The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE CITY OF SERRES, RUMELIA, WINTER 1394

The snow lay thick upon the ground and the air was colder than brass. Anna’s horse picked its way through the uneven cobbles of the street leading to the city gate, the ballooning fog from its nostrils shifting the scene of misery on every side. It was eleven years since the Turks had taken Serres from the Empire and the contradiction of rape and renewal lay all around. The carcasses of churches stood next to gleaming new minarets while sparse stalls of fruit and vegetables raised some colour amidst the ruins. In between the stalls stood braziers around which the transactions of survival took place in hand-rubbed exchange.

Anna was dressed in quilted felt, her head veiled and haloed by ermine. She wore thick rabbit-skin gloves and layered leather boots, also lined with fur. She was, to all intent and purposes, Turkish, from her stirruped toes to the crown of her padded head. And, as her retinue had left from the harem’s Gate of Felicity, the citizens of Serres jostled to gawp (and discreetly spit) at the small party as it rode past.

The riders approached the city gate and a platoon of janissaries paused to bow deeply, their tall white hats tapping the ground like fingers. As the men straightened, fourteen hands rose to curl fourteen moustaches and fourteen eyebrows arched in appreciation of the sight before them.

As was proper, Anna ignored the courtesy and kept her gaze firmly on the street ahead.

The janissary commander made himself useful by clearing a path before them, swirling his baton to left and right with unnecessary vigour while waving them forward with his free hand. Anna’s companions closed up to assist the process, reaching out to hold on to one another as their horses whinnied and stamped.

Then they were through the gate and finding balance amidst the frozen ruts of the road that ran south. The janissaries saluted and turned back and Anna kicked her horse forward in the direction of a hill where stood the forest of tents and banners that made up the field headquarters of the Sultan Bayezid.

The road was busy with traffic going in and out of the city. Shawled families, sitting astride their roped possessions, exchanged uneasy glances with swarthy akinci, the gazi tribesmen bribed to bring their lives west to settle this new land and pave the way to the next conquest. The cold, dense air muffled the sound of movement and the shouts of encouragement or warning drifted quickly away above the mist of animal breath that hung over everything.

Anna had arrived at Serres in the early autumn with the Mamonas family, following a rushed departure from Monemvasia. The family had fled aboard a Venetian galley under cover of darkness and had landed at Thessaloniki further up the coast. From there, they’d taken the road to join the Sultan at Serres, passing Ottoman messengers rushing east to carry their ruler’s firman summoning all fighters to the planting of the Horsehairs.

And now the huge lance was there before her. It was surrounded by a guard of janissaries and several fur-clad eunuchs armed with pens, there to record the first arrivals to join Yildirim in further conquest within the Dar ul-Harb, the Abode of War.

It was planted in the centre of a large plateau and a breeze splayed and twisted the hairs while little eddies of snow curled around its base. At the other end of the field, groups of sipahi cavalry, dressed in the skins of wild beasts, charged in turn at a suspended brass ball, shooting arrows from the saddle as they went.

Anna walked her horse around the edge of the field in the direction of the tents. She assumed that her companions would know which belonged to Devlet Hatun, wife of Bayezid, to whom she had been summoned. She guessed it would be splendid, as befitted the mother of the Sultan’s second son, and as quiet and well ordered as the harem itself.

In the three months she had been at Serres, Anna had been imprisoned within a corner of the old Byzantine palace that had been given over to the women of the Sultan. She had not seen Damian or his father or Zoe and her only contact with the outside world had been the whispers and giggles of the beauties gathered for the Sultan’s unpredictable pleasure. She had retreated into herself, turning over and over in her mind the events at Monemvasia, events that increasingly centred on the golden figure of Luke. And she found herself praying, day and night, that he’d somehow survived the storm.

Then, just when she thought she might drown herself of boredom in one of the scented pools, a summons had reached her. Devlet Hatun wanted to see her. But not within the whispering corridors of the harem. She was to meet her outside the city amongst the tents and flags of the army gathering to march on Constantinople.

Now she watched as two vastly turbanned officials rode out to meet them, their long black robes brushing the snow either side of their horses. They bowed from the saddle, then turned and led her through the maze of silk, canvas and rope to a large tent of exquisite greens.

