A Place Called Armageddon (18 page)

‘Good,’ the Genoan said, clapping him on the back, the thunder vanished from his face. ‘And since you’ve been in a few sieges in your time, perhaps you will favour us with your advice? For a few extra coins?’

‘If it gets me out of this city faster, Commander, you can have that advice for free.’

‘Christ have mercy!’ Giustiniani staggered back, clutching at his heart. Then he turned and bellowed, ‘Enzo! Fetch this Samaritan a horse.’

It was like riding through a solid wall of rain, driven hard into their faces by a gusty north-west wind. Still, as the four of them rode from their barracks in the Genoese quarter, out through the forums of Constantine and Theodosius, and into the land beyond, Gregoras was able to glance between hood and mask and see, yet again, how run-down the city was. Only every third house showed any sign of occupation. The shrinking population had moved to the seashores, occupying houses that the richer folk must have fled. Beyond the ancient ruins of the walls of the first Emperor Constantine there had always been open fields, villages, vineyards. But the fields were a wasteland of mud, half the villages deserted. Only as they neared the great Theodosian walls did he see activity, swarms of labourers moving over the stones, bearing others.

Tying up their horses, the Genoan led his party up circling stairs and out through a low door, onto the flat floor of the gate tower of Charisius. The wind and rain, which the walls had partially deflected, hit them full force now, causing all men there to secure hats and cloaks about them with one hand, and press the other against the crenellations.

‘Have you been up here before, Ragusan?’ Giustiniani had stepped close and still had to bellow to be heard above the wind singing in the battlements.

He had. His father had first brought him and Theon here under pretext of inspecting the never-ceasing works that kept them in repair; really, to tell his two sons tales of his service upon the ramparts, at the great siege of ’22, when the present sultan’s father, Murad, had come to conquer. It was not something to share with Giustiniani. ‘Never, master.’ Gregoras looked about. ‘It is an impressive sight.’

‘Aye, is it not? Not one wall. Not two. Three.’ The Commander lifted his arm and swept it before him. ‘This is the highest point of the defences. You see how it falls to the south, then rises again?’ Gregoras looked, to the steeply descending slope of walls and small towers that then rose to the bulky grey blur of a larger tower close to a mile away. The other man continued, following his gaze, ‘That’s the civil gate of St Romanus, and that valley …’ he swept his hand straight before him, ‘that almost funnels towards us here, is known as the Mesoteichion.’ He sucked at his lower lip. ‘From all I have read and heard, this place has always been the focus of any attack. I have no doubt it will be again. This, between the gates of Charisius and St Romanus, is our heel of Achilles. This is the weak spot.’

‘Weak?’ Amir whistled. ‘By the Prophet’s beard! I have seen cities that were justly proud of one wall such as is before us. But three?’

‘Aye. Built them a thousand years ago. Yet still they stand.’ Enzo shook his head. ‘How is that possible?’

‘Because we … those old Greeks knew how to build,’ Gregoras muttered. He remembered his father’s description of the killing ground before them. ‘They are … perfection.’

‘Nothing is perfect in siegecraft, Zoran, as you well know,’ Giustiniani said, ‘but this is as close as you will ever encounter. Come, let me tell the Ragusan what he will miss if he leaves before the fight.’ Clamping his hat to his head, he led them from the more sheltered rear of the platform to its blustery front. ‘We stand on the highest, the landward inner walls. Some say we should fight only upon them, cede the rest of the ground to the enemy. I say they are wrong.’

‘Why, master?’ asked Amir.

‘Many reasons – and this the main.’ Giustiniani reached forward and, with some ease, pulled a chunk of rock from the crenel. ‘The inner walls have been most neglected over the years. This is one of the better-kept ones and, as you see …’ He crumbled mortar between his fingers. ‘They are far worse either side of us. But the second wall …’ he pointed down, ‘has had most of the efforts expended upon it. Its towers are smaller but it stands above that open space they call the Parateichion. Since that can only be reached by a scramble up from the deep ditch and over the last, smallest of the walls, the Parateichion is one of the finest killing zones I have ever seen.’ He leaned over the edge. ‘From up here, our best archers, crossbowmen and culverin men can rain hell into it, over the heads of our defenders at the outer wall. Those few of the enemy who survive will be chopped into separate parts by our soldiers.’

