The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FLORENCE, SPRING 1400

It was spring in the Tuscan countryside, yet the couple that rode up to the walls of Florence were dressed as winter and summer.

Plethon and Fiorenza looked like allegories. The philosopher was robed in his usual toga while Fiorenza was dressed in dragon-green damask, every inch the Byzantine princess that she was. He was Father Frost, Old Man Winter: white of hair, beard, toga and horse. She was the early blush of summer, buttercups and ripened corn. People had stood by the side of the road to stare at the strange pair since they’d landed in Italy. They’d stared at them in Naples, in Rome, and all spaces between. Now they were staring at them from the walls of Florence.

Plethon had spent Christmas at Constantinople, thinking it less merry than the one he’d spent in Mistra. The Emperor Manuel had been moody and his court’s new ceremonial hadn’t lent itself to the festive season. And then there’d been Armageddon to think of. The end of the world was apparently nigh.

So it was with some relief that he’d taken ship for Chios in early April in a world that was still intact. With him had gone Marchese Longo, Dimitri and the engineer Benedo Barbi, who’d done what they’d come to do to the Turkish cannon and whom no amount of Manuel’s flattery would compel to stay in Constantinople. The city was safe until new guns arrived from Venice and who knew when that might be? After all, Chios was still Genoese.

The Turkish galleys in the Propontis had hardly given the Genoese round ship that slipped out of Pera a second glance, minding more about things going in than out. Plethon was surprised to note that there were only half the galleys that there’d been the week before.

It had taken two days for them to get to Chios and two more to decant Dimitri and Barbi and swap Longo for his wife, a good deal of gold and a small army for an escort. They’d then sailed to Methoni and, from there, ridden straight to Mistra.

They’d stayed in Mistra for only a day, Fiorenza befriending the Despoena while Plethon spoke to the Despot. When he’d finished doing that, he’d ridden out of the city with a guard of three Varangians and some spades.

From Mistra, they’d gone back to Methoni, reboarded their ship and crossed the straits to the Italian mainland, landing at the port of Otranto on its southernmost tip.

For Fiorenza, the ride up through the Kingdom of Naples had been a depressing one. Ever since the murder of the childless Queen Joan eighteen years earlier, the country had quivered to the tread of Angevin armies and the once-fertile region of Apulia was a place of derelict fields and beggars. Their Genoese escort had ridden up beside them to shield them from outstretched hands, shaken fists and the curses of people with little left to lose. In Naples they’d met one of the Angevins.

King Ladislaus was of the senior branch and had finally dislodged Louis of Anjou from his capital the year before. Plethon and Fiorenza had made their reverences and tried not to notice the royal stutter, an inconvenience that had dogged Ladislaus ever since the Archbishop of Arles had tried to poison him ten years before. Life seemed precarious in Naples.

Plethon had explained as they’d ridden out of the city. ‘Ladislaus and Louis are both of the Angevin line,’ he’d said. ‘They both lay claim to the Kingdom of Naples and each is supported by a different Pope: Ladislaus by Rome and Louis by the Antipope in Avignon. This poor kingdom is where the two Popes fight each other by proxy.’

From Naples they’d ridden north to Rome to meet with Pope Boniface and King Sigismund of Hungary, the man who’d commanded half the Christian army at Nicopolis and so nearly turned defeat into victory.

Rome had once been a city of a million souls, the marble centre of the Roman world. Now its inhabitants numbered fewer than twenty thousand and it was a place where wild animals scavenged among the grass that grew beside its ancient ruins. It was a place of riots and anarchy and they’d been obliged to meet in the fortress of Sant’ Angelo where the ashes of Roman emperors lay.

While Fiorenza had tactfully gone to Roman mass, Plethon had met Pope and King in a room without windows. The meeting had been one of reference: oblique, opaque; the vaguest of threat cloaked in mantles of velvet courtesy, the mantles changing colour at a speed that made the change unseen. It had been a dialogue of shadows in which the treasure had been mentioned only once.

The day of their departure was bright and clear and Fiorenza filled her lungs after the fug of Rome. The fields around were full of men sowing seed, of donkeys and windmills and apple orchards with nets beneath the trees. There were meadows and breezes and the murmur of brooks. She wanted to know about the schism in the Western Church.

‘It began just after the turn of the last century,’ Plethon explained. ‘Pope Clement refused to go to Rome and be the victim of robber bands. So the whole papal nonsense moved to Avignon in France.’