Anna dismounted and waited while murmurs announced her coming. Then the silks were parted and she entered a world of shadow and shimmering heat. There were braziers of latticed gold around the walls, the glow from their coal hearts beating warmth into the tent. Thick carpets of intricate weave overlapped each other while cushions the size of galleys were piled around poles garlanded with vines. On the cushions rested girls of every age, some clothed and some naked, some talking, some sleeping, while others glided between the groups bearing trays of delicacies and bowls of sherbet. A tiny orchestra sat back to back playing instruments whose strings merged with their tumbling hair.

And no one looked at Anna as she stood there, blinking.

The light in the tent seemed to come from roundels of candles suspended from the tops of the tent poles. To begin with Anna could see little beyond the shapes immediately in front of her. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, she saw that there was a low, canopied dais in the centre with two thrones side by side on which sat a woman and a boy.

Only they seemed to notice her.

Bowing low to the couple, Anna unbuttoned her coat and laid it gently on the ground. Then she walked between the bodies until she stood in front of the dais, her heart beating like a drum.

No one spoke and Anna felt beads of sweat collect on her brow and between her breasts. The woman in front of her was perhaps twenty years her senior, quite small and tending to plumpness beneath the swathes of silk that covered her from head to foot. Dark eyes, not unkind, scrutinised her from above an embroidered veil that clung to the contours of her face like a gauze.

The boy beside her was on the cusp of manhood, well made and possessing an intelligent gaze. Suddenly he smiled and a row of perfect white teeth appeared.

Anna’s heartbeat slowed.

The woman moved to unhook the side of her veil and Anna saw that she was smiling too, but with teeth less white. She held up a hand and a tray appeared at Anna’s side. The boy spoke.

‘It is hot wine, since my mother, assumes you to be cold after your ride,’ said the boy in flawless Greek. ‘But if you prefer sherbet, it can be brought.’

Anna glanced at the woman whose expression had not changed. ‘Please thank your mother, Prince Mehmed, and tell her that the wine will revive me,’ she replied, taking the cup.

‘Would it please you to sit?’ asked the boy, indicating a chair that had materialised behind her.

An extraordinary silence followed, extraordinary because the conversation of the surrounding groups didn’t cease and yet no sound came from them. The tiny orchestra, too, kept playing but no notes could be heard. The perfect choreography of movement around them permitted total discretion and was a thing both wondrous and beautiful to Anna, who was already feeling the effects of the wine steal up her limbs like immersion in a warm bath.

The boy looked at his mother and then at Anna. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’ he asked.

‘In Serres, lord?’ replied Anna. ‘I suppose because my husband is here.’

‘And yet you have not seen him.’

Anna felt her heart begin to beat quickly again. She stared at the boy.

Mehmed joined his hands in his lap and looked down at them. ‘Why did the Mamonases bring you here? Would it not have been easier to leave you in Monemvasia? Surely the Despot would have been happy to find you there?’

‘I am here as a hostage, lord,’ said Anna.

‘I think not,’ said Prince Mehmed, looking up and frowning. Anna saw that the eyebrows were high-arched like his mother’s. ‘I think you are here because my brother, the Prince Suleyman, desires that you be here. And my brother, Allah willing, will be the next sultan.’

Anna felt sick.

‘I think,’ continued the Prince, ‘and my mother thinks, that you will be part of the bargain struck with the Mamonas clan.’

Anna said nothing. She just sat staring at the boy. New drops of sweat had gathered at her temples that owed nothing to the heat of the tent. She looked away towards the musicians as if the logic of soundless music might help her think.

Bargain? What bargain?

The Prince leant forward and dropped his voice to something barely above a whisper. ‘We are natural allies, you and I,’ he said softly, ‘and our alliance springs from shared danger. My brother and I are very different. He looks to cities and courts for his pleasure. He looks to the West as the Dar ul-Harb and to Constantinople as his capital in years to come. I, on the other hand, have gazi blood in my veins. My mother is of the Germiyan tribe, sister to its leader Prince Yakub. I like tents, not cities. And I prefer the East.’

He drew even closer. ‘My father and brother are not close. My brother has been tasked to take Constantinople, a city that has never fallen except to the Franks. My father believes he will fail. But if he succeeds, then my brother will challenge Bayezid, who is not the man he was. You and I will both suffer if my brother becomes sultan. You, with your honour, and I, most assuredly, with my life. We are natural allies.’

‘But how can I help you, lord?’ Anna asked slowly. ‘I am a seventeen-year-old girl married to a Greek merchant.’

