A Place Called Armageddon (29 page)

The enemy had shipped oars, most of them now rolling in the swell. Only one kept coming, the biggest of the triremes, oars on both sides rising and falling like mechanical wings, the big
kos
drum keeping time – that, and the man Gregoras now saw striding the
histodoke
that ran the length of the ship like an exposed spine, bellowing commands. He carried a long whip, furled for now, and Gregoras winced at a memory. Six months a slave upon a galley before his escape, and weals like white worms crawling across every vertebra of his back.

‘Does he expect me to stop?’ Bastoni was pointing at the largest man on the trireme’s raised foredeck; the best dressed, too, with a suit of full mail and a huge helmet crested with peacock plumes.

‘No,’ replied Gregoras. ‘But he will make himself heard.’ He looked to his left. There sailed another of the carracks of Genoa. To his right, closest to them, was the one Greek vessel, a transport stuffed with grain from Sicily. It was wider, a little lower in the sides, though still sitting taller in the water than any of the enemy’s triremes. He understood little of seamanship, could only wonder at the skills it took for all the Genoan ships to trim their sails to accommodate the slower vessel. Their strength lay in their unity, all knew. Besides, the grain in the transport’s holds might be the difference between the city they sought to succour starving to death or not.

When he turned back, the halved distance had halved again. The Turks had masterful sailors too. The
kos
drum received a single, mighty thump. The man on the
histodoke
cracked his whip and all the oars upon the trireme’s right side were lifted from the water. At the same time, three men pushed hard upon the tiller. The ship appeared for a moment almost to stop, and to tilt until the men upon their benches would have been able to dip their hands into the flood. But further shouts, further strokes of the left bank of oars jerked the trireme round and upright again. As the Genoan ship, its sails bellied, swept past, the drum began to beat triple time, the whip to snap and the oared vessel leapt forward alongside and perhaps fifty paces away.

‘A clear shot, if a tricky one,’ Gregoras said, placing his foot in his bow’s stirrup. ‘Shall I shoot him?’

Bastoni shook his head. ‘There’ll only be another sodomite to take over. Let’s hear what this one has to say.’

The Turk commander raised a trumpet. ‘You of Genoa! I am Baltaoglu Bey,
kapudan pasha
of the sultan’s navy. What make you here?’

Gregoras translated. Bastoni nodded. ‘Tell him that, if it is any of his business, we go to deliver goods to the city.’

‘Which city?’ Gregoras queried. ‘Galata or Constantinople?’

Bastoni smiled. ‘That truly is none of his business.’

Gregoras relayed the terse reply. Baltaoglu bellowed, ‘That is forbidden. You will allow us to board you and take you with us to the sultan. There you may find mercy. But if you refuse, you will get none from me. Refuse and every man will die. Some quick, most slow.’

Gregoras shook his head. ‘The man speaks with the most execrable Bulgar accent. Another renegade. But even with that, the message is clear: surrender or die. Slowly.’

Bastoni nodded. ‘Tell him to insert one of his peacock feathers and twirl.’

There was no direct translation, but Gregoras anyway had a better way of answering. Throwing down the trumpet, he placed his foot in the stirrup of his crossbow, pulled the string to its catch, snatched two quarrels from his quiver, one for its groove, one for his mouth, raised the weapon, took swift aim, pulled the trigger. Considering the rise and fall of the sea and the still gusting wind, it wasn’t a bad snatched shot. It snapped one of the feathers, the wind ensuring that it would never be used for the pleasuring suggested. With another bellow, Baltaoglu dived behind his rail, just as a line of Genoese crossbowmen rose above theirs and shot. Halfway between the ships, quarrels passed arrows loosed from Turkish bows.

‘I think he understands,’ said Gregoras, crouching, slipping the second bolt into the groove.

But Bastoni did not hear him. As an arrow glanced off his helmet, he raised his hand to his visor and, just before slamming it down, yelled, ‘Ram the bastards out of the way!’

The battle was begun.

–
NINETEEN
–
Before a Dying Wind

At first it was too easy.