‘Where it prospered?’

‘Where it certainly prospered. The new air of France inspired new ways of fleecing their flock. They came up with a “Treasury of Merit”, funded in heaven by Christ and the saints, from which the Pope could draw to issue indulgences.’

‘Indulgences?’

‘I don’t think we have them yet in the Eastern Church. They shorten your time in purgatory. Ha!’ Plethon sat back and snorted at the miracle of purgatory and the monumental deceit of the Catholic Church. It was so loud that his horse started, thinking, perhaps, that it was carrying another.

‘So why are there two Popes now?’

‘Now that’s a good question,’ Plethon continued. ‘Twenty years ago, an unusually virtuous Pope decided that the swill of Avignon was too much even for the papal nose and moved back to Rome. But his successor was so bad that the Cardinals made another Pope and put him back in Avignon. Now the whole of Europe is split in its allegiance and, of course, the Pope in France has become an instrument of French policy and the Italian one the pawn of the City States.’

‘Which is where Ladislaus and Louis come in?’

Plethon nodded. ‘Indeed. It’s as I said. Ladislaus is backed by Boniface and Louis by Benedict in Avignon. A quartet of Christian fools.’

Fiorenza, smiling, said to him: ‘Plethon, you don’t believe in anything, do you?’

The philosopher turned, the image of outrage imprinted on his face like a Greek mask. ‘Lady, to say such a thing! I am a man of unwavering Hellenic principle!’

‘Ah, “Hellenic”,’ she laughed. ‘Now, there’s a word.’

‘Which has meaning,’ continued Plethon, now speaking with his arms. ‘It means that we stop all this Christian nonsense and go back to our roots: Athens and Sparta and a people in control of its own destiny!’

‘Like Luke?’

Plethon chose to ignore the question. ‘We need to reimagine the same culture, the same society that bred men like Leonidas to defend the pass at Thermopylae. Three hundred stopped a million. It can happen again.’

‘But the Persians won at Thermopylae.’

‘They won the battle but lost the war. Greece remained free and became Rome. Now we must do it again.’

‘Which is why we’re here.’

‘Which is why we’re here. Greece and Rome have always been one. There’s something interesting happening in this country which we can help with. Perhaps it’s time for a reunion.’

‘As a last resort?’

Plethon looked across at her. She was beautiful and clever beyond measure. She knew exactly what the plan was. Ultimately. ‘If all else fails, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A reunion.’

Fiorenza was silent for a long time, deep in thought and oblivious to the flies that made her horse nod. At last she asked: ‘So why do you hold out any hope of this schism ending?’

‘Because the French want it to. Theologians at the University of Paris have persuaded their mad king to rise above national concerns for once. He must be very mad.’

Fiorenza knew about the French King. All the world knew that Charles le Fou of France thought he was made of glass, refused to wash and ran naked through the corridors of his palace. It was said that they’d had to wall up the doors of the Hôtel Saint-Pol to stop him getting out. ‘Would that be enough to end it?’ she asked.

‘Probably not,’ Plethon replied. ‘But then I have something else. Something better.’

*

It took a week to ride to Florence and the days remained fair throughout. Fiorenza had been looking forward to entering its walls and seeing this new rival to Venice in power and beauty. But she was to do so alone.

Plethon stopped his horse at the city gates. ‘I am to meet someone outside the walls,’ he said. ‘You go in with the escort. Remember we are to present ourselves to the Signoria tonight.’ Fiorenza frowned. Plethon hadn’t mentioned his meeting.

At leisurely pace and enjoying the sunshine upon his scalp, the philosopher rode alone up one of the hills that surrounded the city until he reached a long flight of steps where he dismounted. Leaving his horse, he climbed slowly up, passing the Stations of the Cross, until he reached the Church of San Miniato, which sat amidst belvedered gardens at the top.

He was greeted by buzzing and the pleasant smell of honey. There were monks everywhere, men of the Olivetan Order who wore gloves and veils beneath broad-brimmed hats and who tended a row of beehives. Others were working on a garden where sleepy cats stretched out like courtesans between the undulation of ridge and furrow until nudged aside by hoes.

Plethon was investigating gooseberries beneath a net designed to foil starlings when a man beside him spoke. ‘The bees do their work twice. They make the honey and they pollinate. What could be a better example of godly industry?’