Mehmed smiled. ‘No, you are much more than that, Anna. You are the daughter of Simon Laskaris, Protostrator of Mistra. He has influence with the Emperor Manuel, who will either choose to defend Constantinople or surrender it. My brother has been entrusted with the siege and if he succeeds, he will become sultan and the West will become the Dar ul-Harb.’ He paused. ‘And I shall succumb to the bowstring.’

‘And if he fails?’

‘If he fails?’ said the boy softly. ‘Who knows? Perhaps someone other than him will become sultan. Someone who will lead his gazis eastwards. Someone who might be a friend to your empire.’

Anna and the boy looked at each other in silence.

‘So what would you have me do?’

‘A discussion will take place this afternoon,’ said the Prince. ‘There is a side passage to my father’s audience tent which leads to a women’s room with a grille from which you can see and hear the proceedings. My mother will take you there. I want you to listen.’

Anna considered this.

‘And then?’ she asked.

The Prince picked an invisible speck from his silken sleeve. Anna suddenly remembered how young he was.

‘There are people who have come to this camp whom you know.’

‘Who has come, lord?’ asked Anna.

‘The Emperor, the Despot … and your father, Simon Laskaris.’

Anna’s heart jumped.

‘Why have they chosen to come?’

‘They haven’t. The emperor has been vassal to the sultan for some time. Manuel has to obey a summons or face war.’

‘But he faces war already.’

‘Not yet. There may yet be a chance to keep the peace. He had no choice but to come. None of them did.’

‘Are they in danger?’

Mehmed looked up into her eyes. ‘Yes, they are in danger. They must escape this place tonight.’

Anna hadn’t realised that the tent of Devlet Hatun was connected to that of Bayezid. It was as if the entire palace in Serres had been reconstructed out of silk on this hilltop, the echo of stone exchanged for the whisper of fabric.

Anna was waiting in a small anteroom and a low table had been set before her made of sandalwood and inlaid with mother of pearl. On it was laid fruit and wine and flowers of the summer somehow preserved to show colour in winter.

Eventually, she heard sounds of conversation and the wall opened to reveal the small figure of Devlet Hatun and a tall woman by her side. The woman was unveiled and dressed in a cowled cloak of velvet thrown back from her shoulders. Her fair hair fell well below her shoulders to contour small breasts and brush the first curve of her hips. Her face was proud and angular, with a straight nose above wide nostrils and full, decisive lips. She regarded Anna with no expression of pleasure or enquiry.

She was, emphatically, of royal blood.

Then there was a further rustle and Zoe Mamonas stepped into the room. Anna gave a little cry and stood up. ‘How …?’

Zoe walked towards her. She looked tired and drawn. ‘How do I dare come before you after what happened to Luke?’ she suggested, stooping to sit cross-legged before her with the grace of a courtesan. ‘Because, Anna, I had nothing to do with it. It was Damian who recognized Luke when you came through the gate. And it was he who guessed that you would try to make your escape that night. He followed you.’

Anna studied the wide, guileless eyes between dark eyelashes laced with kohl. She looked at the earnest intent in that pale face and the hands now drawn to the mouth in what looked like entreaty. In a day of uncertainties, this was an uncertainty too difficult to fathom.

‘I don’t know,’ she said after a time. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’

Zoe placed her hands, palms down, on the table. It was as if she had delivered an offering but had nothing more to give. ‘You don’t have to believe me. Just believe these women when they say that you are in danger. Why would they lie?’

In the silence that followed, the tall woman stepped forward, lifting her cloak in one hand, to occupy the chair from which Anna had risen.

‘I am the Princess Olivera Despina,’ she said. The voice was surprisingly deep. ‘I am the fifth wife of Bayezid and the daughter of King Lazar of Serbia. My father was executed by the Sultan at the field of Kosovo five years ago, since when I have been the executioner’s wife.’ She paused and studied a ring on her left forefinger. ‘After that battle, the Sultan used three battalions of dead Serbs as his banqueting table.’

She looked up at Anna. ‘My brother, Stefan Lazarević,’ she went on, ‘is now vassal to the Sultan. He too has been summoned here.’

She looked at the other two women and smiled. Then she returned her gaze to Anna. ‘We all represent different causes. You, your honour and the Empire; me, a murdered father; the Princess Devlet, her son’s future. Quite enough, one might think, to establish common interest.’

Anna looked across at Zoe. ‘And you, Zoe, what is your interest?’

Zoe Mamonas looked down at her feet and, for the first time, Anna saw discomfort in her poise.

