A Place Called Armageddon (60 page)

It was over. Constantinople had fallen. Though its death agony would continue for a time, as the conquerors ravaged, a shroud would soon be laid over its corpse and a thousand years of history, of Rome of the East, of Byzantium, interred in its sacred, storied ground.

Gregoras reached up – to moisture on his face. If it was pink-laced with blood, it was still mostly water. Well then, he thought, shrugging. One tear for my parents. One for my ancestors. And the last for my mother the city, the greatest there has ever been.

He glanced back along the walls for a last time, to the place where a double-headed eagle once flew and did no more. Then he turned north, and wiped his eyes. ‘Let me have no more cause to weep,’ he said out loud, prayer and determination both.

His way lay there, at a rendezvous in a church.
Two
rendezvouses, he remembered, if both women kept their word. He did not know how he would explain each to the other. But if both were safe, and he could keep them safe, it would be enough, for now.

Shouldering his bow, he ran down the stairs.

–
THIRTY-FIVE
–
Aftermath

One by one, the bells fell silent, as the Turks swept into the city and took the places of worship. They did not only come from the breached land walls but from the Golden Horn and the Marmara shore as well, for once the news had spread with all the velocity of terror, the defenders along the sea walls abandoned their positions too and made for their homes or sought the ships of their nations.

Theon watched them, from the vantage of the hilltop above his house. Twin surges – the
azaps
abandoning their vessels to pour through the opened sea gates, bent on looting before the land army arrived; Venetians and Genoans going in the opposite direction, cutting their way to their carracks, hastily placing masts that had been taken down and stored, like a locked inner gate, to prevent flight; raising canvas, seeking wind, dipping oars. He could see the ships were packed with people, see the hordes who jostled on the docks and sought to join them. Mainly Greeks, he suspected, begging passage that the Latins would be unlikely to give. Each would look after their own now. Biting his lip, Theon turned to his.

The narrow alley he took was quiet, the screams from the wharves muffled by the houses on either side, and his boots sounded loud on the cobbles. He heard shutters slamming ahead of him, was aware of eyes upon him, glimpsed between the slats. It was an affluent area, members of the government, merchants, their families living in single dwellings. All knew that the looters would come, seeking booty – and worse. All hoped that perhaps their house would be somehow spared, passed over, like the Jews had been passed over in Egypt. But no sheep blood marked their doorways to turn desecration away. Men bolted doors, slammed shutters, offered prayers that it would be enough. That it would be a neighbour, a friend who was murdered, his wife raped, his children taken for slaves. Someone else.

Theon stopped before his own front door. Round a corner he heard something shatter, a burst of laughter, wondered if the enemy had already come. Then he heard a voice cry out in Greek, slurringly, ‘More, bastards, more!’ Not every citizen was awaiting the doom in prayer, it seemed.

He tapped with his knuckles on the door. ‘’Tis I,’ he called softly, and immediately bolts were drawn, a heavy key turned. He pushed rapidly in, Sofia giving back.

‘Do they come?’

‘Soon enough.’ He leaned against the door for a moment. He had not realised his heart was beating so fast. With a breath, he rebolted the door, then moved past her, mounted the stairs, entered the living area. Three sets of eyes were on him, fear in them – Minerva, Athene the maid and Thakos, twisting the rope of his slingshot between his fingers. Something pressed against his legs. He looked down, saw the cat, kicked it away.

Sofia came up the stair behind him. ‘What are those?’ he asked her, pointing.

‘Bags,’ she replied.

‘I can see that,’ he snapped. ‘What is in them?’

‘Some food. Some clothes. In case we have to …’ She shrugged.

‘You still question me?’ he said, his voice choking on sudden fury. ‘I told you. We are not going anywhere. We are staying here. We will be safe.’

‘I know.’ Sofia came to him, laid a hand on his arm. ‘But … if anything goes wrong, Gregoras says we will be safe at the chur—’

‘Gregoras.’ He threw her hand off. ‘Gregoras lies dead on the ramparts. His noseless head cut off. So put no more hope in him.’ The sudden sadness in her eyes made him laugh, harshly. ‘Yes. Weep for him. But know your only hope lies in me.’

Her eyes narrowed. Her voice, when it came, was calm. ‘My hope lies in God, husband. For Gregoras. For us all.’

