A Place Called Armageddon (62 page)

He was ignored, shoved back. He stopped, turned. Saw. ‘I’ll have her.’

He pointed at Minerva.

‘Her?’ Farouk shook his head. ‘She’s a child, you animal. Too young even to sell as a slave. We should just slit her infidel throat.’

‘No,’ said Raschid, limping forward. ‘Or later. Let me have her first.’

Farouk scratched his beard, then shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve been talking about nothing else for the entire siege.’ He stepped aside, waved his arm. ‘Take her.’

Raschid took another step. And then Achmed was in his path. ‘No,’ he said.

Farouk, who had stepped towards the altar, where his other men were laughing and pushing the woman between them, ripping off her clothes, halted, turned back. ‘Let him pass, giant. Pity the little runt.’

‘No,’ Achmed said again, placing his hand on Raschid’s chest. ‘She is a child. I have … had a daughter as young as she.’

‘But she’s a Christian. A Greek. Our enemy.’ Raschid’s whine rose still higher. ‘Let me.’ He tried to squirm past.

‘No.’ Achmed shoved him back, his voice dropping lower. ‘She is a child.’

‘Look, you!’ Farouk came forward, anger glimmering in his one eye. ‘I am in command here and I say he can. Look to the roof if you don’t like it. Or go out there and keep watch. Just get out of his way.’ Achmed did not move. Farouk raised his stick. ‘Now,’ he shouted, bringing the stick hard down.

It never struck. Achmed caught it, took it, snapped it, threw it aside. Farouk looked like he was the one struck, so shocked was he. Then he reached for the dagger at his side. ‘Disobey me, will you?’ he yelled.

The dagger never cleared the sheath. Placing his hand in the middle of his officer’s chest, Achmed bent and pushed. The
bolukbasi
went flying back, thumping onto a pile of ikons. ‘Men!’ he screamed, scrambling up. ‘To me. Kill this traitorous dog.’

At the altar, the five men froze, the near-naked woman weeping in their midst. Then they reacted as they had been trained. They dropped her, and ran down the nave of the church.

He did not think then, Achmed. Just bent and picked up the broken half of a heavy oak frame. After that, it was like the times at the stockade – once when he’d climbed it and held a banner high for a moment; once only that morning when he’d seen Turks whip fellow Turks and goad them to the fight. There were men before him now who wanted to kill him. He would have to kill them first.

The first to die was Raschid, who thought that if he came from the side when Achmed was facing the front, he could stick his knife in him unseen. But he mistimed his thrust, came too soon, and it was the matter of a moment to grab his throat in one spread hand, lift, crush his windpipe, drop. Then the rest were upon him, Farouk snarling at their head. All had stacked their swords to the side, came at him with daggers. He had only the timber, in one hand, the other still weakened by the arrow he’d taken in it. But he also had his own name and Allah’s entwined in letters at his chest as a ward against their blades.

The frame fell like the adze he’d use to split wood for the winter. They came and they fell away, clutching at their stoved heads, screaming at their blood, falling silent. Farouk died last, his one eye leading him to misjudge and lunge just a little short, his other eye failing to see the wood that rose and fell as if from the painted starry sky.

It was over. Achmed was alone, looking down, and no one moved for a moment. Until the woman at the altar did, snatching up her clothes, covering her nakedness. There was a doorway behind the altar and she disappeared through it.

He turned. The girl was standing behind him. She had not moved. Her eyes were just as wide open, and yet she seemed to be looking at nothing beyond her, only something within.

He went to her, crouched. Her eyes closed and she began to shake. He lifted her, stood, pulled her close, felt her heart fluttering like a laughing dove against his chest, against the entwined names, his and Allah’s. ‘Abal,’ he said, adding another.

He did not stop to pick up his scimitar. He had killed enough and never would again. Besides, he had got what he’d come for. All the booty he could ever desire.

–
THIRTY-SEVEN
–
Inshallah

Sofia ran, Thakos at her side. It was hard, ever upwards, but desperation drove them, their pursuers’ voices getting closer with every bend.

And then there it was, the small building behind its high walls. It did not burn. No enemies looted it. Gasping, they crossed the little square before it, and fell against its oaken door. Summoning her scant breath, Sofia cried out, ‘Open! ’Tis I, Sofia Lascaris. Open, for the saint’s sake!’

