A Place Called Armageddon (8 page)

Hamza leaned away. ‘Mine? I thought I just did. No, you are right.’

For silent minutes, they took turns. At one point it looked like the Turk might escape. But then the Christian rebuilt the wall six deep, impossible to jump over. With a counter off the table, Hamza could only watch as Theon threw – and remember the subtlest weapon he had not yet used. ‘If only the Hexamilion had been so strong,’ he murmured, not too softly.

Theon, who was enjoying the conquest, held his dice. The mention of the Hexamilion, that six-mile wall in the Morea that was meant to be unbreachable and that the Turks had destroyed with cannon in six days in 1446, brought memories he’d tried to forget. Of terror. Of betrayal. But Hamza was staring, so he swallowed and spoke. ‘Were you there?’

‘I was Murad’s cupbearer. I was always at the sultan’s side.’

‘Always?’ The slightest smile came, but Hamza did not let it provoke him.

‘Were you?’

‘I was. Beside my emperor as well.’

‘I see.’ Hamza studied the board. ‘And your brother?’ he added softly. ‘Was he beside your emperor too?’

‘My brother?’ The smile vanished. ‘What do you know of him?’

Hamza looked up. ‘Little enough, sure. All I know is that brothers can be problems. I have five, and they compete with each other in stupidity. They …’ The look on Theon’s face halted him. ‘But I can see the mention of your brother causes you grief. We will not talk of him.’

‘Not grief, I …’ He stopped himself. Why had Hamza brought Gregoras up? He needed to know, spoke carefully. ‘My brother … was deemed to be a traitor at the Hexamilion. Some say he betrayed the wall to … you. A postern gate left open at night.’

‘So he is dead. A double sadness to you.’

‘He may be dead now. Not then. Then he was … disfigured. Battlefield justice by men crazed with anger. I arrived in time to save his life but, alas, too late to halt his … punishment. To …’ Theon paused. He’d been drawn into a conversation he did not want. Been forced into lies when he did not even need to discuss this.

‘Disfigured?’ Hamza said, his voice all sadness. ‘How?’

Theon made his reply casual. ‘The usual way. They cut off his nose.’

Hamza watched the Greek’s eyes. He had taken him off guard. But it was enough, for now, to know the wound was there. He did not need to probe it … yet.

‘I am sorry for your sorrow.’ Hamza let pity show on his face, then picked up his dice. ‘My throw again? No, your Hexamilion still stands.’

‘Yes.’

Theon won swiftly. But thereafter he did not seem to be fully concentrating, and his luck was not as strong. Hamza took the next two games with ease. When he swept the last of his counters off, Theon leaned back, throwing his dice down. ‘This victory is yours,’ he said.

‘And what was the stake? Ah yes.’ Hamza grinned. ‘That beautiful cat.’

Theon stood. ‘I will call my wife.’

Hamza rose too. ‘A moment.’ He leaned in, rested his hand on Theon’s arm. ‘I am glad we have had this chance to get to know each other a little. Friendship will be a good thing in the days that lie ahead. If it comes to war … well, perhaps I will be able to help you and yours when the city falls.’

‘
If
it falls.’

‘If indeed. But
if
it does, there will be the customary three days of pillage. Have you seen a city taken?’ On the other’s head shake, he shuddered, continued. ‘It is horrible, to watch men turn to ravening beasts. To slaughter. Despoil. Enslave. Ravish.’ The glance to the bedroom door was slight but clear. ‘Should it come to that … should luck and guns and above all Allah, most exalted, be with us, it would be good to have a friend among the conquerors.’

Theon squinted at the man so near him. ‘And what must I do for this … friendship?’

‘That shall be as you decide,
brother
of the East.’

The word was barely inflected. Just enough. ‘Well, I will think on this.’ Theon moved away a pace, turned to the door. ‘Sofia,’ he called.

She came out, cat in her arms. ‘Good, he is there,’ Theon said, gesturing to the board. ‘I wagered your cat at
tavli
. I lost. Give him to our guest.’

She could not restrain a shudder. But Hamza marvelled at the speed with which she mastered herself, diving behind the veil of her long lashes. She crossed the room. ‘Here, sir,’ she said, holding him out, ‘he is yours.’

