The Walls of Byzantium (28 page)

In the time it took the Sultan Bayezid to drink two goblets of wine and hurl another at a hound, the Mamonas father and son had been fetched from some outer courtyard. Both men had snow on the shoulders of heavy woollen cloaks that shook itself to the floor when they made their bows.

Bayezid studied them before speaking. ‘Archon, you and your son are welcome at our camp. It seems we have made you await our pleasure outside in the cold.’ He stole a questioning look at his Grand Vizier. ‘Remove your coats if you so desire.’

The two men did so and bowed again more extravagantly in the new freedom of movement. They were dressed in long tunics of plain damask. Their heavy boots, still clotted with snow, emerged from their skirts like furred animals. Damian looked at the exquisite rug below him now wet with snow.

Bayezid was staring hard at Damian with a mix of curiosity and calculation. His eyes roamed upwards from his offending boots to the long hair that clung like jet curtains to either side of his pale face.

‘Give no thought to the carpets,’ he said. ‘They are removed nightly so that our imperial feet may delight in fresh texture each morning. It is of no consequence.’ He turned to Pavlos. ‘We are given to understand that it is you that we have to thank
for this excellent wine. But it is dangerous both to my girth and reputation. We may ask you to make it weaker.’

Pavlos Mamonas bowed again but said nothing.

The Sultan continued: ‘We also understand that you have provided us with cannon, and for this we are grateful.’ He paused. ‘We are curious to know why it is you wish to help us.’

Pavlos Mamonas said, ‘Monemvasia is a city long famed for its independence. We are a place of merchants who feel allegiance to no cause beyond that of peaceful trade.’ He parted his hands as if the gift of reason were laid out on the carpet before him. ‘You, lord,’ he went on, ‘are Yildirim, a thunderbolt sent from heaven to be the Sword of Islam. We believe that, in time, you will conquer the world. And you will need the profits of commerce to pay for such conquest. We stand ready to provide you with such profits.’

Bayezid threw back his head in a gurgle of laughter that made his beard quiver like a breezed treetop. ‘Well said, Greek!’ he said. ‘I will send you to the dog Temur to pour Greek honey into his barbarian ear!’

‘Lord, I speak only the truth. My family has long traded with your court. The wine you enjoy comes from our vineyards; much of the fruit you eat comes from our orchards. Now we bring you the cannon you need to sink the fleet we have delayed from coming to the aid of Constantinople. We hope that we have so far proved consistent in serving your interests.’

The Sultan nodded absently.

‘Majesty, the Venetians may be your friends or your enemies. They fear your advance into Christendom and may yet send a fleet to break your blockade of Constantinople. And the Venetian fleet is powerful.’

Bayezid scowled at Pavlos Mamonas.

‘But, lord,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘they are also bitter rivals of the Genoese and will seek any opportunity to gain some advantage over them. We ourselves are friendly with the Doge and know that the Serenissima has long coveted the monopoly of the trade in alum from the great mines at Phocaea that you currently bestow on the Genoese. The trade has made the Genoese of Chios, from where it is shipped, rich beyond avarice.’

Bayezid had begun to fidget. The business of commerce was beneath his imperial gaze and he was beginning to find himself bored. The Grand Vizier stepped forward.

‘His Majesty does not want to hear the sordid details of Italian trade squabbles, Mamonas. Please speak to the theme.’

Pavlos Mamonas took a deep breath. ‘Lord, I can deliver to you Venetian cannon, ships and neutrality in your war against Constantinople. In exchange, I would ask you to consider granting the monopoly in the trade of alum, and licence to manage it from the island of Chios, to the Republic of Venice once you have assumed control of the Byzantine Empire.’

‘But do they not already have the monopoly of alum from Trebizond?’

‘They do, lord, taken from the Genoese some time past. Therefore I would ask, in addition, that Venetian ships be allowed past Constantinople so that the markets in the west can continue to receive alum.’