Gregoras leaned out too. ‘A perfect killing zone indeed, Commander. I shall envy you your fortunes,’ he said. ‘So where is this Achilles heel?’

Giustiniani sucked his lower lip. ‘Out there. They are bringing it with them. No,’ he snorted. ‘You cannot bring a heel, can you? But you can bring the poisoned arrow to shoot into the hero’s flesh.’

‘You mean guns, Commander, do you not?’ Enzo, the blunt Sicilian, said.

‘Aye. Cannon. If our spies’ reports are true, such cannon as have never been seen before. Forged by devils to spit fire straight from hell.’ Giustiniani leaned to the side and spat himself, angling it into the wind, a fat gobbet that was caught and splattered into the granite behind them. ‘Murad had some guns but they were boy’s slingshots compared to what his son is said to be bringing. If he places them and hits these walls somewhere between here and St Romanus, again and again by day, and our efforts to repair them at night prove insufficient …’ he shook his head, ‘then the breach he makes will widen and widen and the fanatics he throws at it to die for him and for Allah, of whom he has so many, will keep coming and coming …’ he cleared his throat, hawked again, ‘until eventually even the finest killing ground in Christendom may not prove enough.’

‘What will then, Commander?’ As a boy, Gregoras had dreamed of fighting these walls like his father had. The idea of them ever being taken … ‘Prayer?’

‘Of course. We pray for a miracle. God will dispose, as ever.’ Giustiniani raised the medallion of San Pietro round his neck and kissed it fervently. ‘Yet until His will is revealed, we strengthen our walls, we sharpen our blades, we place our best men where they are most needed and, yes, we pray – not for lightning bolts from heaven perhaps, but for something a little more plain.’ He pointed out to the valley again, beyond the valley. ‘We pray that the powers of the West, from the Pope to the Roman emperor, from bishops to barons, realise that if they do not stop the Turk at these walls, they will have to stop him at their own. We pray that we can hold these crumbling stones long enough for them to act on that realisation and send a relieving army or fleet. And that,’ he said, crossing himself, ‘will be miracle enough for me.’

Enzo imitated the Commander and made the sign of the cross. Caught up in the moment, Gregoras did too. Yet his return to his city had affected him this much: his crossing now was the opposite to the Catholics before him, three fingers, not two, and moving right-left across his chest. All saw it, the division between allies. In many ways, Amir’s obeisance to Allah was less disturbing. ‘While that,’ said Giustiniani, ‘is another matter.’ He spread his arms wide, herding them towards the stairs. ‘Now let us go and meet the ‘emperor. He awaits us down there, at the Romanus gate.’

‘May I accompany you?’

The four men, warriors all, started, flinched back – for the black figure that suddenly loomed up behind them did not appear human; or had been once, only to recently crawl from his grave. It was Gregoras who recognised the skinny, mud-clotted frame, mainly by the Italian words that seemed wrenched from the back of the throat. ‘Grant,’ he cried, easing the grip on his dagger. ‘Are you living in a hole?’

‘Aye, most of the time.’ The Scot reached up and scraped muck from his face. ‘The emperor has had me exploring the ground near some of the bastions. To foresee where the Turks will mine, so we can countermine ’em. I think I’ve found a few likely places. It’s why I want to see him, ye ken.’ He tipped his face into the rain. ‘Man, I could use one of these baths the Greeks are always taking. Though no doubt I’d catch my death from such an effeminate practice.’

He shook his head and Gregoras laughed. He was fond of the Scotsman, after their time at sea. ‘I will take you to one, if you like.’

Giustiniani frowned. ‘I thought your task was to provide me with the weapon called Greek Fire?’

‘It is. And I have been experimenting. But I need more naphtha, a combustible oil found most in some place name of Irak. Men are searching the town for it.’ He shrugged, spat mud. ‘So I’ll dig and delve until they find some.’

Giustiniani moved on towards the tower’s entrance. ‘You may report your findings to Constantine. Come, German,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘That’s Scots, your wor— Och, why bother?’ As they followed the Commander through the archway, Grant leaned in and whispered, ‘I’ve set up a distillery too, while I wait. First batch will be ready end of the week. It won’t be smooth but it will slake a thirst. Will ye come?’

