The Walls of Byzantium (23 page)

‘Their genius,’ Plethon replied, ‘is in their tolerance. Certainly they’ve won some battles, but the truth is that the common people
prefer
to be ruled by them. No one forces them to convert to Islam and they have to work a day a month for their new landlords instead of the three days a week under our system. And they feel safer. Someone at last protects them. So, yes, perhaps they will take over the world.’

‘And you think we should welcome them?’

‘No, no,
no
!’ cried Plethon. ‘A thousand times no! The Turks are nomads. They like to live in tents. They know nothing of building, of art, of culture or learning or creating the foundations for progress. Believe me when I tell you that they will build a great empire, and we may be part of it, but it will decay. Why? Because Islam hates change. The world cannot be ruled by people who don’t want to change!’

Luke felt in part reassured. However admirable, the Turks had to be resisted. ‘So what should we do?’ he asked. ‘How do we stop them?’

Plethon sighed deeply and looked down at his hands as if some answer might be found in the dark pattern of veins on their back. He shook his head slowly, his thick eyebrows creased in concentration. ‘It was as the fool Bishop said,’ he answered. ‘We have to unify the two Christian Churches of East and West. We have to stop rubbing the pebbles of our theological differences smooth with endless debate. We have to stop arguing about papal primacy, purgatory and the procession of the Holy
Spirit. We have to stop worrying about how to properly make the sign of the cross. We have to unify these Churches which have been at war for three centuries so that the Pope in Rome can call the powers of Christendom to one final crusade against the Turks. It’s our only chance.’

Luke was silent, listening to the humming of his companion above the sounds of the ship as it ploughed its course through a sea whose shifting surface was catching the first glimmers of dawn. He’d heard the case for union and knew that the Emperor Manuel favoured it as a means of gaining help from the West.

‘And then there’s the Varangians, of course.’

Luke looked up sharply. ‘Varangians?’

‘Yes, surely you’ve heard of them. The Emperor’s Guard? Four of them were said to have taken a treasure from Constantinople when it fell to the Franks and brought it to Mistra. The myth has it that the treasure can save the Empire. It must be a lot of gold.’ He looked at Luke. ‘Didn’t you say that you were from Monemvasia?’

Luke nodded. ‘And am descended from one of those Varangians.’

Plethon stared at him in astonishment. ‘So you know of this treasure?’

‘Only that it’s been lost,’ replied Luke, shaking his head. ‘No one knows what or where it is.’

The older man stared at him for a long time. Then he shrugged and returned to the view. The humming resumed.

Luke suddenly felt cold and hugged his shoulders as he stared out to sea. A memory was creeping up on him. He saw his father, his axe an arc of silver above his head. He saw it frozen mid-air as a bolt found its mark. He shivered.

What had he died for?

‘So what do you believe in then, if neither our faith or theirs?’

Plethon turned to him and frowned. ‘I believe in reason,’ he said quietly. ‘And I believe our teacher should be Plato, since Plato equates good not with some God, but with reason. There is a new dawn of reason rising in the west, among the city states of Italy. Bayezid must be stopped because he will put out its light.’

Luke’s head was pleasurably lost in this labyrinth of new ideas and he wanted to listen to this man forever. But the first, blinding rays of the sun reminded him that he might be in imminent danger.

‘Sir,’ he asked, ‘may I perhaps come with you to Edirne? If you were to put me under your protection, would the captain dare move against me?’

Plethon put his hand on Luke’s good shoulder. He was shaking his head. He looked around the deck to check that they were still alone.

‘Luke,’ he said softly, ‘you clearly have little experience of Venetian greed. Look at you. You are tall, strong, blond and handsome. You will fetch a good price for them in the slave market and nothing that I say will stop them from trying to get it. No, your only hope is escape.’

But how?

‘The captain,’ the Greek went on, ‘speaks freely to the crew in my presence, believing that I cannot understand much of what he’s saying. Yesterday he told them that we would be putting into the island of Chios two nights from now. That will give you the best chance to escape. Chios is owned by Genoa.’