But Hamza did not reach to take him, just stretched out a hand and scratched the purring animal between his eyes. ‘Nay, lady. I won him – and now I offer him as a tribute to your beauty.’ He bowed. ‘He is yours. I just wanted to see Ulvikul once again.’ He picked up his satchel, went to the door, took off his slippers, put on his boots.

‘You have forgotten your board,’ Theon called.

‘I have forgotten nothing. It is a poor return for your hospitality,’ said Hamza, ‘though I …’ He crossed back, bent and picked up the ivory dice. ‘I will take these. They are my lucky ones. I am surprised that you won even once with them.’ He held them up. ‘Traitors,’ he murmured. Then he crossed the room, bowed and left.

Theon followed him down the stairs, but the Turk gave him nothing more save a smile as the door was unbolted, opened. Silently, he left.

Theon returned. ‘What did he seek?’ Sofia asked.

‘Hmm? Nothing. Nothing that need concern you. Leave me.’

‘Our city concerns me—’

‘Leave me,’ he roared, so loudly the cat was startled and jumped from Sofia’s arms to scurry under the table. For a moment, Sofia’s brow wrinkled in anger. Then she turned, and walked slowly into the bedroom.

Theon went to the chest, pulled out a flagon of wine. He wasn’t going to drink wine if his guest didn’t. Now he was alone he would probably drink it all. He sat, gulped, stared at the board before him. It was exquisite, as beautiful and expensive an object as he had ever possessed. Yet the Turk had given it to him as if it were a bauble. No, thought Theon, taking another deep swig of wine, this Hamza had known exactly its value. And he thought he knew Theon’s, the price of board and man, matched. The only thing he hadn’t left were his dice. But he’d left a word in their place.

‘Traitors,’ he whispered.

He felt a push against his leg. Ulvikul was there, nuzzling, purring. Picking him up, Theon turned to the open window and hurled the cat through it.

–
FIVE
–

Masks

Ragusa (Dubrovnik)
Early December 1452

It was not unusual to hear a woman scream on the streets of Ragusa.

Yet what she screamed was. For it was actually a curse, in Osmanlica, language of the Turk. Before it was cut off, her assailant was being encouraged to perform a deviant act on a camel.

It made Gregoras smile, even as he turned to find a different route home. Then it made him stop, and look at the flagstones. It was unusual for him to care. But he’d spent the night alone again in a tavern … and suddenly he decided he’d like to hear how the curse ended.

He did not have to go far. He heard a grunt of pain, hissed words: ‘Hold her legs, damn you.’ He leaned round the wall, glanced, leaned back.

Five of them, if you included their prey, who was held off the ground by the biggest man there, one arm wrapped around the woman’s chest, a hand around her mouth. Her legs were flailing, trying to land kicks, obviously succeeding with some.

He considered. Four men. All of them young. Him coming swiftly from the darkness. Four was not bad odds, he’d faced far worse. Still, he hesitated. What was this to him – a Turkish woman, raped? Even if he succeeded in helping her, he could be hurt, which would hamper him in his mission, the one that would change his life. Why risk his future? For what? Instinct told him to walk away.

Then, from round the corner, he heard a louder yelp of pain – and the curse completed, as if the woman had held her breath this long only for that purpose. Smiling again, he drew his cudgel and stepped round the corner.

The big man had dropped the woman. He was clutching at his ear, trying to stem the blood flowing there.

It was his time. ‘
Heya
,’ Gregoras called softly, moving forward.

The one who turned swiftest to his call was the one Gregoras hit first, a blow delivered with half-force but at the temple, dropping the man on the instant. The youth on the left was reaching to his belt, but the one on the right cleared his scabbard. Grabbing the sleeve of the man on the left, Gregoras jerked it down hard, off-balancing him, at the same time sweeping his cudgel in an upwards arc and hitting the other man’s dagger hand just as he was thrusting the weapon forward. There was the crack of bone, a wail, steel clattering against the alley wall.

Gregoras still had the sleeve in his grip. He braced and pulled it again, swinging the youth into the one whose fingers he’d just broken. They locked together, tripping and falling in a heap, clearing the space before Gregoras and the last man standing, the biggest one, with the bleeding ear, just now drawing a sword, bellowing as he raised it above his head.

There were three paces between them. One too many. He raised his cudgel for a throw … and then before he could, the last figure before him moved. The woman leapt, dagger leading, its point entering the man’s arm just as it was beginning its descent, just above the elbow, the force of the two blows driving the steel in to the hilt.

