The Walls of Byzantium (65 page)

Luke and Benedo Barbi rode into the village of Seyit Gazi beneath a steady cascade of rain that drilled into their backs without mercy. By now, the steppe around them had turned into a brown glue that gripped their horses’ hooves and made every step a journey. Sound, at least, was obliterated by the downpour. They felt invisible.

Above them, somewhere, was the monastery, but the rain was too dense for it to be seen. They reached a little square where the bulbous dome of a mosque could just be made out on one side. There was a man beating his fist against the door.

Luke kicked his horse and rode up to him. The man was dressed as a monk and his sodden robes clung to his body like a second skin.

‘Are you from the monastery?’

The man turned and began to back away.

Barbi said, ‘We are friends. We’re not with the Venetians.’ He wondered if he understood Greek.

The man stopped and stared up at them. He was shaking with cold and fear and rubbing his palms against the sides of his tunic as if they might somehow dry.

Luke asked, ‘Are they inside the walls?’

Now the monk stepped forward, bringing his hands to his head and pushing his long hair away from his eyes. His face was shiny with wet and filth. ‘They were dressed as pilgrims. For the vigil. The saint’s vigil.’ He looked from Luke to Barbi. ‘We thought they were pilgrims.’

Luke dismounted, unsticking himself from the saddle with pain. The insides of his legs were raw. He approached the man. ‘How did you get out?’

The monk looked behind him, up at the louring bulk of the monastery somewhere beyond the rain. ‘I swam,’ he replied. ‘There is a cistern and a pipe to the outside for when it over-flows. I came out through the pipe.’

‘And the others? Did others manage to escape?’

The man shook his head. ‘Only me. It’s too dangerous now. All this rain will fill the pipe.’

‘How many Venetians are there?’

The monk considered this. ‘They’re not all Venetian. Just two. The rest are of the Karamanid tribe.’

Luke had heard of the Karamanids. They were the neighbouring tribe to the Germiyans and their enemies. They had yet to succumb to Bayezid. He walked back to Barbi, who was still on his horse. He looked up, shielding his face from the rain. ‘Can you swim?’

Barbi shook his head. ‘Never learnt. Can you?’

Luke grinned. ‘Like a dolphin.’

Barbi dismounted. ‘Luke, you heard him. It’s too dangerous.’

Luke shrugged. ‘It’s the only way in. They’ll have barred the gates and manned the walls. It’s the only way to get inside and you can’t swim.’

‘But you’ll drown.’

‘Not if we hurry.’ Luke turned to the monk. ‘Father, can you show us this pipe?’

Minutes later they were leading their horses across the square to the edge of the village where they tied them to a fence post. Luke patted his animal and then stopped. He’d had a thought. He walked over to Barbi.

‘Have you got the Greek fire in your saddlebags?’ he asked.

The Italian nodded. ‘I have two siphons and the solution inside it. Do you want them?’

‘Bring them.’

The monk leading, they began to climb the hill, their feet slipping in the mud. The siphons were heavy and Barbi struggled to keep up.

Then they were there. The monk stopped. He was kneeling next to the opening to a clay tunnel. It was not much more than a man’s width across.

‘It’s still dry,’ said the monk. ‘But the moment the water inside the cistern reaches its level, it will come out in a rush. You’ll need to be quick.’

Luke had taken off his cloak. ‘Give me one of the siphons,’ he said to Barbi. ‘Help me to strap it on to my back.’

The engineer lifted the siphon and helped Luke into its harness. Water was drumming against its metal and splashing into their eyes. Luke tested the straps, then: ‘Let me tell you my plan,’ he said.

But Barbi was shaking his head. ‘I already know your plan,’ he said. ‘And it’s insane.’

Inside the monastery crypt, all was yellow. Tall tallow candles cast their unreliable light over the tombs of the saint and his Byzantine princess, bathing them in a wash of quince. Around
the tombs were low arches supported by stout pillars and the floor was squared by flagstones rippled by the flow of time. The only metal objects were rings, some driven into the beams above the tombs and one large one in the floor. Around the walls, half in shadow, stood men dressed in the clothes of pilgrims, their hoods drawn back. All had the wind-blasted features of men of the steppe.

Suspended above the tombs in the pose of crucifixion, with his hands inside two rings, was Omar. He was naked to the waist and, in the candlelight, his skin had the texture of unfeathered chicken. His feet were resting on the giant’s tomb.

Before him stood the Venetian di Vetriano. He had his short sword at his side and was holding a crossbow that was pointed at Omar’s heart.

There was a sudden gust of wind as the crypt door opened and the candles jumped and cowered. One went out. A man dressed in black had entered and shook the rain from his cloak. ‘We found nothing,’ he said to di Vetriano. ‘Just his bag.’

‘And you searched it?’

‘Nothing. No capsules, nothing.’

‘What of the monks?’

‘Locked in the refectory. They’re not talking. I don’t think they know where he’s gone anyway.’

Di Vetriano frowned. He turned to Omar. ‘It would seem that he’s done it again. Magoris seems to have infinite cunning when it comes to escape. First Monemvasia, then my friend Rufio’s boat. Now this monastery.’ He paused and walked up to Omar, his head the height of his waist. He looked up. ‘Where is he, old man?’

Omar didn’t answer. He was looking at the Venetian with calm and some interest. He knew him now. ‘Di Vetriano.’

The Venetian performed a little bow. If he was surprised by the acknowledgement, he hid it well. His face, pointed and sallow, was a mask. Venice was good at masks.