‘Why would he want to put into Chios? I thought the Venetians hated the Genoese?’ asked Luke.

‘Because,’ whispered Plethon, ‘it is only three miles from the Turkish mainland. So my hunch would be that they plan to meet the Turks there to do some transaction. And you might be included in the merchandise.’

Luke thought of the crossbows and cannon below. ‘They will give them cannon. Cannon to take to the siege of Constantinople. I saw them. In the hold.’

Plethon looked up sharply. ‘Cannon? Are you sure?’

‘Very sure.’

‘That is bad,’ Plethon said gloomily. ‘Well, we’ll know if I am right by the smell. You can smell a Turkish galley two miles away – the stench of slaves chained to their oars.’

‘I’ll need to escape. Can you help me?’

Plethon nodded slowly. He was suddenly very serious. ‘Yes, Varangian, you do. I will do what I can.’

By now the sun was clear of the horizon and Luke lifted his face to enjoy its soft warmth. He thought of the freedom to do this every morning of his life. What would it be like to awake slumped over an oar?

A shout in Italian behind him brought him back to the present. Captain Rufio was striding across the deck towards them, wearing a new doublet of shiny black leather and long riding boots that almost covered his multi-coloured hose. He seemed more delighted than ever to see Luke, pinching one of his cheeks and ruffling his hair.

Plethon began walking away. ‘That’s what they do to slaves,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I should look to that fine sword of yours.’

Two nights later, Luke was lying awake in his cot, fully dressed, his unsheathed sword beside him beneath the bedclothes and
wine on his breath. He had been well supped and irrigated by the captain, who had entertained both Plethon and him with a dinner of partridge cooked in apple, eggplants and
katsouni
washed down with sweet
vinsanto
wine from Santorini. And Rufio had offered toast after toast, refilling every glass in between. Luke had done his best to drink slowly, to add water when he could and even to empty it through a porthole when Rufio had left the cabin. But he was unused to wine and it had had an effect.

Now he tried to focus on the beam above his cot, lit by the full moon outside. It seemed to have a name scratched into it that he couldn’t read. The ship rose and fell with the gentle swell and the moon appeared and disappeared from the porthole like a mime show. All was quiet outside his cabin but there was a new, putrid smell in the air and Luke thought of what Plethon had told him of Turkish galleys.

He knew that they were at anchor in a tiny lagoon whose shores were no more than a hundred paces from the ship’s sides. He could swim that distance. There were whispers outside and the squeal of bolts pulled back from the hatch over the hold. A cargo was being brought up to the deck. He heard the splash of oars and felt the bump of a smaller craft come alongside. There were grunts and low curses as heavy objects were lowered over the sides and the occasional thump as something metal hit wood.

There were more whispers and Luke guessed that if he was to be taken, it would be now. The door would open and he’d be rushed, tied up and thrown into the boat alongside the cannon. On the other side of his door he could hear the heavy breathing of men who’d recently exerted themselves. Luke tensed his body and gripped the hilt of his sword, moving his
other hand to hold the edge of his bedclothes, ready to tear them off when the time came. He shook his head to try to clear it of the fog of wine, sucking deep breaths of air through his teeth.

Then it happened, but not as he’d expected.

He heard the handle turn slowly and the creak of the door as it inched open. Through half-open eyelids he saw a man silhouetted and two more behind, one of whom seemed to be carrying a coiled rope. The man sniffed; the smell of the Turkish galley was stronger now. It must be close.

Luke let out a drunken snore and heard a stifled laugh from one of the men. He turned on to his side, grunting and smacking his lips, offering his back to them. He heard the men move forward with greater confidence, greater carelessness.

Now!

