘Open it,’ she whispered.

He knew what she meant. Plethon sat back on his haunches. He looked up at Matthew who was kneeling across from him.

‘Take Zoe and the others out of the church. Make sure no one comes in. No one.’

Matthew began to say something, but stopped. Then he nodded and rose. He signaled to the other Varangians and they left the church, Zoe between them. There was a dull thud as the door closed.

Anna had risen to her feet and was sweeping the remaining dirt from her clothes. There were bruises on her arms from where she had landed in the grave. She ran her hands through her hair and more earth fell to the ground. She wiped her hands on her thighs and took Plethon’s hand. ‘Come.’

They found candles and brought them over to the casket. They saw that Richard Mamonas had broken two of the metal bands, leaving one intact. Plethon gave his candle to Anna, picked up the iron bar and put it between the metal and the wood. It broke easily.

Then he sat back. Anna was by his side holding the candles and the casket was ready to open. They looked at each other, saw excitement and fear mirrored in each other’s eyes.

‘Are you ready?’ asked Plethon quietly.

Anna looked down at the casket. She took a deep breath and nodded, once.

Plethon placed his hands on the lid, his thumbs below the rim. He lifted it free and it slid to the ground. They looked into the casket.

Inside was an object wrapped in layer upon layer of coarse cloth. The cloth was ancient and frayed and smelled of must and decay. A faint cloud of dust rose from it.

The candles in Anna’s hands flickered as if a wind had passed. It was suddenly much colder in the chapel. She turned to Plethon and saw, in the candlelight, that he was ashen white. She took his hand and found that it was trembling.

‘Do you know what it is?’ she whispered.

Plethon didn’t answer at first. He seemed transfixed by what was before him. Then he nodded.

Anna looked down. ‘What is it?’

Slowly, slowly he turned to her and, as he did so, a cock crew somewhere further down the hill of Mistra. The sun had risen.

‘Something that will change the world.’

In the monastery of Battal Gazi, the Venetian sopracomito had not believed the old man who was straddled above him in crucifixion. He’d seen the wretches in the Arsenale. He’d drunk the mixture himself and survived the plague.

He was standing, legs apart, in front of Omar. He had removed his doublet and in one hand held a branding iron, which he was heating over the largest of the candles. The air smelt of singed flesh.

‘One more time,’ said di Vetriano. ‘Tell me where Magoris is and all this can stop. I’m losing patience.’

A few Karamanid tribesmen were standing somewhere among the shadows of the crypt. Others were manning the monastery walls. The other Venetian, Fabio, was lounging against the door studying the pitted blade of his sword. The steady drill of rain on stone could be heard outside.

Omar’s upper body was a mass of blisters where di Vetriano had applied the brand. Some were oozing blood and a yellow liquid that glistened as it ran. The old man’s eyes were closed.

Di Vetriano sighed. He withdrew the brand from the flame and blew on it so that the metal glowed. He began to walk towards Omar.

There was a banging behind him and he stopped. It came from the door. Fabio straightened and glanced at di Vetriano, who nodded. The door was opened.

A Karamanid tribesman was standing there. He said something in a low voice.

‘You won’t believe this,’ Fabio said, turning. ‘Magoris is here. At the gate. He wants to come in.’

A lightning flash lit into day the courtyard outside and, seconds later, a peal of thunder exploded into the room like cannon-shot.

‘He’s alone?’

Fabio nodded.

Di Vetriano turned to Omar. ‘Who says fortune only favours the good? He must want to save you.’ Then: ‘Fabio, tell them to bring him. And search him thoroughly.’

They waited for Luke in silence. Omar’s eyes remained closed and his head was slumped to one side as if he was asleep. Di Vetriano made no attempt to inflict further pain on him but sat on the tomb contemplating first one boot, then the other. The branding iron was leant against the wall.

At last the door opened and Luke walked in flanked by two tribesmen. He was wearing a long cloak that seemed more water than wool. His long fair hair was caked in dirt and straddled his face. The rain outside swept in and water quickly entered the crypt around him, spreading across the stone so that it soon seemed as if they were afloat.

He stared up at Omar. ‘Cut him down, di Vetriano.’

The Venetian shook his head. ‘I think not. You seem to me the sort of fool more likely to talk if someone else suffers. He’ll stay where he is.’ He rose to his feet and picked up the branding iron. ‘We’ll keep him there and you’ll talk and if you don’t I’ll burn him some more.’ He paused. ‘You’ll talk in the end, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

Luke said, ‘What do you want to know?’

Di Vetriano walked over and sat on the smaller tomb. He picked up the crossbow and began to examine its mechanism, his brow furrowed. He was choosing his words. ‘When I last met you it was on a galley that had amongst its cargo some jars of mastic mixed with other ingredients. It was thought to fix dye.’

Luke glanced beyond di Vetriano. Omar had opened his eyes and was looking hard at Luke. A trickle of blood had emerged at the corner of his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue.

Vetriano said, ‘As precisely as possible, please tell me the formula.’

Luke frowned. Surely the information was now useless? The tests had proved negative.

What does it matter? I just have to keep him talking .

He looked up at Omar, at his body scarred by fire, and wondered if he could hold on just a little longer. He thought of another man about the same age who’d stood before a city wall on another night of storm and swung his axe.

Luke began to speak. He spoke of mastic and orange blossom and the distillations from twenty other flowers and herbs, all the while looking straight at Omar. He talked in Italian and Latin and he used his hands to clarify points. Di Vetriano couldn’t keep up.