The philosopher turned and found himself looking at a man of startling ugliness. Giovanni de’ Medici was around forty years of age but looked much older. He had a large nose set within a warted face and his hair was thin and began somewhere far above his temples. He had bulging eyes and thin lips that were, so it was said, designed never to smile. But he was smiling now.

‘You are Georgius Gemistus Plethon,’ he said. ‘News of your toga travels ahead of you.’

Plethon bowed, just missing the head of the other who’d chosen to do the same. ‘And you are the banker whom my friends on Chios have much to thank for. It seems your investment was a sound one.’

De’ Medici nodded. ‘I hear that one of these friends is with you. My agent on the island is much taken with her.’ There was a loud curse behind him and the banker turned. ‘Careful with that eagle!’ he shouted. ‘One feather lost and you’ll never hoist again!’

Workmen, stripped to the waist, stood upon scaffolding set against the front of the church. Two of them were at the top, pulling on a rope to which was tied a large stone eagle clutching a bale of wool cloth. Two more straddled the top of the church, waiting to guide the bird to its nest.

Giovanni de’ Medici turned back to Plethon. ‘The eagle is the sign of the Arte di Calimala, who maintain this church. They are the guild of cloth-finishers, hence the bale of wool. We take pride in the church.’

The explanation was brief and without waste and Plethon hoped that the discussion to come would be equally succinct. But where were they to have it? The banker’s message had promised somewhere discreet.

De’ Medici took his arm. ‘Let me show you something.’

The two men walked over to the belvedere. Before them stretched a city cradled between hills, a pearl set within a band of emeralds. It was a walled sea of red and orange tiles that washed up against a lighthouse at its centre, striped black and white.

Giovanni was pointing at it. ‘Giotto’s campanile.’ He turned. ‘Why so tall? Because we are a city fond of masses, public meetings and curfews, all of which require bells. And when they clamour, we are at war.’ He paused. ‘I mean to tell you that you have arrived at a place which takes its civic responsibilities very seriously.’

Plethon looked down at the campanile and the great church beside it, equally striped. He thought of a new animal he’d heard about from the land of the jornufa, a horse that looked like this. There was something missing.

‘Yes, it needs a dome,’ said Giovanni. ‘But such a dome! No one has yet come up with a design that will carry the weight.’ He turned. ‘Shall we go and talk?’

The man was already on his way and Plethon hoped that it was to a place where they could sit. His legs ached after the long climb. They walked through the gardens and into the darkness of a big church where heaven flung its promise through windows high in the walls. There were eagles everywhere.

At the back of the church were steps leading down to a crypt, and Plethon found himself being led into a low forest of pillars and vaults with tiered candles playing their light against saints and sinners that covered every inch of the walls. The place was discreet but eternity would watch over them.

They sat on a bench in front of the altar and Plethon looked around him. The crypt was empty and the columns too slender to hide anyone. The air was cold and he pulled the folds of his toga over his arms.

Giovanni de’ Medici was watching him carefully, one eye closed as if taking aim. He said: ‘I have been asking myself why the great Plethon should wish to meet a humble merchant from Florence. I would ask you to tell me.’

Plethon was pleased to note that the crypt did not carry sound. Eternity held no echo. ‘It is’, he said, ‘to do with what you are, de’ Medici. And that is not a merchant.’

The Italian opened the eye that had been closed. ‘Not so? My family imports wool from Flanders. We dye, stretch, full and calendar it. Then we sell it. Is that not the work of a merchant?’

Plethon nodded. ‘It is. But you have not done that for many years. Do I need to describe your life?’ He paused and then, getting no answer, continued. ‘Fifteen years ago, you were working for your cousin Vieri di Cambio in his bank in Rome where you learnt the business of the papacy. Now you have your own bank in partnership with Benedetto di Bardi who runs the branch in Rome. Your bank is small and therefore has the benefit that kings do not ask it for loans and then default on them, as King Edward of England did fifty years past. This happened to the Alberti family who’ve lost the Pope’s business, so there’s a vacancy. You are small, you need to get bigger and you want the Curia’s money. Which makes you invaluable to my plan.’

The man next to him leant back in the pew. He ran his hand through his wisps of hair. ‘Ah, your plan. I was hoping we’d come to that.’

Plethon glanced around once more. The only movement in the crypt came from the candlelit martyrs; the only sound was the murmur of monks chanting somewhere outside. He leant forward and his voice was little above a whisper. ‘I am told that you are a man of discretion, de’ Medici. I will have to believe it so.’ He paused and brought his hands together as if they held the plan. ‘My wish is to reunite the Christian Churches. First to heal the schism in the West and then to bring together the Churches of Rome and Byzantium.’

