Siege (4 page)

‘Your Highness,’ he said in Greek and bowed with a flourish, his right foot forward and his head lowered to his knee. With a wave of her hand, Helena bade him stand. ‘I am honoured to be allowed into you august presence,’ Longo continued. ‘My condolences on the death of your son, God rest his soul.’

‘I have had enough of condolences, Signor Longo,’ Helena replied in flawless Italian. Longo was surprised, as much by her directness as by her command of his language. ‘You speak Greek well,’ Helena continued, this time in Greek.

Longo bowed again in recognition of the compliment. ‘Thank you, Your Highness. I spent my childhood in Thessalonica.’

‘Ah, yes, before the wars no doubt,’ Helena murmured, her eyes closed in memory. When she opened them again, they were cold and stern. ‘But you did not come here to discuss your childhood.’

‘No, Your Highness. I come bearing important news and to offer you my services, if you have need of them.’

‘Very noble of you, Signor Longo,’ Helena said. ‘What then is your news?’

‘Forgive my presumption,’ Longo replied. ‘But I wish to speak to Your Highness privately.’

Helena studied him closely, her eyes narrow. She nodded, satisfied with the results of her inspection. ‘Leave us,’ she ordered. The courtiers and soldiers filed quietly from the room. Only the captain of the private guard and the beautiful young woman stayed. Who was she?

‘The Princess Sofia is very wise,’ Helena said, answering his unspoken question. ‘You may speak freely in her presence.’ She gestured to the captain of the private guard. ‘And I would trust John Dalmata with my life. Your secrets are safe here.’

‘Of course, Your Highness,’ Longo replied.

‘Very good,’ Helena said. ‘You may proceed, Signor Longo.’

‘I come bearing unwelcome news, Your Highness. The crusade led by King Ladislas and John Hunyadi of Hungary is no more. Their armies were surprised and routed by the Turks at Kossova. King Ladislas is dead, and Hunyadi has returned to Hungary to rule as regent. He will no doubt be forced to make peace with the sultan.’

Helena was silent. To her left, Sofia’s eyes were wide with disbelief. It was Dalmata, the captain of the guard, who spoke first. ‘Hunyadi defeated? We have heard nothing of this.’

‘I witnessed the defeat with my own eyes,’ Longo responded. ‘My men rode hard to reach Constantinople. We arrived only today.’

‘If Hunyadi has been defeated,’ Sofia began, ‘then there is no one left to stand between us and the Turkish army. They will not be quick to attack so soon after a major campaign, but if they sense any weakness – a struggle for succession, civil war – then they will strike.’ Longo nodded. The girl’s grasp of the situation was perfect.

‘And Constantinople would fall,’ Helena concluded. Good, Longo thought. They understand the danger. ‘I will see to it that the succession is handled swiftly,’ Helena continued. ‘My oldest son, Constantine, shall be named emperor, and there will be no dissension, no civil war. I thank you for your news, Signor Longo. We are in your debt.’

‘You do me too much honour, Your Highness,’ Longo said. ‘But I have one more piece of news to deliver. My men and I passed through Selymbria on our way to Constantinople. Your son, Demetrius, was there. He will arrive before Constantine even knows of the emperor’s death.’

‘Of course,’ Helena replied coolly. ‘We are expecting Demetrius any moment now. But do not fear. I will deal with my son when he arrives, and I will send a messenger to Constantine informing him that he is now the emperor.’

‘Demetrius will no doubt arrive with force, Your Highness,’ Longo said. ‘My men are at your disposal, if you have need of us when he arrives.’

Helena shook her head. ‘Thank you, Signor Longo, but I believe I know how to handle my son.’

‘Then may I offer the services of my ship? She is fast, and Mistra is on the way to Italy. Allow me to carry your message to Constantine.’

‘I accept your gracious offer,’ Helena replied. ‘John Dalmata will travel with you. Constantine trusts him. I will send two officials, Alexius Philanthropenus and George Sphrantzes, with the crown. Constantine shall be crowned emperor as soon as you arrive.’

Longo nodded his agreement. ‘I will await Lord Dalmata and the officials at my ship. It is harboured in the Golden Horn, at the Port of Pera. We will set sail this very night.’

‘Very well,’ Helena said. ‘May God go with you, Signor Longo.’