‘My argument’ — her voice was soft — ‘is with Prince Suleyman.’

The silence that followed this statement was complete. A dog barked beyond the tents and a janissary’s cauldron clanked somewhere nearer.

Then the woman who had not thus far uttered a word spoke. ‘We must go,’ said the Princess Devlet Hatun. In Greek.

At the centre of every storm there is an eye of calm. And so it was in the court of the Sultan Bayezid.

While his messengers dashed to every corner of the Ottoman Empire to call his subjects to arms, while roads were repaired to ease the progress of his armies, while provisions in prodigious quantities were amassed at every stopping point along the way, the inner sanctum of the court was an ocean of peace and tranquillity.

Like the palaces of Bursa and Edirne, the camp contained a series of tented courtyards, with carpets and fountains and orange trees in tubs within, their poles hung with painted lanterns and their walls lined with living statues that never spoke above a whisper. There were three courts here. The first conducted the business of the palace and city. The second contained the offices of state, the archives and the divan rooms where the Sultan’s viziers met. The inner sanctum, where the Sultan held audience, was a place of absolute quiet unless the Lord of the Two Horizons chose to break it.

Here, on this winter day of snow and approaching dusk, the braziers glowed with fresh and scented coals and three huge dogs slept at the feet of the Sultan Bayezid. He was, at this time, around forty years of age and the dash of his youth had largely departed, leaving behind a bloated husk of rouged and temperamental decadence. His appetite for female companionship had largely disappeared as had large numbers of his teeth, but his appetite for wanton cruelty remained stolidly intact.

He was still a formidable and dangerous man and his sons, vassals and courtiers feared every hair in his luxuriant beard. The rise of a tapered eyebrow in displeasure was still enough to cause men to tremble, and the slow lift of a pudgy finger enough to send them to the bowstring.

He was magnificent, all-powerful and capricious.

Now, he lounged across several large cushions and tickled the flank of a dog with his toe. He was dressed in a tunic of damask studded with pearls buttoned over straining silken pyjamas. A jewelled turban of intricate layers sat above a face ruined by excess; heavy lids shielded eyes that darted to left and right in a parody of his former verve. With one hand he stroked the flaxen hair of a pageboy of teenage years and perfect skin, a gift from the Emperor of Trebizond. In the other he balanced a silver goblet of wine between two fat fingers. On a table beside him sat a dish piled high with sugar.

The Sultan’s tongue was stabbing the inside of his cheek. He had toothache again and nothing his doctors did could alleviate the pain. So he drank instead.

Anna was watching him closely from the other side of the grille. Beside her sat Devlet Hatun and Olivera Despina who was whispering into her ear.

‘The one next to the Sultan, the one with the heron’s plume, that is the Grand Vizier Kara Halil Candarli. He is wise but devious.’ She paused. ‘He served the Sultan’s father, Murad, before him.’

Anna looked at the other people present. There was Prince Suleyman, Prince Mehmed and, beside him, a younger boy. Despina followed her gaze.

‘That is Prince Musa, third son to Bayezid. He shares the same mother as Suleyman but the brothers hate each other. Musa is only ten years of age but is very serious. He reads the Koran every moment of the day and seeks only the company of learned men. He despises the excesses of his eldest brother.’

Anna looked at the pale-skinned boy with large, uncertain eyes and a hooked nose. He looked nothing like Suleyman.

‘Who are those two, standing behind the Princes?’ whispered Anna, pointing slowly at two well-made men standing together.

‘The taller one is Evrenos Bey,’ answered Olivera Despina. ‘He is the Sultan’s best general and has been with him at every victory. He is fanatically loyal to Bayezid and would die for him. He is of Byzantine descent but a convert to Islam.’

‘And the other?’

‘The other is the brother of the Princess Devlet. He is Yakub Bey, Emir of Germiyan and one of the most powerful gazi princes in Anatolia. He became vassal to the Sultan three years ago.’

Anna studied Yakub closely, something about him inviting further enquiry. He was a man of medium height but powerful build and wore a long, quilted coat trimmed with the furs of different animals. His face was lined and weather-beaten and his nose flat, interrupting a scar that ran from eye to lip.

‘What is a gazi?’ she asked.

‘They’re the men of the steppe, the tribes that Bayezid and every other Ottoman Turk are descended from. There are many tribes, and the Germiyans are one of the largest. Each tribal land is called a beylik.’

Then someone spoke.

