The Walls of Byzantium (5 page)

The Despot took the arm of his Protostrator and led him from the chamber, up the winding steps and out on to the top of the tower.

The Vale of Sparta stretched out before them in miniature. Simon Laskaris had woken every morning of his forty-eight years to the reassuring sight of that huge plain with its farms, orchards, vineyards, olive groves and the bright ribbon of the Evrotas River winding its way through it all. It was a world of green, ordered prosperity, a world in balance, a world worth fighting for.

Now he saw smoke rising across the plain. Closer to, he saw the tanneries and storehouses alight and tiny Turkish soldiers running to set fire to houses in the Albanian and Jewish quarters.

‘St Demetrius,’ said the Despot suddenly.

‘Majesty?’

‘He’s our patron saint, isn’t he? Have we done enough praying
to him, do you think, Simon? Should I organise a procession or something?’

‘Highness, he was also patron saint of Thessaloniki.’

Theodore considered this, stroking his long beard. Thessaloniki, north of the Peloponnese, had fallen five years ago. He looked down at the square in front of the palace below. It was a place he’d wanted to be the new Athens, a place where children would sit at the feet of philosophers and learn of reason. It was a place he loved.

‘The Turks are a very conservative people,’ he said. ‘Their religion leaves very little room for doubt. They won’t keep our square.’

‘No, lord,’ agreed the Protostrator. ‘And the cathedral will become a mosque.’

Both men were silent for a while, each contemplating what this future held for them.

‘Well, no time for conjecture, Simon. What do we do?’

The Protostrator turned back to the plain and pointed at the gigantic pavilion in the centre of the camp. ‘Two Horsehairs, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Which means that someone other than the Sultan is leading this army.’

In the little square of beaten earth outside the entrance to the pavilion stood a single lance driven into the ground. At its top, moving gently in the breeze, were two horse-tails.

‘The Grand Vizier, do you think?’

‘No, I hear he is in Serres with his master. I think we may have one of Bayezid’s sons before us. Perhaps the eldest, Suelyman.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

Laskaris shrugged. ‘It is the janissaries who will decide the battle,’ he said. ‘Look at them! Have you seen such a sight?’

They both looked down at the gardens before the pavilion where groups of men with tall white hats, each sprouting an extravagant plume, stood talking to each other. They seemed in no hurry to begin anything.

‘Why should we fear them?’ said the Despot. ‘They look like peacocks.’

‘Peacocks perhaps,’ said the Protostrator, ‘but also machines of war. The Sultan’s father came up with the idea and it’s ingenious. Every four years they send their men into the villages of Rumelia and take Christian boys aged between eight and fifteen from their families. They indoctrinate them in Islam and train them for war. They call it the
Devshirme
.’

‘But they’re slaves!’ protested the Despot.

‘Indeed, lord. But never were there prouder slaves. Look at them. They’re the best. An élite fighting force that doesn’t know fear.’

‘And what do we have? Two thousand demoralised Albanian mercenaries and a handful of greedy Norman knights.’ He glanced at the Protostrator. ‘We need Varangians. That’s what we need. And their gold which, apparently, is buried here somewhere.’ Theodore sighed. ‘But it’s no more than legend,’ he said miserably. ‘There are four Varangians in the service of Mamonas, but they won’t fight for us.’

‘It’s not they who won’t fight, but their archon,’ said Laskaris. ‘We’ll have to bind Pavlos Mamonas to our cause if we are ever to get these Turks off our plain. We need him.’

The Despot nodded gloomily. ‘As always, Simon, you’re right. My brother the Emperor sees it the same way. He’s sent gold to bribe the bastards since they won’t be shamed into helping us. But I can’t see how we can get the message to Monemvasia. We’re surrounded. If only we had cannon.’

The Protostrator was about to reply when there was a distraction from the plain below. A warehouse had exploded and tiny, burning Turks were running towards the river.

Anna was at the top of the staircase, holding her breath. Having got bored of the marmoset, she had come to find her father and had overheard most of the conversation. She coughed.

‘Anna!’ cried Theodore. ‘What a sight you are! Simon, we should put her image on every banner in the city. It will remind us what we’re fighting for.’

Anna stepped forward to be kissed. But she wasn’t really concentrating. A very daring idea was taking shape in her fifteen-year-old mind.

Five minutes later, Anna was running back to her house as fast as the crowds would allow. The Laskaris house, one of the largest in Mistra, was situated in the lower town within its own walled garden and orchard. It was about as far from the citadel as any house could be.

At last she stood, panting, in front of the tall gates with the heavy coat of arms above the archway, listening for any signs of life. There was none. It seemed that her mother had taken the servants up to the palace for safety.

She climbed the broad stone steps to the front door and pushed it open. The triclinium was empty of all furniture and tapestries and her short breaths came back to her as echoes. The vivid wall scenes from Greek mythology seemed gaudy without the divans from which her mother’s aristocratic friends would swap court gossip. And without the rich carpets, the marble floor felt cold beneath the soles of her shoes. All that remained was a solitary prie-dieu and the hollow sound of the fountain that played in an alcove at the other end of the room.
Through the tall, curtainless windows she could see the houses of her beloved city climbing the hill to escape the Turk. She felt emboldened.