‘Perhaps.’ Gregoras would have been happy to partake of his friend’s
al-kohl
. But if he could keep in Giustiniani’s vision, and goad him into asking for his gold, he hoped he would not be there at week’s end. And having the Scot beside him as a reminder of the contract he’d fulfilled would not hurt. He clapped his hand onto a sodden shoulder. ‘Come. Let us to the emperor.’

–
TWELVE
–
Old Friends

Constantine had changed.

The vigorous warrior Gregoras remembered had been the Despot of the Morea, a land not without troubles but with options and allies. Now he was Emperor of Constantinople – and the burden of that ancient title, in the empire’s greatest crisis, had stooped him. Taken the hair from his forehead, greyed his beard, etched lines around his eyes.

He stood in a white cloak, head bent, at the centre of a swirl of black-clad figures who squabbled around him like crows around a dove. It was clear that the leaders of the Genoese and Venetian colonies still hated each other. Nothing new there, Gregoras thought. Centuries of struggle to become the greatest trading power in the world, conflict on sea and land with the city as a regular battleground – and sometimes victim – made unity in a cause near impossible. Even if that cause was their own survival.

Gregoras and Grant placed their backs against the wall near the gate and watched as Giustiniani took a deep breath before pushing into the crowd within the Peribolos, the space between the inner and outer walls. His presence – not to mention his girth and height – brought some silence. A little cluster of gesticulating, cursing men did not see him. But a horn was raised, sounded, its shrill blast bouncing off the stones, making men duck, wince, look around for the source – which Gregoras finally saw as the mob shifted. ‘The devil,’ he gasped, taking a step forward.

The man lowering the horn from his lips was Theodore of Karystenos. Champion bowman, captain of archers for the Imperial Guard … and the man who had taught Gregoras everything he’d known about war, and not a little about life.

Gregoras had presumed him dead. He was ancient when he’d taken the young Greek on as a pupil fifteen years before. And the man who now stepped up beside his emperor
was
old, his long beard pure white, the lines of easy laughter that had always danced around his eyes deep furrows now. But he was not bent by age, and if its pains afflicted him he did not show it, slinging the horn over his shoulder, drawing his sword. Muscles thrust out the surplice he wore, marked with the double eagle of the city. ‘Cry silence for our lord,’ he bellowed in a voice near as loud as his bugle blast.

Theodore!
Of all in the city who would have heard of Gregoras’s ‘treason’, the aged bowman would have been the most hurt. He’d regarded Gregoras as his sixth son, and knew him to be the most gifted, of a gifted brood, with the bow. And it was not just a love of feathered flight that bound them. It was to Theodore that Gregoras would come to hear the old tales of war and adventure, and plan his own share of them.

Gregoras looked down, away from the memories. If any man in Constantinople could persuade him to stay and fight for it, that man was Theodore of Karystenos. He would have to keep masked and far from the old man’s still lively gaze.

To his relief, men swirled before him, taking his old teacher from his sight. When they cleared, Giustiniani was stepping forward. ‘Our
basileus
, Constantine,’ he declared, using the ancient title of supreme general, ‘who has honoured me beyond all measure by giving me the disposition of his forces, has asked that I speak of them today.’ He paused, looked over the whole crowd. ‘You all know me. I have fought beside many of you standing here. I have fought against many of you too – yes, I see you lurking there, brothers Bocciardi of Venice …’ this produced a shout of denial from three men who stepped around others who blocked their view, ‘and you, most of all, Girolamo Minotto,
baillie
of the Venetian colony. How many times have we exchanged quarrels upon the sea?’

A tall man, with twice the lace to his doublet than anyone else, swept off his plumed hat, revealing styled curled hair, and bowed. ‘Twice, most excellent. And only the wind saved you last time off Crete.’

A chorus of jeers arose at that, laughter too, in which Giustiniani joined. ‘I will concede that,’ he replied, ‘if you will concede the wind you emitted when I drove you onto the reefs of Lesbos.’

More acclamation, denial, laughter. But Giustiniani cut it off with a wave of the hand. ‘But whether we have always been friends or worthy adversaries in the past, on ships and other battlements,’ he continued, ‘what is certain here and now is this: today we are united as soldiers of the beloved emperor. United in our hatred of the infidel. United in our faith under God, and before the face of the Blessed Virgin.’