Luke leapt from the cot, sword in hand, and lunged. The man in front let out a screech of pain as the sword tip ripped open the skin of his upper arm, blood quickly spreading across his shirt like a tide. He pitched backwards on to his companions, who fell out on to the deck, dropping the rope and clubs they were holding. Luke leapt through the door and slammed his sword hilt into the face of a man who doubled up in agony; Luke brought his pommel down on the back of his head, sending him crashing to the deck. He looked up to see the third man rush at him from the side, a spar in his hand, and Luke lifted his sword to parry the blow while rocking back on his heels to let his attacker overreach himself. Then he spun around as the man passed, kicking the back of his legs and sending him sprawling against the rail. He leapt forward and brought the side of his sword down sharply on his back. The man fell heavily to the deck.

There was a shout to Luke’s left and he spun round to see Rufio advancing on him, sword in one hand, dagger in the other and no hint of a smile on his lips. Behind him were two other sailors with swords, one also carrying a net. Luke glanced quickly at the rail and wondered if he had time to get to it. He looked back at Rufio, who was only feet away and shaking his head. With a roar, the Italian raised his broadsword and charged.

Luke was surprised at how fast the man could move and only just had time to duck Rufio’s swing, feeling the rush of wind on his hair as the blade passed an inch above his head. He stepped back and parried as the next stroke came with terrifying speed. This man was an expert swordsman.

Luckily, Rufio’s two companions seemed happy to let him fight alone and Luke could turn his full attention to how to use his youth and extra height to gain some advantage. One thing he had on his side, he realised, was the likelihood that Rufio did not want to kill him, for a dead slave wouldn’t command any price at all. He could afford to take chances.

With this in mind, Luke went on to the attack, bounding forward and using his sword as a spear, jabbing it at the Italian’s face and neck with short stabbing thrusts. The captain parried them with his broadsword but the weapon was heavy and his arm slowed with the effort. He fell back towards the mast and then, with his back against it and his sword locked at the hilt with Luke’s, he let fly a vicious kick which caught Luke in the stomach, winding him and sending him flying back towards the rail. In an instant, the Italian had sprung forward with a cry of triumph, gesturing to the man with the net to follow him.

Luke felt weak and dizzy and knew he was unlikely to be
able to resist them both. He gripped his sword and prepared to do his best.

Then something unexpected happened.

‘
Basta!
’

From the deck behind him came a shout followed by a torrent of perfect Italian. Plethon was standing there, dressed only in the white toga, with his arm raised as if he were addressing the Senate. Rufio was so astonished that for an instant he forgot his adversary, and that instant was enough for Luke to climb on to the ship rail and dive into the sea, sword still in hand.

It was a twenty-foot drop and Luke landed badly, his wounded shoulder taking much of the impact. Nevertheless, he turned on to his front and kicked for the shore, paddling with his strong arm. He could see commotion on the ship’s deck and Rufio leaning over the side jabbing his finger in his direction. Then a crossbow bolt plunged into the sea beside him and Luke ducked underwater. Further bolts hit the sea and dived deeper, his shoulder protesting all the way.

Holding his breath, Luke swam as fast as he could towards what he thought was the shore, clutching his sword to his front. At last, with his lungs bursting and spots of light exploding before his eyes, he broke the surface and was relieved to see that he was almost at the rocks. No more bolts were being fired at him and he guessed that he was far enough away from the ship to be nearly invisible.

He pulled himself up to his knees and looked around him. At the end of the bay there seemed to be a deep beach of sand leading on to grass that climbed inland in a series of overlapping hills. He could see some dim figures grouped together on the sand with a boat beached in front of them. Were these the Turks? Above him was scrub, knee-high and interspersed with
jagged rock that would make running difficult. While he remained low, he would be shadowed against the hill so he decided to keep to the shallows and try to make his way along the edge of the lagoon via the shoreline. He could see the ship’s boat silently gliding towards the shore, its oars muffled with hessian. On it would be the cargo of crossbows and cannon. He saw the outline of a cloaked figure standing in the bow and guessed that this was Rufio. Could he have given up?