I can save this city
.

She straightened, clenched her fists and ran up the staircase to her room, pulling off the chemise as she went. After frantic searching, she found riding breeches and some stout leather boots. She pulled them on with one hand while tearing the flowers from her hair with the other. She ran to her brother’s room and found a doublet and the riding hat he sometimes wore. Finding a mirror, she looked into it and smiled.

From girl to boy. From Mistra to Monemvasia. Now I need courage
.

At the gates of the Peribleptos monastery, Anna flattened herself against the wall, nervously peering around it to see if her way was clear. A monk was hurriedly pulling plants from the little herb garden to make potions for the wounded. At the smithy beyond, two more were hammering swords into shape before plunging them into a cauldron of water while another carried blocks of ice from the underground ice house to keep it freezing. The buildings stood hard against the city walls and, looking up, Anna could see soldiers on the ramparts clearing the machicolations of weeds so that boiling water could be poured on to the heads of the attackers. From the kitchens behind the scriptorium came the smell of baking bread, and a cart stood at its door waiting to take it to the city’s storehouses.

Then she saw it.

The old oak tree stood in the corner made by the city wall and the refectory. This was the first time she’d seen it since that night and it sent a shock of fear coursing through her body.

I have to do this. I’m the only one who can
.

She drew a deep breath and half ran, half crawled along the walls until she was lying facing the tree. Fighting down her panic, she parted its roots and slipped inside.

Immediately she felt terror. She was inside the hole and there was no turning back. All the horrors of that night came back to her. The blood was pounding in her temples and she felt faint. She was shaking uncontrollably.

Sweet Virgin Mary, help me
.

But she couldn’t move; her limbs were paralysed.

It’s just a hole
.

She managed to reach out an arm, feeling for the earth in front of her, praying that it was still loose.

There it was. Softer to the touch. Easily moved.

Her fingers scrabbled their way through, pulling it into the hole until she could see daylight beyond.

Freedom
.

The opening grew wider and soon was big enough for her to crawl through. Stretching her body, she used all her strength to wriggle her way up and out and collapsed, exhausted, on the grass. The smell of pine and wild garlic smelt better than any meal. It was the smell of the forest, of deliverance, of a fear conquered. Gradually her senses cleared. She needed to think. She needed to be careful.

She rolled over on to her front and looked up at the ramparts. No sign of the soldiers. She looked down the hill towards the plain. No Turks as yet. They’d yet to surround the city after all.

Finally she looked into the forest that climbed the slope outside the city walls. All was quiet.

Bringing her fingers to her lips, she let out a low whistle. There was a pause and then she heard an answering neigh.

Anna allowed herself the briefest of smiles. All was going to plan. Looking once more up to the ramparts to check that she hadn’t been seen, she crawled on to the edge of the trees and then rolled forward into a ditch that would hide her from view while she collected her thoughts.

To travel the fifty miles to Monemvasia, she would first have to climb the hill, then drop down the other side into the deep valley between Mistra and the slopes of Mount Taygetos. She knew that she could pick up a path there that wound round the back until it joined the Monemvasia road some three miles further on.

But where are the Turks?

Anna picked herself up, brushing the pine needles from her brother’s doublet, and whistled again. Again came the reply.

She pushed her way through the branches of the trees until she came to a small clearing where a ruined hut stood, its broken beams pointing up to the sky like teeth. Stones lay in a jumble all around it and, amongst them, a tethered pony patiently cropped the grass, its tail languidly swishing flies.

Pallas
.

Anna smiled. She’d had Pallas since birth and he was old now but he’d have to make one final effort today. If he got her there, she would give him the most comfortable berth in Monemvasia.

She went over to the pony and stroked his neck, untying him and leading him through the trees to the path beyond. When they reached it, she stopped, looked around and listened, shushing Pallas, who had begun to eat noisily again. She could hear nothing but the sounds of the forest and the occasional birdcall echoing through the trees. They were alone.

Slowly and carefully, she got on to the pony and was pleased
to see that he could still take her weight. She urged him into a slow trot, her feet barely clearing the ground, her back jarring against his unsaddled back. She climbed the path, moving deeper into the forest. A red butterfly danced before her in dust that floated in a shaft of sunlight and Pallas gave a familiar snort of satisfaction. Anna began to feel safer.

At the top of the hill, the path plunged deep into the valley and then veered sharply eastwards, the trees gradually clearing to reveal the sheer sides of rock that backed the hill of Mistra to her right. The citadel, with its beacon still burning, was just visible at the top.

On her left, the forests of Mount Taygetos gave way to scree on its upper slopes. She looked further up to the snowline that never melted, even in summer, and then beyond to the distant peak soaring into the clouds. Anna remembered playing with Alexis on those slopes when they were young and she closed her eyes as the sun reappeared from behind a cloud and bathed her in new warmth.

Then she heard it.

The unmistakable twang of a bowstring and the sound of an arrow in flight. A heartbeat later, it was embedded in a tree inches from Pallas’s head.

The pony stopped suddenly and Anna was flung across his neck. She looked up, her heart racing, and saw a flash of horse and rider between the trees to her left. She saw rich colour: silk with mail. Not Greek. Not Norman.