‘At considerable profit to the Serenissima,’ murmured the Sultan. ‘You ask a lot, Mamonas.’

Bayezid looked at his Grand Vizier and Candarli looked at Prince Suleyman. Then the Vizier spoke.

‘And what advantage does the Mamonas family derive from such an arrangement?’ he asked quietly.

‘The Mamonas family wishes to expand its wine production beyond the shores of the Peloponnese,’ answered Pavlos Mamonas simply. ‘There is plenty of land on Chios and the soil is well suited to our grape. There is also a port to facilitate its distribution.’

‘And that is all? You just want land on Chios?’

‘That, Lord, and the Despotate of Mistra which we would rule as your vassals.’

There was a period of silence in the tent broken only by the noisy yawn of a dog and the rustle of the Sultan’s sleeve as he reached for more wine. He rubbed one eye and then the other, closing them briefly before arching an eyebrow at his vizier.

‘But, Lord Candarli, do we not have an alliance with the Genoese over Chios?’

‘Yes, Majesty. The Genoese control the trading outpost of Pera across the Golden Horn from Constantinople. We deemed it wise to gain their favour given their control of the Black Sea.’

Suleyman said, ‘Father, the Archon understands fully that we cannot risk antagonising the Genoese. But what if the island became ungovernable for them? What if its Greek population were to rise up and cast them out? I am told that the island is frequently raided by pirates from the mainland who abduct Greek children and take them into slavery. The Greeks no longer trust the Genoese to defend them and are planning to take matters into their own hands. What if the island became
available?
’

Sultan and Grand Vizier exchanged glances, one more amused than the other.

‘It seems you know a lot about these raids, Prince Suleyman,’ said Bayezid between the tight lips of a smile, ‘and it seems their timing is most convenient to your cause.’

Suleyman said nothing and his face betrayed no emotion. Bayezid was watching him closely, weighing a question in his mind, focusing hard despite the wine. He turned suddenly to Damian Mamonas.

‘I hear, my young lord Mamonas,’ he said quietly, ‘that you have a most delightful new wife?’

Anna’s heart stopped. She did not want to be any part of this conversation. She felt the hand of Devlet Hatun squeeze her fingers.

‘Yes, lord,’ replied Damian.

‘And your wife was the one my son spared before the walls of Mistra?’

‘Yes, lord, although it happened before my betrothal to her.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ murmured Bayezid, smiling fondly at the young Greek. ‘And what part does your wife play in this bargain you have struck with the Prince Suleyman?’

Anna felt two sets of fingers dig into her arms, holding her on her seat to stop her from falling forward against the grille. Nausea rose in her gorge and she knew she would be sick unless she did something. She didn’t want, or need, to hear Damian’s answer. She needed to escape.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SERRES, RUMELIA, WINTER 1394

The wine had been warmed and probably strengthened and it slid down Anna’s throat with the softness of newly drawn milk. She sat in the tent of Devlet Hatun and looked up at the two women who’d brought her there and saw her future in their slave eyes. She was even dressed as one of them.

Then she thought of Luke and what they’d so nearly made happen and a shiver of sorrow crept up her spine like the trace of a frozen finger. She lowered her head and looked into the depths of her goblet; pieces of cinnamon bumped against the rim in lazy circles. She was stronger for the drink.

It was an hour since she’d come from Bayezid and she’d spent it in silent and horrified contemplation of her future.

I am to be part of the bargain
.

At last Olivera Despina spoke. ‘Your father, the Emperor and the Despot are before the Sultan now, as is my brother Prince Stefan.’ She paused and took Anna’s arms in her hands. She looked hard into her eyes. ‘The Sultan is becoming drunk and unpredictable. I fear for their lives.’

‘Then we must act,’ said Anna.

The flap to the tent opened and Mehmed appeared. He was
frowning and walked quickly towards them. ‘The last part was short,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘My father has given the Emperor an ultimatum and he wants an answer tomorrow. Surrender Constantinople or watch every citizen of the city killed or enslaved.’