‘Grand Vizier,’ said the Sultan, dismissing the boy from Trebizond and putting his goblet down on to the table, ‘we have summoned our subjects and vassals here to Serres to decide where will be our next Dar ul-Harb.’ He paused and ran his tongue between his lips, wincing. ‘There are those, like my son the Prince Suleyman, who believe that our destiny is to the west. There are others’ — here Bayezid nodded at Yakub — ‘not least the beyliks of our tribal homelands, who believe that we should confront the Khanates of the Black and White Sheep who threaten our eastern frontiers. Our Christian vassals await our pleasure outside but first we of the Faith should talk between ourselves.’

Bayezid turned to Candarli. ‘Tell us your view, Grand Vizier.’

Candarli bowed low to the Sultan. ‘Majesty, we are fortunate to be ruled by a sultan who can rightly call himself Lord of the Two Horizons. But what do we have on each of these horizons? In the east there are the Khanates and the remaining beyliks who have yet to see the glory of your rule as our friend Yakub of the Germiyans has. But these are not our enemy.’

Anna looked at Yakub, who was looking at his feet. She saw that Bayezid was watching him closely.

‘Meanwhile,’ Candarli went on, ‘we have both opportunity and threat before us in the kingdoms of Christendom. What remains of the Roman Empire is weak and the lands of Thrace and Macedonia are empty of people and we can settle the akincis of Anatolia there at will. But the Christian kings are jealous of your success and, even now, Sigismund of Hungary and Mircea of Wallachia are entreating the Pope to bless another crusade against us. The lord Evrenos Bey can talk further on this subject.’

Evrenos Bey stepped forward to stand directly before his sultan. He bowed. ‘The Grand Vizier is right, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Duke Philip of Burgundy has raised seven hundred thousand gold ducats to spend on such a crusade. There has been a long war between the English and French, which is in truce at this time, so there are many knights eager to join it. The new Pope Boniface is urging all the Kings of Christendom to act.’

‘And how would our armies fare against such a crusade?’ asked the Sultan. His tooth was throbbing ever harder.

‘Majesty, our armies have been everywhere victorious. There is no army in the world that can beat us.’

The Sultan smiled and nodded. ‘Indeed. We are everywhere victorious except where our eldest son sees fit to show mercy on a Greek city. Prince Suleyman, what is your view?’

Anna saw Suleyman’s face colour. He bowed stiffly to his father and looked around the faces in the room. ‘Father, Evrenos Bey and I decided jointly’ — here he glanced at the general — ‘not to risk an assault on Mistra because we wished to preserve our army for the attack on Constantinople. And we must secure Constantinople before making further advances into Christendom.’

‘Ah,’ said Bayezid, ‘Constantinople. The Red Apple. Why do you think we call it that, Prince Suleyman?’

‘Because, Majesty,’ replied Suleyman, ‘it is the sweetest fruit. Constantinople is still the greatest city on Earth and you cannot truly call yourself Lord of the Two Horizons until you have conquered it.’

Bayezid flushed and his hand moved to his beard. He looked hard at his eldest son. Then he laughed. It was a rasping sound without humour. ‘And perhaps the Prince Suleyman will be the one to do it? Or would the charms of the city’s female citizens again be enough to deter him?’

Suleyman was holding himself in check. Just. Anna could see that his fists were clenched.

The Sultan turned to look at his second son. ‘I believe that the Prince Mehmed and Yakub Bey take a different view?’

Mehmed didn’t reply immediately. He glanced at Yakub beside him. Then he spoke.

‘Father, the Emir is chief amongst the leaders of the gazi tribes and it is they that form the heart of our empire. These men sense threat from the East, not the West. From the Emir Temur, whom some call Tamerlane, whose horde is moving westwards and may ally itself with the Khanates to attack us. Prince Yakub believes, as I do, that we should make peace with the Kings of Christendom and move east to secure our frontiers against the greater threat of Temur.’

The Sultan Bayezid was slowly shaking his head. ‘You speak with great wisdom, Prince Mehmed. And it may be that we need to confront Temur before long. But our spies tell us that he will be employed for some time in the north fighting his cousin Tokhtamish of the Golden Horde and afterwards is more likely to attack the Ming Empire of China than move west. Yakub Bey?’

The gazi chief spoke slowly in a voice little above a growl. ‘It is well known that the Mongol Temur claims sovereignty over the Turkmen tribes of Anatolia and is angered by your annexation of the beyliks. Temur is your enemy.’