Every yard was filled with canvas, every sail thrust out like babies in a belly, hastening to be born. The wind that had swept them past Chios swept them on now, and the captains of some of those triremes, biremes and
fustae
not swift enough to manoeuvre out of the way were soon trying to remember if they could swim. Banks of oars were snapped as the carracks ran the length of them; the high, hard oak prows of the Genoese harrowing the Turkish vessels like clods of earth in a field. Most managed to evade the rushing doom, but some were left foundering in the larger ships’ wakes, oars a-tangle, slaves fallen from benches to the deck, slavemasters wielding whips and curses to no effect.

Yet there were many, deeper into the pack, luckier, more skilful, and warned by the fate of their compatriots, who managed to evade, then turn to pursue. The fastest, with
kos
drums beating triple time and oars pulling dementedly, could keep up with the carracks for a while and their tillermen steered them close. Grappling hooks were twirled and thrown, and some bit into the wood of the ships’ sides. But the moment one held – and even Gregoras, for that moment, could feel the slight slip of momentum – a sailor was there with an axe, the barbed head was severed and the ship surged like a hound freed from a leash.

From the shelter of an aft rail, Gregoras watched the sailors do their work. Though arrows flew up around them, he did not return the shots. There was little aiming in the buck and jolt of the
anafor
and it would be an unlucky seaman who was struck. He had nineteen quarrels left and he was determined to find a fleshy mark for every one.

And then the chance came. A hook landed, a sailor raised an axe, and an explosion followed that drowned the drum. The sailor reeled back, half his face torn away. ‘Gun!’ yelled Bastoni, beside him. ‘What place do they have in a sea fight?’

Other sailors ran forward, to take away their wounded comrade, to strike again; the hook was severed. But more flew, and as another shot exploded a chunk of railing, Gregoras could see that they were attended to with less alacrity. He took a chance to peer over the edge. Upon the bireme’s deck, men were readying a culverin with powder. He waited until the deck beneath him felt steadier, as the vessel crested a wave. Then he lifted his bow over the edge, breathed, sighted.

He’d been aiming for the chest. He took the gunner somewhere near the thigh, judging by the way he instantly doubled over, gun exploding as it fell from his grip. Ducking back, Gregoras watched sailors hack the grapple clear. The ship surged again and, looking swiftly to port, he saw that the others were equally free. Ahead, the bulk of the Turkish fleet had been passed through. A few of the smaller
fustae
were rowing hard out of the way. He looked up and saw the ruins of the ancient Acropolis, surmounted by the newer tower of the Church of St Demetrius.

‘Acropolis Point,’ he yelled to the captain. ‘The Golden Horn and safety is round this bend.’

‘I know it well, Greek,’ Bastoni shouted back. ‘We will sail to the boom and keep swatting these flies until your countrymen can raise it for us.’

Others had recognised where they were. From each of the four ships came the sound of cheering. All aboard knew they were close to sanctuary. From the Turkish ships still in pursuit there came a different kind of shout, a chorus of fury.

And then, as sudden as a man’s last breath, the
lodos
wind died.

‘What is it, Mother? What is wrong?’

Thakos tugged at Sofia’s skirt. Minerva, who’d been dozing despite the shouting of the hordes on the Splendome, pulled her face from her mother’s neck.

Sofia stared. She had cheered, as loud as any, the ships’ sweeping progress and her mouth was dry. ‘The sails. They … they …’ she croaked.

The man next to her finished her sentence. ‘They’ve lost the wind, boy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘God help them now.’

All around, voices started up again. Not cheering now. These voices were low, words coming on whispers.

‘Holy Mary, mother of God, help these poor sinners.’

There were ten, fifty, hundreds. Muttered prayers, sobbed out. Buried in Sofia’s neck again, Minerva began to cry.

‘By Muhammad’s sacred beard, a miracle.’

Hamza marvelled at the suddenness of the change. Yet he’d always known that Mehmet was as changeable … as the wind, he supposed. Mere moments before, when the enemy’s vessels had burst into view round the point of land, their sails full, their own fleet trailing like exhausted hounds about a galloping stag, their sultan had blasphemed both the Prophet and Allah in terms that had his closest advisers turning away to quietly pray. Now he was urging his horse closer to the water’s edge, raised high in his stirrups, with nothing but reverence on his lips. The court – for all had followed Mehmet to this strip of sandy foreshore beneath the walls of Galata – moved forward with him.

