Siege (11 page)

Despite the hostility between the families, Longo was greeted politely and presented immediately to Niccolò Grimaldi – the father of the recently deceased Carlo and the head of the family. The elder Grimaldi was a small man. Despite his sixty years, his lean, tan face was hardly wrinkled, though his hair was a wild mix of grey and black, like the ash from recently burned wood. He was seated on a balcony overlooking the courtyard, drinking a thick black liquid that Longo recognized as coffee, an eastern delicacy. Grimaldi motioned for Longo to sit. Once the formalities were ended, Grimaldi moved right to the point.

‘You have come to make peace between our families,’ he said. ‘I am an old man. I treasure peace, but it is hard-bought after so much blood.’

‘Surely more blood is not the answer,’ Longo replied. ‘I am a warrior, Signor Grimaldi. I have fought more battles than most men have seen years. I do not fear bloodshed, but I have no quarrel with your family, nor with you. Your son was killed fairly, honourably. Let that be an end to it.’

Grimaldi nodded and took a long sip of coffee before he spoke again. ‘No doubt you are right. Still, I have lost a son, Signor Giustiniani. Nothing can replace him. Nothing can repay that loss. But perhaps if I were to find a new son, then I could forgive. By joining our families, we might end this bloodshed. You are not married, I recollect?’ Longo nodded. ‘Very well, shall I introduce my daughter, Julia?’

‘I would be delighted,’ Longo replied. Julia was ushered in and introduced, a shy girl of twelve. It was clear that she had been preparing for this meeting from the moment Longo entered the courtyard, for she was dressed in her very best – a flowing gown of white silk embroidered with interlacing red roses – and her hair was braided with ribbons and twisted into an intricate knot atop her head. She was thin and still flat-chested, but she had delicate features and looked likely to grow into a beautiful woman. She curtsied, blushed demurely as Longo complimented her fine dress, and was dismissed.

‘She is fertile, no doubt, like her mother,’ Grimaldi said. ‘And a beauty as well, yes?’

‘Indeed, signor,’ Longo replied.

‘Good. Then you do not object to marrying her?’

Longo paused. As his chamberlain Nicolo often reminded him, none of Longo’s properties would be secure until he produced an heir. Julia was young, fertile and certainly attractive enough. A female touch would be welcome in his household, not to mention in his bed. Most importantly, the marriage would transform the budding feud into an alliance with a powerful family. Longo’s feelings were beside the point. It was his duty to marry Julia Grimaldi. ‘You honour me, Signor Grimaldi,’ Longo said at last. ‘I would be overjoyed to marry your daughter.’

‘Very well,’ Grimaldi said, rising. ‘Let me embrace you as my new son. But I am not one of these Turks, you understand, to send my daughter away so young. I trust you will not object to a delay in the marriage until she is more of a woman?’

‘I am very much of your mind on the matter, signor. I would be happy to wait.’

‘Then it is settled,’ Grimaldi said, returning to his coffee. ‘We shall work out the details in time. I thank you for your visit, Signor Giustiniani.’

‘And I for you kindness, Signor Grimaldi,’ Longo replied. He bowed and left.

So I am to be married, he reflected as a servant led him back to his horse. Nicolo, at the very least, would be overjoyed.

Chapter 5

MARCH TO JUNE 1449: CONSTANTINOPLE

S
ofia, dressed in a tight-waisted, rust-red caftan with billowing sleeves, followed Constantine, Helena and the other members of the royal family into the great hall of the Blachernae Palace. Constantine had arrived in Constantinople the previous day, and a great feast had been prepared to celebrate his new reign. Sofia passed between long tables heaped with roasted meats, candied fruits and still-steaming bread. Nobles lined the tables, their gold-and jewel-embroidered caftans lending some splendour to an otherwise rather shabby scene. The imperial family had been desperate for money for decades, and the golden plates, goblets and candelabra that once graced the tables of the palace had long since been melted down for coin. Simple pewter plates and wooden cups now adorned the tables, and while candles burned on the emperor’s table, the rest of the hall was lit by torches set in the walls.

Sofia was surprised to find herself seated at the emperor’s table between Lucas Notaras and the dull but very talkative Grand Logothete, George Metochites. As a woman, it was not Sofia’s place to speak unless directly questioned, and so she listened politely to Metochites, stifling yawns while he alternated between his two favourite subjects – the glories of his learned great-grandfather Theodore Metochites, and the dangers of union with the Catholic Church. All the time he managed to eat at a fascinating rate, far outpacing the constant stream of dishes, and shortly a
trail of half-chewed food began to form, leading down his shirt and under the table. Oblivious, Metochites prated on and on.