Bayezid ground his teeth and one of them exploded in pain. He lost his temper. ‘Temur?’ he roared, thumping the cushion to his side and leaning forward so that his beard brushed his knees. Muscles had appeared in the walls of his neck. ‘Temur?’ he shouted again, and Anna, behind her grille, felt the shock wave of his anger. ‘Who is this Temur? Who is Temur?’

There was complete silence around him and even the dogs seemed to have stopped breathing.

Bayezid had risen to his feet and was standing directly in front of Yakub, staring down into his eyes. ‘I have no fear of turning my back on Temur or Tamerlane or whatever he calls himself,’ he hissed through shaking beard. ‘Tamerlane is an illiterate barbarian who delights in massacre. I am Bayezid, Sultan of Rum and Sword of Islam. I have never lost a battle and have sworn that I will see my horses watered at the altar of St Peter’s in Rome.’

He paused. ‘Believe me, emir, when I tell you that I will see that happen. And so will you. By my side.’

He glared at Yakub for a while longer before turning to look at the others, each in turn. ‘So my will is this: we will take Constantinople quickly — if, that is, we do not manage to persuade the Emperor Manuel to surrender the remnants of his eunuch empire beforehand. And we will do nothing to dissuade the armies of Christendom from marching against us. And when they do, we will defeat them in such a way that they will never march again.’

He looked around again at the assembly, breathing hard and challenging any dissent. None came. He sat heavily back on his cushions. ‘Then we will deal with this Tamerlane.’

Anna sat with her face very close to the grille, its thin material rising and falling with the tiny pulse of her breathing. There was utter silence around the Sultan now and Devlet Hatun leant forward and gently touched Anna’s shoulder, indicating that she should draw back lest the movement be seen. Anna turned in the semi-darkness and saw that she and Olivera Despina were holding hands. The fear that radiated around Bayezid had reached beyond the tent walls to envelop them like smoke. Anna sat back in her chair and reached out to place a hand on theirs. She thought suddenly of how it must be to live every hour of every day with this fear, to watch it wind its ugly coils around the people you love.

Bayezid had ordered more wine to be brought and sat staring darkly into the contents of his goblet. Then he rose slowly and walked over to warm his hands at a brazier. ‘Prince Suleyman,’ he said without looking around, ‘tell us how we are to take Constantinople.’

Suleyman exchanged glances with the Vizier. Anna saw that a small dagger, its hilt heavy with jewels, was held to the Vizier’s belly by the folds of his sash.

Suleyman said, ‘The sea walls are the city’s weakest point and it was these the Venetians breached two centuries ago when they finally prevailed. But we will need command of the sea to achieve that.’

‘Which is why we have built Anadolu Hisar,’ said Bayezid. ‘You told me that the castle would prevent any Genoese ships from coming to the city’s aid from the north.’

‘And so it will, Father,’ said the Prince. ‘Especially when it is equipped with cannon. But there remains some threat from the south. The Byzantines still have some warships that they’ve prudently kept beyond our reach at Monemvasia. These we have managed to delay from setting sail until our own ships have cannon on them.’

‘And they have cannon now?’

‘I have arranged it so, Father. The ships have cannon and the city of Constantinople is sealed. The blockade is intact.’

Bayezid looked sulkily at his eldest son. ‘That may keep the Byzantine fleet away, but how do we get through the walls?’

‘Bigger cannon, Father,’ said Suleyman. ‘And ships. So that we can destroy the walls and starve the city.’

‘And where do we get those?’

‘Venice. The Venetians make the best ships and cannon in the world.’

But Bayezid was already shaking his head. ‘I won’t talk to those dogs.’

Suleyman stepped forward. ‘Father, you don’t have to. Outside awaits the Archon of Monemvasia, Pavlos Mamonas. It was he who ensured that the Byzantine fleet has sailed too late to prevent our blockade of their capital. But the Archon has done more for us. He has also got us cannon, Venetian cannon.’

Suleyman paused. ‘Father, the fleet from Monemvasia is sailing into a trap. With the cannons, we will blow it out of the water.’

Bayezid looked warily at his son. ‘And you trust these Mamonases? They are not of the Faith.’ The Sultan pulled slowly at his beard. Anna looked round at the other men who were all regarding Suleyman with interest, some friendlier than others. She wondered what deeper connection Suleyman had with the family she had married into.

‘Very well,’ said the Sultan eventually. ‘Bring them in.’

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.