A muttering came, then a louder voice speaking in a tongue she did not know, guttural and harsh. Finally, a different voice, louder still, speaking Greek. ‘No! I have told you. We cannot. We are forbidden.’ Something flew over the gateway, thumped into the wall beside them. ‘Climb!’

Sofia pushed Thakos at the rope that now dangled. Then both froze, as men rushed into the square. ‘Caught you!’ came the cry, and they turned. Nine men had pursued them. They stood there, weapons unsheathed, each bent over their legs, breathing heavily. One, standing a little forward, pointed. ‘Stay there or die.’

Thakos stepped away from the wall. He reached into his pouch, pulled out a stone, fitted it into the sling, had it whirling above his head a moment later. ‘No,’ Sofia cried as the men raised scimitars, some shields.

‘Drop that or I’ll cut off your balls,’ cried the leader, then looked around at his men. ‘Ah, maybe I’ll just cut ’em off anyway.’

He took one step forward, then stumbled three. ‘By the beard …’ he said, then fell face first onto the cobbles, an arrow sticking from his back.

He thought he’d be too late. On an ordinary day, it would have been the matter of an hour or less to walk from the St Romanus gate to St Maria of the Mongols. But the day was not ordinary, when every street was filled with men intent on slaughter. Yet the very number of them gave him some protection, for he’d stripped all his distinguishing armour off, wore only the long undershirt that reached to his knees. Just another running man seeking something. Only his bow revealed him for anyone other, his magnificent bow. But he would not part with that, his only protection since he had lost his falchion and mace. And he’d managed to find five more arrows in a quiver some other archer had thrown aside, to add to the one in his own.

Yet he was not too late, arriving a few moments after Sofia and their son, just as the rope fell between them. He’d have called out if he’d had the breath. Then it was just as well that he had not, for the enemy ran into the square.

The soldiers swirled now, shields and swords raised, seeking him. And he shot again, because he had to kill as many as he could before they moved, and his next arrow felled the nearest man, taking him through his neck. But it also revealed where he was, standing in the lee of a building. They would be on him in moments and he had no protection there, nothing save four arrows. He could flee, but perhaps no one would chase him, and he would be leaving his loved ones to their fate.

Truly, thought Gregoras, the only choice now is where and with whom I die.

So, stringing another arrow, he left his scant cover. The nearest Turk snarled and stepped towards him, and Gregoras put an arrow into his stomach as he ran. He reached the wall in moments.

‘Sofia,’ he said.

‘Gregoras,’ was all she could reply, before the Turks shouted and came and her son flung his stone and her lover notched and shot, and missed, notched and shot and killed. She drew her dagger, held it towards the five men still advancing.

‘Craigelachie!’

The wild cry came from behind her, above, and no one there, Muslim or Christian, could help but look as a man in full and magnificent armour dropped from the wall, to land between them with a metallic crash. He had a sword in each hand. ‘You’ll be wanting this,’ he said through his visor, thrusting one out, and in a voice Gregoras knew well.

‘Scotsman!’

‘Aye.’ Hefting his own sword, Grant turned to the enemy, who’d stopped, as shocked as any. ‘And now, ye sons of whores …’

His one step forward was enough. Four of their brothers lay bleeding on the stones, and an easier life, surely, lay elsewhere. As one, the Turks turned and ran.

Gregoras, still winded, bent to place his hands upon his knees. ‘How …?’ was all he could wheeze.

‘After our … visit to the monastery,’ Grant said, raising his visor, ‘you told me where you were going to be.’

‘I did?’

‘Aye, you did. Said it would be a refuge in the storm, or some such. When the palace fell, I thought: maybe I’ll go there and see if that noseless bastard survived. I owe you, after all. For Korcula.’ He grinned. ‘Seemed as good a place as any in the madness. But they’ll not open the gate again. I tried to get them to, for this fair lady.’ He stared at her for a long moment before giving a slight bow and continuing. ‘I offered them persuasion of a sort.’ He lifted his sword. ‘But they would nae fetch the key. Said they’d rather die, that the Virgin must be preserved.’ He swatted at the rope. ‘I suppose you could climb. But I cannot in this armour, and I’d be loath to doff it, seeing as it cost me three jars of aqua vitae from a Venetian knight.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, I’ve been fighting with those mad bastards the Bocciardi brothers. They offered me a place in their ship for the services I have rendered them. Said they’d have a boat for me at the gate of the Phanar. I was thinking I’d take them up on it. Perhaps now,’ he added, as a further burst of shouting and smashing came from round a corner. ‘You know, I’m sure I could persuade them to take a few more, if you’d like?’