The man screamed, kept screaming as he dropped his sword, reeled back against the wall. ‘God’s mercy! Help, help, for a son of Ragusa. For Christ’s wounds, help!’

His voice was high-pitched for a large man, but it carried, and shutters were flying open. The three youths on the ground were untangling themselves, screaming too. ‘This way, and swiftly,’ Gregoras commanded, stepping past the sprawl.

‘A moment.’ The woman answered in the language he’d used, the one she’d cursed in. She bent to her assailant, who slid down the wall, raising his arms to protect his face, whimpering. But she did not strike him. Instead she grabbed the hilt of the dagger Gregoras saw was still buried in the man’s arm, and jerked it out.

The cry was piteous. More were coming from windows, from the labyrinth of alleys ahead. ‘Come now,’ Gregoras said, turning away. If she did not, he had done all he could.

She came. They did not run. Cries sounded from behind them. ‘Thieves! Murderers!’ When iron-shod feet came towards them, Gregoras stepped into a doorway, throwing his cloak over both of them, pulling her close. She did not resist, as four of the town guard ran past. And she did not move away as their steps receded.

‘Here,’ he said, setting off again, turning left, right, right again, left, climbing ever upwards. The uproar faded, blended into the noise of a tavern, a drunken song, the clatter of dice on several boards. It was his local one and he’d planned to stop. But he was known there, as far he ever let himself be known. And he would not want to explain the woman.

In this, the poorer quarter of the city, there was no paving as yet, the city’s new edicts not reaching so far. They squelched through the puddles left by the autumn squalls, climbing ever higher. When he felt the sea breeze on his face, saw the night-sky darkness ahead, he felt along the wall to his left. Stone gave onto wood under his fingers. Lifting the latch, he pushed the door in.

He was breathing heavily from the rapid steps, the sudden violence. Leaning against the table, he fumbled for the lamp, nearly spilling it. It was oil-fuelled, its wick kept low, and he turned the wheel that raised it, opened the metal gate. Flickering light made a passage between them. They were both masked. Between scarf and veil, between hat and doublet, their gazes moved, each over the other. The stillness, the silence lasted a few heartbeats before he broke it. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. You saved me from that. Thank you.’

‘Well …’ He was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘A woman, alone on the street at night. Speaking in Osmanlica. It was …’ He paused.

‘Did it shock you? I have always been told my language better suits the barracks.’ She laughed, a deep sound of sheer pleasure that had him staring harder.

‘Shock? No. I have been in a few barracks myself.’ He halted, surprised that he’d revealed something about himself. He never did. It was how he lived. ‘
Why
were you alone? Unprotected?’

‘I was not unprotected. As you saw.’ She lifted the knife she still held. ‘Have you water? I would wash that pig’s blood from my companion here.’

The sight of blade and blood
did
shock him. And reminded him. It had been so long since anyone but himself had been in his house. ‘I am sorry. Yes, water. For yourself. For your … friend. To wash. To drink. Or I have wine for that? Though you …’ He shook his head. ‘Being Turkish, you may not drink that.’

‘Can I if I speak Greek?’ She’d switched languages, her accent as faultless in each.

It was his turn to laugh – and to reply, also in Greek, though he wondered how she had penetrated that mask so quickly when he thought his Osmanlica as flawless as hers. ‘Of course. And I will join you.’

He placed the lamp on the table. The room was small, and he barely strayed from its light-spill to fetch what was required. A basin for water, a rough cloth for drying hands and weapons, which she promptly used for both. A stoneware jug of wine. He poured some of that into his only goblet, handed it to her. Raising the flagon, he toasted her. ‘To midnight adventures,’ he said. Both lifted their masks to drink. Both let them fall again.

‘So,’ he said, placing the flagon down, leaning on the table. ‘I must apologise for my city. It is usually a civilised place. But like most cities it has … uncivil elements. And young men are young men anywhere.’

‘Young men like you?’ she said, raising the empty goblet.

He refilled it. ‘But I am not young.’

‘It is hard to tell behind that mask.’ She sipped, stared. ‘Do you ever take it off?’

He pushed himself off the table. ‘I have some bread. Some cheese.’

He reached to a bag suspended from the ceiling. From it he pulled a wheel of dense, rough bread, a round of pungent goat’s cheese. ‘I have no plates,’ he apologised.