‘Did you know that my great-grandfather was something of a scholar?’ Metochites asked in a dull monotone. He continued without waiting for an answer. ‘Oh yes, he was. Quite the scholar. His studies of Aristotle and of astronomy are simply marvellous. Astronomy is certainly superior to mathematics. Most certainly superior, epistemologically speaking, for astronomy assumes the proper functioning of mathematics, does it not? Even without our understanding of the golden mean or arcs or circles, the sun would still travel around the earth. Of course, our Latin friends don’t think so. To them, the sun revolves solely around the pope, with never so much as a nod to any bishops or councils. Did you know that they use unleavened bread in their communion? They might as well be Jews …’

Sofia had already met her other dinner companion, Notaras, on several occasions. She found him arrogant, very handsome, and very aware of it. He spent the meal locked in conversation with the royal councillor Sphrantzes and hardly glanced at Sofia. From what she could gather, they were arguing over the possibility of union with the Catholic Church. Only near the end of the meal, after his conversation with Sphrantzes had ended in frustration, did Notaras finally turn to her.

‘The damn fool,’ Notaras muttered. ‘He would have us go begging cap in hand to the Latins.’ He glanced at Sofia as if noticing her for the first time, and his gaze lingered. ‘I understand that you know something of politics, Princess. Tell me, what do you think of this talk of union?’

Sofia lowered her eyes. ‘I am sure that I could tell you little you do not already know,’ she replied. She might study politics and philosophy in the privacy of her quarters, but she knew her public limits well enough.

Notaras’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sphrantzes has told me that you are not so modest behind closed doors. Come now, Princess. You may speak freely.’

‘Very well,’ Sofia said, raising her eyes to meet Notaras’s gaze. ‘When help is there, I believe that one should take it. And, I believe that it is not piety that makes us spurn such help, but pride.’

‘Hear, hear! Well said,’ Sphrantzes cried from down the table. Notaras ignored him.

‘Perhaps you are right, Princess,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Perhaps it is pride that motivates me. But I am not ashamed to say that I am too proud to submit to the rule of the pope; just as I am too proud to see our patriarch dethroned, or to see Latin soldiers walking our walls in place of their rightful defenders. I am proud, Princess, and I hope to God that all the men of this city are just as proud.’

‘Your pride will count for very little if the city falls, if our homes and churches are looted and our women raped,’ Sofia replied, rather more loudly than she had intended. Around her, the table had gone quiet as people turned to listen, but Sofia continued regardless. ‘I do not see the honour in sacrificing an entire city to your finer feelings.’

‘You are a woman,’ Notaras snorted. ‘You could hardly understand such things as honour, could you?’

‘It seems you understand little else,’ Sofia murmured.

‘What was that?’

‘I said you are right. I do not understand the honour of which you speak.’

‘That is enough, Princess,’ Constantine called from the centre of the table. ‘We are not here to bicker, but to celebrate. Come, let us all drink to the continued glory and prosperity of our empire.’ He quaffed his glass, and the rest of the guests followed suit. A long round of toasts followed: to Constantine; to the empire; and to continued peace and friendship between the Turks and Constantinople. When the toasting was done, Constantine left the table, signalling that the feast was over. Sofia left her place without even a glance at Notaras. She hurried from the great hall and was surprised to find Constantine waiting for her in the corridor.

‘Niece,’ he said. ‘Come here. What did you think of the megadux, Lucas Notaras? A fine man, is he not?’

‘Yes, sire,’ she replied, although in truth she thought him a prideful buffoon. She could not, however, contradict the emperor. ‘He is a very fine man, certainly.’

‘Good,’ Constantine said, smiling. ‘Perhaps you shall not believe it, but it would pain me to upset you. I am very glad you enjoy Notaras’s company, for he has agreed to marry you. He will be your husband before the year is through.’

Sofia felt suddenly sick. She put her hand to her stomach and lowered her head, breathing deep as she struggled to control her shock and disappointment. ‘Yes, sire,’ she managed to say in a dead voice. ‘I am overjoyed.’ She bowed and hurried away before Constantine could see the tears in her eyes.