The sun had set by the time Longo’s ship,
la Fortuna
, got under way. Tristo and the other soldiers were already below decks, drinking and playing dice. The ship’s crew scurried about the deck, preparing the rigging. The two ambassadors from Constantinople were in their cabin, suffering from seasickness. Longo had stayed on deck to talk with Dalmata. He was a man of few words, but forthright and intelligent. Like all of the Varangians, Dalmata’s ancestors were Saxon nobles who had come to Constantinople generations ago, after King William conquered England, and Dalmata retained the brown hair, grey eyes and lighter skin of his kinsmen. He had been raised in the imperial household and trained in combat by his father, the emperor’s personal bodyguard before him. Dalmata told Longo that Constantine was a strong man and would be a good emperor. They had grown up together in the palace, and Dalmata counted Constantine as a friend. Longo was glad to hear that Constantine was capable. He would need to be if his empire were to survive.

Dalmata excused himself to see after the two ambassadors, and Longo was left alone on deck. He stood near the rail, alone with his thoughts as a strong westerly wind hurried
la Fortuna
across the Sea of Marmora. Longo had been campaigning with Hunyadi for nearly a year, and it had been much longer since he had last
set foot in Italy. He was eager to feel the warm sunshine of his homeland, eager to walk his fields once more and to watch his grapes as they ripened in the sun. But looking towards Constantinople, dark on the horizon with lights shining here and there, Longo felt something pull at him. A part of him always felt more at home in the East, far from the shores of Italy and the squabbles of his countrymen. Perhaps things would be different if he married, as his chamberlain Nicolo had been urging him to do for years. He thought of the Princess Sofia, with her bright, intelligent eyes, and then laughed at himself. He would never see her again, and he knew better than to wish for things he could never have. He had learned that lesson long ago.

Longo turned away and made his way to the ladder leading below decks, but before he could descend he was stopped by a noise so unexpected that it took him a moment to identify it. Floating in and out of the myriad noises of a ship at sea – the creaking of wooden planks, the slap of waves and the constant roar of wind in the sails – was the barely audible sound of someone crying. Longo looked around him, but saw only a few sailors coiling ropes. He listened more carefully. The sound was coming from above him.

Curious, Longo mounted the ratlines and climbed up to the crow’s nest, high above the deck. He hauled himself over the side and found himself face to face with William, who looked away as he wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Why aren’t you below with the others, William?’ Longo asked.

William wiped away a last tear. ‘I was just watching the city, the lights,’ he said, struggling to master his quavering voice. ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.’

Longo looked out to where the city was still floating past, visible only as a million flickering flames from torches lining streets or fires burning in hearths. Its sea walls rose abruptly from the waves, giving it the look of an island, or some fantastic city afloat at sea, another Atlantis. ‘Constantinople is magnificent, isn’t she?’ Longo reflected.

William nodded. ‘Why do they call themselves Romans? They don’t live in Rome.’

‘They are the heirs to the Roman Empire, with an unbroken line of emperors all the way back to Augustus,’ Longo explained. ‘In some ways, they have a greater claim to the name
Romans
than the people of Rome themselves.’

‘Is Rome like Constantinople?’ William asked.

‘Like Constantinople? No,’ Longo laughed. ‘But it is a magnificent place. It is filled with palaces, fountains, markets where you can buy whatever your heart desires, and beautiful women. I will take you there someday. You will like it.’

‘I know I will. And yet …’ William looked at Longo steadily, and Longo was surprised to see that the young man’s eyes were filled not with sadness, but with anger. ‘Part of me does not want to leave this place. The Turks killed my crewmates, my friends. It is my duty to avenge them. I owe them that.’

The blazing eyes, the hatred, William was so much like Longo at that age. ‘Do you know, William,’ Longo said, ‘that I too took up the sword looking for vengeance? Do you know how many Turks have died at my hand? I have killed more men than I can count, more than I dare remember. War is all I know.’ He looked closely at William. ‘Vengeance will not bring your friends back, nor will it bring you peace.’

‘You don’t understand,’ William snapped, shaking his head. ‘The Turks betrayed us. They cut my friends down in cold blood. They killed my uncle, my last family in this world, but they let me live.’ William fought back tears. ‘I cannot live in peace until they are dead. All of them.’