De’ Medici whistled softly. ‘You wish for a lot, Plethon. Why? Is it for the good of your eternal soul?’

Plethon sat back. Then he gestured slowly to the crypt around them. ‘What will happen to this great Church of San Miniato when the Turks come?’ he asked quietly. ‘How will Giotto’s campanile suit as a minaret, do you think, its bells replaced by a muezzin?’ He leant forward. ‘What will happen to the profitable profession of banking in a Muslim world? Do you know how quick it is to cross the sea from Methoni to Taranto as I have just done? Do you know how close the Turk is to taking Mistra?’

Giovanni de’ Medici was no longer smiling. Plethon went on, ‘I know that you prefer trade to politics, that you’ve paid fines rather than perform the duties of gonfaloniere for your city, but self-interest should inspire you in this matter, de’ Medici. My plan can make you very rich.’

Both men were silent after that, each contemplating treasure of a different kind. Then the banker said: ‘So what is your plan?’

Plethon looked down at his hands. Their fingers were interlinked but the palms were open. The plan was to be revealed. ‘Both Popes are old and cannot be expected to live long. My plan is to persuade each to ask their cardinals to swear that, when they die, whichever of them is elected Pope will resign his office immediately. Then the combined cardinals will meet in council to elect a single Pontiff who will rule from Rome.’

Giovanni de’ Medici was already shaking his head. ‘But what would it take to achieve such a thing? Why would the Pope agree?’

‘One already has. I come from Boniface in Rome.’ Plethon moved along the bench to his companion so that he was closer than he might wish to the other’s warts. ‘As for the cardinals, it would take what it always takes. Money and force. Money to bribe, force where the bribes fail.’

‘And I supply the money? Why would I do that?’

Plethon smiled. ‘Because, my dear Giovanni, you wish to be the richest banker in Florence. You want Brunelleschi to build your new palace. You want the Peruzzi to stop talking behind their hands about upstarts from the Mugello. And the only way to do all this is by becoming God’s banker.’ He paused, letting the words settle. He said softly, ‘The Pope that returns to Rome as the only Pope will be a grateful man. And, with the entire papal revenues once more intact, a rich one.’

But de’ Medici looked far from persuaded. He pursed his lips thinned in concentration and looked over to the altar, perhaps hoping for some sign of divine will. ‘What about the force? Who provides that? Ladislaus?’

Plethon said, ‘Possibly Ladislaus. And he might soon have some money since he told me he’s to marry Mary of Lusignan who’ll bring Cypriot sugar to the match. But Ladislaus might not be acceptable to the French. Remember, Pope Boniface crowned him King of Naples when Clement in Avignon had already crowned his cousin, Louis of Anjou. Anyway, he probably doesn’t want to get poisoned again.’

‘Who then? Visconti of Milan? Niccolò d’Este of Ferrara? He’s merely a boy.’

Plethon continued to shake his head. ‘No, I had in mind someone else.’

‘Ah, then Carlo Malatesta, Lord of Rimini? He is friend to Florence, Venice and the Papal States. He would bring in Mantua through his Gonzaga wife and the French like him for his opposition to Visconti.’

Plethon said, ‘He is Italian and Italian will not serve.’ He paused. ‘What do you know of Sigismund of Hungary?’

The banker looked surprised, then less so. He nodded. ‘I know him well. I lend him money. He was at Nicopolis where he got away but his daughter was taken by the Turk: the beautiful Angelina.’

‘Yes, and he vowed he would avenge Nicopolis. Without Burgundy next time.’ Plethon looked at his companion closely. ‘Is he a good Christian, do you know?’

De’ Medici thought before he spoke. ‘He is a practical man. And he’d like to be Holy Roman Emperor one day.’ He paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘You know, of course, that he and Ladislaus are mortal enemies, both claiming the crown of Hungary?’

Plethon nodded. ‘I had heard.’ He scratched his beard. ‘This daughter … Angelina. She is illegitimate. Is he fond?’

‘No father is fonder. She is his only child.’

Plethon nodded. ‘Well, I saw him as well in Rome. He agrees to the plan.’

There was silence in the church. De’ Medici was looking at the man next to him in admiration. Then he said, ‘Your grasp of Italian politics is impressive, Plethon. Do you even have a candidate for Pope?’