Omar continued: ‘Why would the Serenissima’s most infamous sea captain be looking for Luke Magoris?’

This time the Italian didn’t respond. He didn’t know who Omar was but he felt a power emanating from the old man that was beginning to unsettle him.

Omar said, ‘Why would this sea captain, the same that brought Luke Magoris’s mastic from Chios to Venice, be searching my young friend’s baggage for a
capsule
?’ He paused. ‘A capsule of what?’

Di Vetriano frowned. ‘You ask too many questions, old man,’ he said. ‘It will be my turn soon.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Fabio, take some of these animals and make another search of the monastery.’

His companion gestured to two of the Karamanids and left. Another candle went out with the draught.

Di Vetriano went over to one that was still alight. He set down the crossbow and prised the candle from its holder with both hands. Hot wax dripped on to the back of his hand and he swore. He returned to Omar, climbing to stand on top of the saint’s tomb so that they were facing each other.

‘I’m told that old men’s skin burns like parchment,’ he said genially. He was holding the candle in the space between them and lifted it so that the flame was almost touching Omar’s nose. ‘Now, once again, where is Luke Magoris?’

Pieces of Omar’s beard and eyebrows were curling and there was the acrid smell of burning hair. The only movement in his face came from the clenching of teeth. He stared straight into
the Italian’s eyes. ‘I don’t know. He left this morning without saying goodbye.’

Di Vetriano laughed softly, a dry sound. He broke off a piece of wax from the top of the candle, studied it for a moment and then pressed it to Omar’s cheek. There was a smell of scorched flesh and the old man flinched but no sound came from his lips.

‘Do I have to ask you again?’

Then Omar blew. He lifted his beard and puckered his lips and the candle went out. Di Vetriano stared at the smoking wick in amazement.

Omar said, ‘You need to listen, not talk, di Vetriano. You’ve made a mistake.’

The sopracomito’s smile was, just for a moment, unfastened from his face. He took a step backwards, lifting an arm to keep his balance on the curve of the tomb.

‘It doesn’t do what you think it does,’ said Omar.

Di Vetriano had gone very still. ‘And what do I think what does?’ he asked slowly.

Omar didn’t directly answer the question. He shifted his weight and looked up at an arm. A trickle of blood was running down from his wrist. He looked back. ‘I was in Venice when your ship came in,’ he said. ‘With my friend Plethon. We were there to meet with your doge. We saw your ship held in St Mark’s Basin flying the flag of plague. Yet there were men brought ashore. We speculated why.’

Di Vetriano was watching the man in front of him closely, his arms folded tightly to his chest. He had not relit the candle.

Omar shifted his weight again. ‘You will permit,’ he continued, ‘that the lands of the Prophet have been far more
advanced in the field of medicine than Christendom? Indeed, remain so, yes?’

Di Vetriano didn’t answer.

‘We have long understood that a mixture of mastic from Chios, orange blossom and other ingredients can offer some amelioration against the onslaught of the plague.’ He paused and then he said, ‘It can delay the plague’s advance for a matter of weeks, but it can do no more.’

There was sweat now on the Venetian’s brow. A bead broke free and ran unrestricted to the bank of his moustache. His eyes were unfocused.

Omar spoke again, quietly and with sympathy. ‘Signore, your agreement with the Serenissima would seem voided.’

Below the crypt, below the flagstone with the ring at its centre, the cistern was filling fast.

Luke was in the tunnel with the siphon on his back, the straps biting into his shoulders. At his waist was an oilskin containing the stuff to make fire. The pipe was bigger than he’d thought it would be but it was dark and slippery and rose at an angle that meant he had to use his elbows to make any progress forward. The pain was excruciating.

He stopped, closed his eyes and listened.

Nothing, except the steady fall of water into the cistern ahead. He adjusted the siphon on his back and inched forward. Around him was a black woven so dense that it seemed palpable. For a moment, he thought of the labyrinth and a dream that had brought forth a village. Without darkness, there could be no light.

He stopped and listened again. The sounds ahead had changed. There was silence now. No water meeting water. Just silence.

Then something else.

Water was coming towards him and was approaching fast. It sounded like a huge snake slapping its flesh against the sides of the pipe. He took a deep breath and ground his body into the sides of the pipe.

Coming. Coming. Com
 …

Then it was upon him. He just had time to brace himself before it hit, pushing him backwards so that he had to use his knees as well as his hands to stop himself from going with it. It filled his nose and his ears and plastered his hair to his skull. The noise was deafening. It went on and on.

Luke felt himself slipping and his lungs ready to burst. The straps of the canister were like knives in his shoulders, pulling them from their sockets. He pressed every part of his body into the wall in one last effort.

Hold on
.

Then it was gone.

As quickly as it had come, the water vanished and Luke opened his eyes, shaking his head and blowing water from his nose. He was breathing hard, the sound filling the space around him.

It will come again. I must move fast
.

Taking another deep breath he began to edge forward. He could feel air on his face. He must be almost there.

Then he was. He could see nothing but blackness but his head and shoulders were suddenly in a bigger space and there was an echo to his breathing. He’d reached the cistern. He pulled his body through the end of the pipe and down into the deep water, his legs working to keep him afloat. It was bitterly cold.

He reached up and found only air. Then he crouched down
and launched himself up as high as the siphon on his back would let him. This time his fingers touched stone. He sank back into the water and listened, clamping his teeth together to stop them chattering. The only sound was the rush of water into the cistern.