‘On guard!’ Sofia cried and lashed out with her sword, swinging for the head of Dalmata, the head of the imperial guard and her fencing instructor. Dalmata gave ground, and Sofia pressed her attack, driving him across the floor of her apartments. Dalmata was much larger than Sofia, but she compensated with exceptional quickness and lightning reflexes. She swung high, then sidestepped a blow from Dalmata before swinging down hard and giving him a cruel rap on the knuckles of his sword hand. The blow stung, despite the leather glove that Dalmata wore and the dulled blade of the practice sword. Dalmata cursed and dropped his sword.

‘Well done,’ he said, rubbing his hand. After much convincing, Dalmata had agreed to teach her the fundamentals of sword-play, and Sofia had proved an apt pupil. They practised in her quarters, the only place in the palace where such outlandish behaviour on the part of a royal princess could pass unremarked. ‘But be careful not to overextend yourself,’ Dalmata warned.

Sofia nodded her understanding. She was breathing hard after nearly an hour of practice, but she did not wish to stop. ‘Shall we continue?’ she asked.

‘Very well, one more pass,’ Dalmata said. ‘But I warn you, I shall not spare you this time.’ And with that, he attacked, slashing at Sofia’s waist. She parried the blow and spun away, but Dalmata was on her immediately. He swung hard, and Sofia’s hand stung as she parried the heavy blow. The pain only made her angry. She ducked another blow and then went on the offensive, attacking with a ferocity that surprised even herself. She drove Dalmata back until he was against the wall, and then their swords crossed and locked. Dalmata shoved hard, and Sofia fell and rolled away.

‘Are you injured?’ Dalmata asked. Sofia sprang to her feet and shook her head. She would have a bruise on her hip, but she did not want to give in now. She attacked again, pressing Dalmata back against the wall. Again, their swords locked, but this time when Dalmata tried to push her away, she was ready. As he pushed, she gave way and dropped to a crouch, kicking out and knocking Dalmata off his feet. She rose quickly and struck the back of his sword hand hard with the flat of her blade. Dalmata threw his sword aside in frustration.

‘Good Lord, child!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have fought these last days as if you wished me dead. What has come over you?’

Sofia lowered her sword, embarrassed. She was breathing hard, furious still, but certainly not at Dalmata. ‘I am sorry,
filos
. Are you hurt?’ Dalmata waived away her concern. ‘I have not been myself, of late,’ Sofia confessed. ‘I certainly have no idea why.’

‘Do not be coy with me, child,’ Dalmata said as he took a seat. ‘I have known you too long. It is this talk of marriage that troubles you, is it not?’

Sofia looked away, embarrassed that Dalmata had read her so easily, and then sighed and turned to face him. ‘Marriage will be like death to me. I was not raised to spend my days hidden away, ordering about servants and nursing children. I cannot bear it.’

‘There is iron in you, Sofia,’ Dalmata said. ‘I believe you can bear anything. And besides, you must marry some day. You could do far worse than Notaras. At least he is a Greek, not some foreign potentate.’

‘You do not understand,’ Sofia insisted. ‘Once I marry him, everything will end. There will be no more lessons in swordplay, no more studies with Sphrantzes, no more politics.’

‘Marriage is not all bad. You will see,’ Dalmata comforted her. ‘And, you are not married yet. It might interest you to know that there will be a meeting in the council room tonight at which Constantine will decide what message to send the pope regarding union.’

‘Tonight? Thank you,
filos
,’ Sofia kissed Dalmata on the cheek. He was right. There were more important matters than her marriage. She had taken an oath before the Emperor John to defend Constantinople, and she would keep her word, marriage or no.

That night found Sofia creeping through a dark, narrow passage, her lamp covered so as to throw only a tiny ray of light at her bare feet. The palace was riddled with hidden passages and secret chambers. Few now knew that they existed, and even fewer could find their way through the maze of identical dark hallways. But Sofia was one of the few. She had often played in these passages as a young girl; now she used them to gather information.

She came to the end of the passage and mounted spiralling stairs, moving confidently in the dark. At the top of the stairs she stepped into a small alcove, covering her light completely as she did so. In the total darkness she could make out a tiny prick of light shining through the wall before her. She put an eye to the hole, and there was the council room before her. Six people were seated at a round table. To Sofia’s left sat Constantine. Across the table from him were Sphrantzes and Dalmata. Helena, the empress-mother, sat with her back to Sofia, and on the far side of the table were Mammas and Notaras, Sofia’s betrothed. Sofia turned her attention to Constantine, who was speaking. Through a trick of acoustics, Constantine’s voice came to her clearly, as if she were standing in the same room with him.