Gregoras had turned also to the noise. Now he looked again at the wall. ‘Are there only priests within?’ he asked.

‘Aye. Priests, monks, women and bairns.’

It was always a mad idea. A sorceress making her way through a dying city with a writ of safety for a church. One more mad idea. Others would be there soon, with a different plan in mind. He looked at Thakos first, then Sofia. ‘Come then,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘Let us try to make the harbour.’

She was suddenly so tired, all she wanted to do was lie before the gate of the church she loved and sleep. Even unarmoured, she did not think she could climb the rope. But she could not rest. Nothing mattered except the one thing she had to do. So she stepped beyond his reaching hand. ‘Minerva,’ she said. ‘She is lost out there. I must find her.’

She managed a step, before Gregoras seized her arm.

‘You cannot.’ She tried to slip his grip but he held tighter. ‘You would be dead within minutes.’ He saw her look. ‘You and me and anyone who comes with you, Sofia. Listen …’ All could hear the shouts, the triumph and the terror, the smashing, the wailing of many almost blending as if it came from one tortured mouth. While underneath it all, there now also came the rhythmic march of shod feet on cobblestones. Gregoras pointed. ‘That’s more of Mehmet’s army, and they’ll kill all of us. Sofia, they’ll kill your son.’ He watched her face as she looked at Thakos, slumped against the wall now, weeping in great shudders. ‘Will you trust me?’ he said, more gently.

Every instinct urged her to run back into the city. She bent with the pain of it, jabbing into her stomach like a dagger thrust. Because she knew she could not, must not. Not with her son beside her, who might – might! – be saved. ‘Yes, I will trust you,’ she whispered. ‘For when have I ever not?’

‘Then come.’ He stretched out his hand again, took hers, just as a rank of men rounded the corner. Stopping only to snatch up his bow, never releasing her hand, Gregoras led his group along one wall of the church and sharply down another.

Leilah saw him the moment she turned into the square, through the swaying shoulders of her guardsmen. He was flat against the wall of the building crowned with a cross. She didn’t know why she was surprised, for it was foretold; she had read it in dreams, in bloodstained water, tasted it on his lips. Yet the way had been hard and slow, despite her marching men, her guide, and she’d thought she might be too late.

I should trust more, she thought, smiling, and opened her mouth to call.

And then Gregoras ran, and the others followed. One of them was a woman. He held her hand. Even at that distance, she saw how he held it, knew who the woman was.

Her smile vanished. ‘Them,’ she screamed, slapping the armoured shoulder before her. ‘I want them.’

‘Forward!’ yelled the
bolukbasi
. All the men lowered their grip on their halberds and began to run, their boots slamming onto the stones.

The gate of the Phanar was not far. Gregoras knew it well, from land and sea, for it was there he had fetched up when he’d nearly drowned after the failed night attack upon the Turkish fleet. And progress had become a little less hard. The sack had passed its initial stage of rapine and slaughter. Men who had waited a long time for their chance of plunder were now seeking it in its various forms. Troops’ banners hung from the casements of houses and warehouses. Churches were being stripped. There were more men inside buildings than out upon the streets, and for a while their way was swift.

He brought them out on a hilltop overlooking the Golden Horn. The waters were filled with vessels of every kind. Turkish biremes and
fustae
drifted, and even from this distance they could see that most were deserted, their crews ashore seeking their share of the plunder. Some higher-sided ships of Venice and Genoa were already at the mouth of the Horn; some were still at anchor, a stream of overloaded rowing boats making their way to these. Closer too, upon the docks right below them, lines of armed soldiers of each nation held back a yelling, beseeching throng of citizens as their countrymen boarded behind them.

‘There!’ gasped Grant, visor raised to take in great gulps of air. ‘The Bocciardis.’

Gregoras followed his pointing arm. Two men sat on horseback beneath the lion of St Mark, behind a rank of their soldiers. ‘Waiting for you?’