Plethon smoothed his toga over his knees. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. ‘No, but you do. Tell me about Baldassare Cossa, Giovanni. He sounds interesting.’

De’ Medici let out a long breath. ‘Now that is impressive. What do you know?’

‘That you’ve just bought him his cardinal’s hat. Ten thousand florins, I believe: a fabulous sum. There must be some purpose to such magnanimity.’

The Florentine laughed. ‘There’s competition. Venice wants Angelo Correr, cousin to the Doge. And he should be persuadable on union. After all, he was titular Patriarch of Constantinople and has been discussing Filioque issues with your own Patriarch Matthew.’

Plethon shook his head. ‘Too old, too godly. The battle will be fierce. Baldassare Cossa is well chosen: he is greedy, ruthless and intelligent, a winning combination for Pope.’

De’ Medici was silent for a long time. The only indication that he’d found interesting matter in what Plethon had said was in his breathing, which had quickened. His goggle eyes were a little wider, his cheeks pinker, and his templed hands were raised to his lips in thought.

Eventually he turned and asked, ‘But how will you persuade the two Popes to do this when they have excommunicated each other? How will you get them to persuade their cardinals?’

Plethon looked into the banker’s eyes. ‘You will just have to trust me on that. I have the means to do it and, to judge from my meeting with Boniface in Rome, it will work.’

The Italian nodded slowly. ‘And you go on from here to Avignon?’

‘Yes.’

De’ Medici was still nodding, this time with his fist beneath his chin. ‘It might just work,’ he said. Then: ‘Where does the Princess come in?’

For a moment, Plethon didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he realised.

Fiorenza.

‘She is here to give you gold.’

De’ Medici smiled. ‘Ah, the final carrot. Would this be the repayment of the loan to Chios?’

‘The final part, I believe. Delivered to you with interest, although I gather you don’t call it that.’

The banker laughed, a thin sound from an unused organ. ‘My agent there will be disappointed. He’s in love with her and needs a reason to stay.’

Plethon shook his head. ‘They think he’s a spy. For Venice.’

Laughter again, this time louder. ‘Tommaso Bardolli a spy? Don’t be ridiculous! He’s too busy being in love. She encourages it.’

Plethon frowned. ‘The Princess Fiorenza encourages it?’

‘She flirts with him. It was she who told him to stay on the island.’

*

In fact Tommaso Bardolli had little choice but to stay on the island. Not long after Fiorenza and Plethon had set sail from Chios, the galleys that the philosopher had noticed weren’t at Constantinople turned up in the bay of Chora.

Their admiral was a nervous man. He had been given strict and challenging instructions. He was to take ten ships, fill them with two thousand janissaries, sail to Chios and take it. And he was to do it in two weeks. Now the two weeks were up and the island still hadn’t been taken.

Prince Suleyman, still smarting over the loss of the cannon, had been the one who ordered them there. He’d not take Constantinople until he had more cannon, and the Serenissima had made it clear that they wouldn’t even start making them until Chios had been delivered to them.

Now, standing on the battlements of the castle at Chora, Marchese Longo was thinking about snakes. Since antiquity, Chios had been famous for snakes, its Greek name Ofioussa meaning ‘having snakes’. Some said that the gods had given the island mastic as the means to live with them. At that moment, it seemed to Longo that the bay was full of them, its surface a churn of writhing bodies that rose and turned and spat, their darting tongues breaking out to lick the air.

The meltemi.

Thank God for the meltemi. The wind was early this year, early and strong. It had started almost the moment that the Turkish galleys had broken the horizon two weeks ago and had yet to stop. The Chians saw it as proof that God was with them and put their swords to the grindstone with new fire in their bellies.

Around Longo stood the men from the campagna, all armed and grave. Zacco Banca turned to him.

‘Marchese, we thought that our mastic would protect us. Has the Sultan changed his mind?’

Longo shrugged, pulling his cloak tighter to his shoulders. ‘Perhaps it is not Bayezid we are facing. They say that he’s gone to Wallachia.’

Gabriele Adorno nodded. ‘In which case this has been ordered by Suleyman. He means to take our island and hand it to Venice. What do we do?’

Longo looked at the galleys lined up at the mouth of the bay. They were rocking like cradles and presumably the poor wretches within were mewling and puking as the contents of cradles do. The ships were crammed with men desperate for dry land, yet every attempt to disembark them had, so far, ended in disaster. The landing craft were flat-bottomed and didn’t stand a chance in such a sea.