He’d opened his mouth to sneer a reply when a sudden burst of shouting came from the street. ‘Bring me the banner,’ he hissed, ‘and swiftly.’

‘The Turks?’ she asked, turned, not moving.

Theon listened, to drunken cursing. ‘Greeks,’ he said. ‘Sewer scum. But the Turks will not be far behind.’ He shoved her. ‘Fetch me the banner.’

She did. He took it, crossed to the window that faced the street. As he reached it, someone began kicking the front door. He listened. It was his own language still being shouted. He pushed open the shutters, looked down. Three figures stood there, two men and a woman, shabbily dressed, swaying. One clutched a large glass jar.

He’d been right. Scum from the streets. The same people he’d taught a lesson when they rioted for bread. He leaned out. ‘Be gone,’ he shouted down. ‘The Turks are coming. Seek shelter and pray for forgiveness.’

‘Ooh, “The Turks are coming! The Turks are coming.”’ The larger of the men, his belly thrust out before him, did a little jig while singing the words. Then he stopped, looked up again. ‘Well, we live here. Why should they take everything?’ He jabbed the jar upwards. ‘Give us silver and we’ll guard your door.’

‘Give us silver,’ the other two called, as one.

‘Give me mine.’ That was the nonsense phrase the mob had chanted, demanding bread. Well, he had silenced them. He would these. ‘Go,’ he shouted. ‘I warn you …’

‘He warns us. Warns us!’ the larger man shouted, and kicked the door again before shouting, ‘Silver. Give us silver!’

The woman joined him in kicking, while the other man ran across the way and returned with a piece of timber, which he began to hammer into the door.

Sofia joined Theon at the window. ‘Come away. Leave them. They will not break the door in. Leave them.’

Theon looked down the street. He thought he’d heard something, shouting, not far away. The enemy was coming. It was time to hang Hamza’s banner. But he could not do that with the rabble below. Besides, the larger man had handed his wine jar to the woman and both men had the timber now, driving it again and again like a ram into the door. It might not hold. These scum were attacking his house. His!

He tucked the banner into the front of his doublet, returned to the main room. His father’s sword was in the corner. His rage made it seem less heavy as he lifted it, unclasping the scabbard, shaking it off.

‘Husband, do not—’

‘Do not tell me what to do, wife,’ he snarled, and pushed past her to the head of the stairs. ‘These are peasants, filth. I will drive them off and then we can hang the banner and be safe.’

She called after him as he walked down the stairs, but he could not hear her words over the thumping on the oaken door. He threw the bolts, jerked back the door. The two men stumbled forward at the sudden opening, then fell back.

Theon stepped out, the sword resting on his shoulder, gleaming in the morning sunlight. ‘I say be gone, you curs, now!’ He hefted the sword in two hands. It still felt light and he felt strong. An enemy was before him, more ancient even than the Turk. The mob of Constantinople, who had deprived more than one emperor of his throne, and assaulted their betters in the ruling classes. ‘Rats,’ he said, smiling now, ‘crawl back to your holes.’

He lifted the sword high, feeling what his father must have felt, what his brother felt each day. Delighting as the two men cowered back, turned and began to slink away.

‘Who are you calling rats?’ the woman shrieked and, leaning back, threw the jar. It smashed into the side of Theon’s head, exploding there, covering him in shards of glass, and wine, knocking him sideways. The sword was heavy again and its tip plunged to dash against the cobbles.

Then they were on him, the timber smashed down like a club, striking his shoulder. He tried to raise the sword, could not. He fell to one knee, looked up, his eyes burning with sour wine, near blinding him. He saw a glimmer rising, light refracted through glass, a rainbow on his face. Then the man drove the top of the jar, with its jagged edge, into Theon’s neck.

Now he was looking at a cobblestone. Liquid, darker than wine, was flowing around it, on all four sides, turning it into an island. The rainbow was gone. But Theon wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway.

The men and the woman stepped back, breathing hard. ‘Pig,’ spat the large man, throwing the jar neck down onto Theon’s dead body. Then he looked at the open door. ‘Let’s take what’s ours,’ he grunted.

He made the third step before a heavy clay pot took him in the chest, knocking him backwards. The woman, managing to avoid his fall, looked up and saw another woman at the top of the stairs, another pot raised above her head. ‘Go!’ she cried, before hurling. This jar smashed above them, on the lintel, showering them in thick, pungent olive oil.