‘See!’ Mehmet cried. ‘See what Allah has given me.’ He raised one hand to the sky, then swept it down, making obeisance. ‘He has brought them here, cast them adrift right here before me, so that I may witness the triumph of my fleet. Is it not Allah’s blessing, Hamza Bey?’ He turned to grip the other’s arm. ‘Does this not, more than anything yet, show how our enterprise is holy?’

Hamza smiled, for show. He would gain nothing by crossing his master in this mood. But he had commanded ships at sea, and had fought Italians upon them. Even if they were becalmed, and the four vessels surrounded by twenty times that number, this was not going to be an easy fight. But he said, ‘Undoubtedly. Is not one of your titles “lord of the horizon”? Why would the weather not act on your bidding?’

Mehmet laughed, turned. ‘Bring me chairs, a table, food, wine. Let us feast and toast Baltaoglu the Bear’s triumph.’

Men scurried. Grooms came to take their horses. Within minutes, a small pavilion had been set up, leather stools unfolded. Mehmet clapped his hands. ‘Wine!’ he bellowed. When he got it in hand, he stood and raised his goblet to the scene. ‘
Allahu akbar!
’ he cried.

Only the imam and one or two of the more orthodox
beys
refrained from breaking Allah’s commandments while pledging Him. Most, even those who did not drink, like Hamza, raised their wine to the scene before them and, like their sultan, called for God’s victory.

For a while, they were just a spear’s throw from the walls of Constantinople. But then the current began to draw them away, drifting them, almost imperceptibly at first, towards the Galata shore. The Genoese ships seemed to be barely moving – though this was not true of their enemy. Gregoras, snatching glances under what had become a rainfall of arrows, saw that the Turks were now hindered by their numbers, that someone – this Bulgar renegade he’d parleyed with, no doubt – was trying to order the chaos. Drums and trumpets were being used for signals now, not just for courage. And judging by the steadier flow of stone ball that was thudding into the ships’ sides, Baltaoglu was having some success.

‘What are they doing, Captain?’ Gregoras called to the man a few paces away. Encased in full armour, Bastoni either paid no attention to the arrows dropping onto him, or swatted them aside like insects.

‘They are readying for an assault,’ the Genoan shouted through his visor. ‘But first I see flames upon their decks.’

‘They are afire?’ Gregoras asked hopefully.

‘No, they
have
fire. And here it comes.’

Gregoras heard the beat of the
kos
drum change, heard the crack of whip and the whoosh of oars in the water. Flicking the visor down on his helm, he raised his head to look. Several smaller
fustae
were charging straight at each of the carracks’ sides. At the last moment, they veered parallel and he saw the flames the captain had spoken of – in large pots upon the deck and on spears, swathed in oiled cloth, dipped and instantly flung.

‘Fire!’ yelled Bastoni, at a crew who were already prepared. Sailors rushed forward with buckets of water, flung them wherever the lances latched. The sails had been furled as soon as they lost the wind, so there was little for flame to catch on to, and all that burned was swiftly doused. Gregoras watched ship after ship attempt the attack, and each one failed, its crews savaged by the soldiers on the carracks’ decks, who shot crossbow bolts, flung rocks, snatched up flaming lances and returned them. Bastoni, for all his complaints before, had a few smaller guns, and these shot stones upon the enemy’s decks. Yet still Gregoras did not raise his bow. Eighteen quarrels still seemed too few, and he was certain that other, more satisfying targets would present themselves soon.

He was right. Again and again the
fustae
attacked, throwing fire. Again and again they were driven back. Until Gregoras heard the drums’ rhythms change, heard the different notes in the bugles’ call. Heard a distinctive bass bellow, with a Bulgar strain to it.

‘Board them!’ screamed Baltaoglu Bey.

Gregoras tried to locate the source of the cry. There was some smoke, mainly from burning
fustae
. But he soon saw, among the many vessels, the Bulgarian’s larger trireme; saw upon its aft deck three horsetails hanging from a pole beneath a crescent moon – the
kapudan pasha
’s tug, the same on water as on land; located just near it, that same gaudy helmet that now sported one less peacock feather.

It was time at last to fit a quarrel to the groove.

It was a long shot through smoke and the chop making for unsteady footing. At least there is no wind to compensate for, he thought, with a grim smile. Baltaoglu was armoured much like the Genoan beside Gregoras. But like him now, he had his visor up, the better to shout his commands.