‘Perhaps nothing. The wind does our work for us.’ It was Benedo Barbi who’d spoken. He was standing between Longo and Dimitri and had had to raise his voice to be heard. The wind made noise of everything it met: ropes, flags, cloaks; each snapped its own particular protest.

‘How much longer will they bear it?’ asked Dimitri. ‘The decks must be awash with vomit.’

Longo nodded. He looked up into the sky. It was blue and without cloud and the sun was at its zenith which meant that the wind was about to blow more strongly. It always did in the afternoons. ‘If it will just continue for a few more days,’ he said. He turned to a man behind him whose vestments were billowing like sails. ‘Monseigneur, keep those masses going. I want one an hour.’

The priest bowed, his hands clamped to his knees. ‘It is to be wished that the Princess Fiorenza’s passage was safe in such seas. We will pray for that too.’

Longo frowned. He’d hoped she would be in Florence by now, delivering gold to Giovanni de’ Medici and telling him that they had no more use for Tommaso Bardolli on the island. It seemed an unlikely coincidence that the Turks had appeared two days after a large part of the garrison had left. Where was the agent now? He’d have to have him followed.

*

In Edirne, it was evening and the daughter of the King of Hungary had just been visited by a priest found somewhere within the small Christian community that resided in that city. He was a small man, tonsured and smelling of cheese, whose gloom had preceded him into the room and stayed long after he’d left.

The Princess’s condition was deteriorating by the day. She was whiter than the sheet beneath her and her eyes were sunk deep into a face washed with perspiration. She drifted in and out of fever and could hold nothing down. The only thing she could do was read and she did this continuously, finding it easier than talking.

It was now five months since she’d taken to her bed and the palace doctors had tried everything they knew to try. She’d been starved, bled, wrapped in wool, fed every disgusting herb under heaven and, moment by moment, the life had drifted away from her like pollen from a flower. Anna and Maria had sat by her bed day and night, rigid with cheer, and only once had they broken down. It was the day her hair had been taken from her.

Now, shaved and shivering, Angelina lay asleep in sheets drenched with sweat and the first traces of blood. They’d given her a sleeping draught an hour past and she would not wake. Maria had pulled back the sheet to change it and was the first to notice the stain.

‘It must be in her urine,’ she whispered. She’d gone as white as the patient, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Look, it’s between her legs, from where she’s wet the bed.’

‘What does that?’ asked Anna.

Maria was shaking her head. ‘There is something in India they call cholera which comes from bad water. Otherwise …’

‘Otherwise?’

Maria looked at her and there was dread in her eyes. ‘Otherwise, it could be arsenic or certain snakes’ poison.’

They stared at each other without speaking, both thinking the same thing. Only one person in the harem would have access to such poison.

Gülçiçek.

‘We need to find the doctors,’ said Anna, rising. She bent over Angelina to kiss her forehead, prising the book from her sleeping fingers. She held Angelina’s hand in hers, staring at it.

The fingers.

Something about Angelina’s fingers was wrong. She looked closely at them, at their flaked tips; then she raised them to her nose. She looked at the book.

Of course.

In the corridor were the palace doctors. Their heads were joined and they were speaking in whispers. Beside them stood the Chief Black Eunuch. Anna motioned him to join her.

‘It’s poison,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen it on her fingers. Someone coated the corners of the pages in the book that I lent her.’

The Kislar Ağasi was a giant from Mali and famous for his calm. Early in his Timbuktu upbringing, his calm had been mistaken for stupidity and he’d been sold as a slave. He’d secured his role as ruler of the Sultan’s harem through deploying that composure to best effect. Now he said nothing.

‘You know who’s done this,’ Anna said, looking up at him.

The eunuch remained silent. He was dressed in a thoub of flawless white and not one muscle in his giant, impassive face moved.

‘Angelina is near death. The priest has been. Our only chance of an antidote is in knowing the poison.’

The eunuch wasn’t looking at her. His half-closed eyes were fixed on something beyond and above her.

‘In the not very distant future,’ Anna continued, her voice even, ‘I shall be married to the next sultan and you will either be free and rich or have died in as agonising a way as someone crueller than I will have devised.’ She paused. One tiny bead of sweat had appeared on the man’s temple. She rose on tiptoe to it and whispered: ‘I want to know the poison, Kislar Ağasi.