James Heneage - The Walls of Byzantium

Anna picked herself up, brushing the pine needles from her brother’s doublet, and whistled again. Again came the reply.

She pushed her way through the branches of the trees until she came to a small clearing where a ruined hut stood, its broken beams pointing up to the sky like teeth. Stones lay in a jumble all around it and, amongst them, a tethered pony patiently cropped the grass, its tail languidly swishing flies.

Pallas .

Anna smiled. She’d had Pallas since birth and he was old now but he’d have to make one final effort today. If he got her there, she would give him the most comfortable berth in Monemvasia.

She went over to the pony and stroked his neck, untying him and leading him through the trees to the path beyond. When they reached it, she stopped, looked around and listened, shushing Pallas, who had begun to eat noisily again. She could hear nothing but the sounds of the forest and the occasional birdcall echoing through the trees. They were alone.

Slowly and carefully, she got on to the pony and was pleased to see that he could still take her weight. She urged him into a slow trot, her feet barely clearing the ground, her back jarring against his unsaddled back. She climbed the path, moving deeper into the forest. A red butterfly danced before her in dust that floated in a shaft of sunlight and Pallas gave a familiar snort of satisfaction. Anna began to feel safer.

At the top of the hill, the path plunged deep into the valley and then veered sharply eastwards, the trees gradually clearing to reveal the sheer sides of rock that backed the hill of Mistra to her right. The citadel, with its beacon still burning, was just visible at the top.

On her left, the forests of Mount Taygetos gave way to scree on its upper slopes. She looked further up to the snowline that never melted, even in summer, and then beyond to the distant peak soaring into the clouds. Anna remembered playing with Alexis on those slopes when they were young and she closed her eyes as the sun reappeared from behind a cloud and bathed her in new warmth.

Then she heard it.

The unmistakable twang of a bowstring and the sound of an arrow in flight. A heartbeat later, it was embedded in a tree inches from Pallas’s head.

The pony stopped suddenly and Anna was flung across his neck. She looked up, her heart racing, and saw a flash of horse and rider between the trees to her left. She saw rich colour: silk with mail. Not Greek. Not Norman.

The sunlight was blinding her and she shielded her eyes. There was nothing there.

The crack of a branch and a mocking laugh told her that the danger was now on her right. Another arrow hit the tree behind her as she tried to wheel Pallas to see her assailant.

‘Who are you?’ she called, angry at the fear in her voice. ‘I’m not alone. There are soldiers behind me!’

Again came the laugh and a third arrow thudded into the ground beside her, causing the pony to rear. Anna was thrown from his back and landed heavily on the ground, hitting her head hard. All went black.

A moment later, she came to and heard the rustle of mail as someone dismounted very close to where she was lying. She opened her eyes but they had dust in them and she couldn’t see properly. She wiped it away with her hand and looked up at the figure bent over her.

Two yellow eyes stared into hers.

In the square in front of the palace, the Despot and his Protostator sat on the wall and looked out over the plain.

The sun was at its zenith and, although a breeze had arisen, both felt uncomfortably hot in their armour. They had taken the precaution of sitting in the shade of one of the fruit trees which lined the square and, in better times, might have provided the headrest for some sleeping philosopher. Simon Laskaris could feel the sweat coursing down his back. He wasn’t used to wearing armour.

The Ottoman army had at last deployed, in one expert movement of dust and silence, into a vast crescent behind the siege engines. In the centre stood the massed ranks of the bashibozouk irregulars, who would rush forward to die in their thousands against the city walls, the cry of ‘ Allahu Akhbar ’ on their lips and a vision of black-eyed houris before their eyes. Behind them, in perfect order, stood the ranks of the janissary regiments, each with its standard and its aura of invincibility. On either wing of the crescent stood the sipahi cavalry dressed in their skins with their bows resting on their saddles, great quivers of arrows slung by their sides.

The only sounds that came from this army of fifty thousand were the snap of banner and the jangle of harness.

Simon Laskaris mopped his forehead. The cloth smelt of his wife and he breathed in its fragrance. He wondered where his daughter had disappeared to. He moved his gaze to the soldiers on the battlements. Would they really die for a city that wasn’t even theirs? Probably not.

Theodore seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Will they fight?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘With you amongst them, lord, they’ll fight.’

The Despot sighed. ‘And when I retire to the citadel, Simon? Will they fight then, do you think?’

The Protostator leant forward. ‘We’ve discussed this many times, lord. Your duty to your people is to survive to rebuild this city once the Turks have gone. This is probably just a raid. They’ll ransack the lower town and then leave.’

‘Where are your family?’ asked the Despot. ‘Are they safe in the citadel?’

‘I hope so, lord. Except Alexis. That’s him now.’

Running up the steps to the square came his son. He was dressed in full armour but his head was bare.

How young he looks .

The boy dropped to one knee. ‘Majesty, I have news from the Turks,’ he said between pants.

Theodore lifted him to his feet. ‘Nothing that won’t wait for you to recover your breath, Alexis. Sit down and drink some water.’

Alexis sat on the wall and drained the water brought to him in one gulp. He ran his hands through his hair and flicked away the sweat. ‘Thank you, Majesty. It’s a steep climb.’

‘Yes, Alexis. Steep for us, steep for the Turk. Now, what do they say?’

Alexis pointed up at the flag that flew from the palace tower. ‘Their message is this, lord. If, by lowering our standard, you signify the surrender of Mistra and your vassalage to the Sultan Bayezid, then the city will be spared.’

‘And if we choose not to?’ asked the Despot.

‘Then the city will be taken and all will be put to the sword.’

Theodore was silent for a long time, stroking his beard.

‘How old are you, Alexis?’ he asked at last.

‘Eighteen, lord. Nearly nineteen.’

The Despot smiled and considered the person who came closest in the world to being his own son. God had not granted him and the Despoena the blessing of children.

‘And how would you feel if you knew that those eighteen … no, nineteen years were the last of this thousand-year empire?’

Alexis glanced at his father, who was standing next to them listening. Then he looked straight into the eyes of his ruler. ‘We must fight, Majesty. We have our walls, we have our valour and, above all, we have our God. We can win.’

‘And our citadel, Alexis,’ added Theodore. ‘Don’t forget the citadel,’

‘Indeed, lord. And it cannot be taken. The ground is too steep for their engines. Even if they succeed in taking the lower town, we will attack them from above.’

Theodore templed his hands and brought them to his mouth. ‘Who commands their army?’ he asked.

‘We’re not sure, sire. Some say it is Suleyman, eldest son to the Sultan. But no one has seen him.’

The Despot pondered this. ‘Tell the heralds to say this to Prince Suleyman, if indeed it is he: that Christian Mistra will remain Christian. Tell him that Mistra will stand.’