The big man lay on the ground next to the body, rubbing at his chest, moaning. The other was staring down the street. ‘I think … I think I hear them.’

The woman listened to the sounds – wails, smashing – getting closer. She bent to the groaning man, started to help him rise. Bent over, she could see up the stairs, see Sofia there, another pot above her head. ‘I’ll be back for you,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll gut you, bitch.’

The three staggered down the road, away from the approaching noise.

Sofia slowly lowered the pot, then set it carefully down beside her. Through the doorway, she could see a pair of leather soles. One was splitting. If it wasn’t mended soon, her husband’s shoe would be ruined. She would take it to the cobbler. She would …

‘Mama?’

Minerva was beside her, trying to peer past her. ‘Stay here,’ Sofia said, as calmly as she could. She walked down the stairs, pausing in the doorway as she saw the whole of Theon’s body. She knew he was dead, by the amount of blood that surrounded his head like the aura of a frescoed saint. But she stooped anyway, looked into his dead eyes. Reaching, she closed them, closed her own. ‘Merciful Mother,’ she said softly, ‘forgive him his sins.’

‘What’s wrong with Papa?’

She turned. Of course her indomitable daughter would not stay when there were excitements to see. Minerva was wide-eyed, staring at her father’s head, its bloody halo. Sofia grabbed her, turned her away. ‘He’s … sleeping, sweetness. Sleeping. Come.’

A shriek turned her. At the bottom of the stair was Thakos, his mouth wide. ‘Papa! Papa!’ he screamed, falling down beside the body, reaching, weeping. Sofia knew the same lie would not serve with him. He had seen his share of death already, at the walls.

Shouts over the crest of the hill. A drum suddenly beaten, then wood being struck repeatedly. Men yelling, rhythmically, as if heaving on a rope. Not in Greek. ‘Thakos. Thakos!’ she snapped, drawing his terrified eyes onto her. ‘Quickly! We must fetch our bags and go.’ He looked down again. ‘Thakos!’ she cried, shaking him. ‘We go or we die!’

She wasn’t sure he could even see her through his tears. But he understood, rose, ran back up the stairs. Sofia followed, carrying her daughter, who tried to crane her head round her mother’s neck to see the body. In the room, Athene had gathered the leather bags, clutched two herself. ‘Is the master …?’ she said.

‘Gone,’ Sofia replied, stooping for a bag, still clutching Minerva. ‘Listen,’ she continued, addressing them all. ‘Stay close to me. Whatever happens, never leave my sight. Whatever you see …’ she swallowed, ‘do not stay to regard it. And if fortune separates us …’ she blinked back sudden tears, ‘you find me again at the church you know. At St Maria of the Mongols. Yes?’

Thakos, the maid both nodded. Sofia led them down to the street. She paused in the doorway. The shouts had diminished. Perhaps the Turks had found another route, though theirs led straight to the heart of the city. Then a man ran down the centre of the roadway. He kept looking back over his shoulder, stumbling when he did, his face white. He disappeared round a corner.

‘Silly Ulvikul! Don’t wake Papa up!’

Sofia looked down. The cat had stepped out, and was licking the pool of blood right by Theon’s chin. Just below it, Sofia saw a flap of indigo banner poking out of his doublet. She stooped, but not for it. An enemy’s flag would protect her and hers no more than it had her husband. Only faith could save her now. ‘Holy Mother!’ she murmured. ‘Protect my children’s lives. Save theirs and I will dedicate mine to you.’ Then she dragged the cat from its feast, handed him to her son. ‘Bring him if you can,’ she said.

She looked up the street. The shouts, the screams – lamentation, exultation – all were nearer now. There were major thoroughfares she assumed the Turks would come down. But there were alleys that they might not, not yet. There was one almost opposite the house, and she led her charges into it, just as a squad of yelling
azaps
ran over the crest of the hill.

–
THIRTY-SIX
–
The Sack of Constantinople

Leilah needed a Greek.

It shouldn’t have been hard, with so many about. Fleeing, hiding, dragged from their cellars and holes. Many were dead, of course, especially the old or very young and so with no value, joining anyone who showed the slightest will to resist. There were not many of those, not now, not when the walls had been so fully breached and the sultan’s army was pouring in through every opening.