‘I do understand, William,’ Longo said. ‘Better than you know. I was only nine when a Turkish raiding party came to my family’s home outside Salonika. The sultan had claimed Salonika, and I was to be forcibly recruited into the janissaries as part of the
devshirme
, the gathering. My older brother fought, hoping to save me. He was killed, and as punishment for his defiance, the Turkish commander had my parents gutted and left for the wolves to
finish. I took up my brother’s sword, thinking I could save them. I surprised the Turkish commander, and had I not been so clumsy, I would have killed him. Instead, I left an ugly gash on his face. In his rage, he beat me almost to death. When I came to, I swore that someday, somehow, I would kill that man. I still see his face in my dreams.’

Longo paused. The lights of Constantinople had been swallowed by the darkness and grey, barely visible land rose from the sea on either side of them – the walls of the Dardanelles Strait. ‘But my vengeance had to wait,’ Longo continued. ‘I was taken to Edirne, the Turkish name for Adrianople, and placed in the
acemi oglan
, the school for young janissaries.’ Longo fell silent. He had never told his story to anybody. He rarely allowed himself to think of it. Now, he gazed into the darkness beyond the reach of the ship’s lamps and battled with old memories.

‘You were a janissary?’ William asked. ‘What did you do? How did you get out?’

‘Three years after my capture, when I was twelve, I escaped. I tried to reach Constantinople, but I never made it. I lost my way and spent nearly a year wandering the countryside, stealing food and sleeping in barns. I passed through Athens, Kossova, Thebes. Eventually, I stowed away on a ship and ended up on the island of Chios. I lived on the streets until one of the Italian families that rule the island – the Giustiniani – took me in. My parents were Venetian and I could speak Italian, so they made me a house servant. Eventually the head of the family, who had no children of his own, adopted me.’

‘And the man who killed your family, did you ever find him?’

‘Yes, I found him,’ Longo replied quietly. He thought again of the battle of Kossova, of how close he had come to the scar-faced man, of how he had failed. Longo closed his eyes against the pain of the memories. ‘Get below,’ he told William. ‘That is enough talk for one night.’

Later that night, long after the streets of Constantinople had been abandoned to thieves and packs of wild dogs, a lone traveller dressed in black spurred his horse along the deserted avenue that wound up the fourth hill, high above the waters of the Golden Horn. The traveller’s face was invisible, swallowed up in the shadows of his hood. He kept to the darkness, carefully skirting the intermittent pools of light that spilled on to the road from open windows. At the top of the hill the Church of Saint Saviour Pantocrator came into view, its many domes rising high above the road. The traveller quickened his pace, riding at a gallop into the church courtyard.

Two monks in long, black cowls stood waiting. One took the traveller’s horse and led it away to the stables. The other led the traveller into the monastery, along dim passages and down a short flight of stairs to a low-ceilinged cellar, where they stopped at a heavy, wooden door. The monk took a lantern from the wall and opened the door, leading the traveller into the catacombs beneath the church. The catacombs had been built above an ancient cistern, and the air was cold and wet, thick with the smells of rock and decay. Their path twisted and turned amongst the crypts before coming to an end at another thick, wooden door. The monk knocked, twice slowly and then three knocks in rapid succession. Then he pushed the door open, and the traveller stepped inside. The monk closed the door behind him.

The small, brightly lit room was dominated by a rectangular table of rough-hewn stone. Around the table stood three men. To the traveller’s left was the rotund Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, Gregory Mammas, a nervous man with small, darting eyes. He had only been named Patriarch after the more influential bishops had refused, not wanting to be associated with Emperor John VIII’s policy of unifying the Greek and Catholic churches. The two churches had been separate since 1054, when the pope and the Greek patriarch had excommunicated one another, and the rift between them had only deepened over time.

To the traveller’s right stood Lucas Notaras, a tall man with
chiselled features and dark, brilliant eyes. Only forty, Notaras had shown himself both an able warrior and an implacable foe of union. John VIII had placed him in charge of the city’s defence, a position he had filled capably. As megadux of the empire he was second in power only to the emperor.

George Scholarius Gennadius, a small, wiry man with bright, penetrating eyes, stood across the table from the traveller. Gennadius wore the simple black robe of a monk, his mode of dress ever since he had rejected the patriarchy and retired to the monastery of Saint Saviour Pantocrator. He was the leader of those who opposed union, and he commanded the support of nearly all the Orthodox clergy. From his small cell in the monastery, he wielded far more power than the actual patriarch and almost as much as the emperor himself. It was Gennadius who had called this meeting. He spoke first.