Anna gasped. ‘He cannot mean that. Why would he want a capital with no population?’

It was Olivera Despina who answered. ‘We would do well to remember that he took six thousand slaves when Thessaloniki fell. And now he has Temur to compete with. He can certainly mean it.’

‘There’s worse,’ Mehmed continued. ‘My father made a boast when his vassals had left the tent.’ He paused and looked at Anna. ‘The Emperor, the Despot and your father must escape. Tonight.’

Princess Despina’s tent was smaller than Devlet Hatun’s and it housed no naked odalisques or miniature orchestra. But then she was not of nomadic stock and had no taste or feel for the steppe. The carpets on the ground were Persian and less deep than the Sultan’s and the silks of the tent walls were partially hidden by Flemish tapestries. A bed stood between two wood burners, which scented the air with rose. Anna’s head was clearing quickly from the fog of wine.

Olivera Despina was brisk and purposeful and Anna liked her better every moment.

‘Quickly, change into these.’ She pointed to some clothes that lay on the bed. ‘They’re my maid’s and include a veil which you would do well to arrange with care. Your hair is not of Turcoman origin.’

While Anna changed, the Princess spoke.

‘Your father, the Emperor and the Despot are in my brother’s tent. I will be permitted to enter, and with me goes my maid whom God has blessed with the same height and shape as yourself. And she is always veiled.’

‘Why will your brother be with them?’ asked Anna, stepping forward to allow the Princess to hook her veil into place.

‘Because my brother, although a Christian, is still a sworn vassal of the Sultan. If anyone can persuade Manuel to relinquish his empire, it will be the man who lost his on the field of Kosovo.’

‘Manuel will not surrender his empire,’ said Anna with more conviction than she felt.

‘No?’ replied Olivera Despina. ‘Not even with the prospect of his subjects being slaughtered by the Turk as he looks on? If he cannot escape this place, he will surrender.’

She stepped back to look at Anna. ‘You are ready to go. Say nothing from now on and especially in my brother’s tent, whatever the temptation. Recognising you will make it harder for your father to leave.’

She lifted the folds of the entrance and both of them stepped into the biting cold of the evening and a semicircle of unexpected soldiers.

‘Majesty,’ said a muffled voice, ‘we are here to escort you.’

The voice came through the mail of an aventail so that it seemed as if two eyes had spoken.

‘Who sent you?’ asked Olivera Despina, recovering her poise. ‘I asked for no escort.’

The question was unnecessary. The light from the torches, held aloft by every other of the dozen men, illuminated the gold mail of the Sultan’s personal bodyguard.

The captain of the guard signalled to his men to form two
lines either side of the women. Then he bowed to the Princess and made the gesture to depart.

Walking behind her, Anna could see fear stiffening her every movement and prayed it was only visible to her.

They heard Prince Stefan Lazarević’s tent before they saw it. The men’s voices were audible in the still night air and they were all talking at the same time. The Emperor’s Varangian Guard, all bearing axes, stood outside the tent, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. There were six of them.

Inside the tent, Manuel and his brother faced each other across a table with two guttering candles at its centre. They stopped talking and looked up as Olivera Despina entered. A much younger man stood behind them.

‘Sister!’ he cried. ‘They did not tell me you were at the camp!’

Brother and sister embraced and stood holding each other’s faces, searching each other’s eyes for signs of hope, or even the comfort of a father’s memory.

Anna looked at her own father and saw a man she had not seen before.

Simon Laskaris had aged by twenty years. His face was gaunt and lined with misery. Behind Anna’s veil, tears were falling and they were a river and warm to the taste and she couldn’t stop their flow. She willed herself not to move, not to run over to take in her arms this shrunken man with disordered hair and wild eyes.

What has happened to you?

Why did she even need to ask that question? Here was a man who had lost a son and a daughter and any will to live. Here was the one man in the tent for whom death would be a release.