The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHIOS, SUMMER 1395

It was two weeks after the kendos that Luke saw Marchese Longo again. He had spent the intervening time with Benedo Barbi and they had built something of extraordinary beauty.

The translation of a dream into substance had been no easy task and had required Luke to summon forth scenes that he hoped never again to revisit. His part was the idea, a fantasy of breathtaking ingenuity. The practical elements had been supplied by the engineer and, to a lesser extent, Fiorenza, who’d watched and encouraged and never made mention of the night under the trees.

Now Luke, Dimitri and Benedo Barbi stood around a large table at the villa at Sklavia on which was presented the new village of Mesta, or perhaps a maze, or a labyrinth. And Marchese Longo, elegant in sleeveless pourpoint with a chain of gold spanning his broad shoulders, was looking at it in wonder and some shock.

Barbi had used compacted sand to create the height and contours of the little hill on which the village stood and the fields and orchards around it had been built using moss and fine red earth with twigs for trees. A track in white clay ran through the fields to the single entrance of the village, which had a solid wall, with towers at its four corners.

‘This is the first innovation,’ Barbi was saying, letting his fingertips drag lightly along the length of the wall, ‘and I’ve seen it work well in the Kingdom of Sicily. You build the outer ring of houses such that their walls, without windows, form the wall of the village. The towers at the four corners are taller and curve outwards to provide the lookouts with views of all the perimeter.’

Longo peered over the maze and reached out to touch a tall, four-storey tower at its centre. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘That,’ said Luke, ‘is not the point, lord. That is the last place of refuge when all else has failed. If I’m right about this plan, then it will never be used.’ He brought his hands, templed, to his mouth. ‘Imagine that you are a pirate. No, imagine that you are a band of pirates, perhaps fifty in number and all well armed.’ Luke’s hand hovered above the chalk that marked the track to the village. ‘You have landed at Apothikas Bay and it is night and the road runs straight to Mesta, which you know to be a collection of mean houses with mastic in the storehouses, children in their beds and a garrison six miles away at Apolichnon, fat and lazy with your bribes.’

‘Really?’ asked Longo, looking up and frowning.

‘Really,’ said Fiorenza, who had come into the room, silent but scented.

Marchese frowned.

‘So,’ continued Luke, ‘you have been to this village before. Then you took what you came to take with no resistance offered and now you are complacent. But then you see a new village, which has arisen in the place of the old one. And this one seems to have walls and only one gate to enter by. So you approach with caution.

‘As you approach, the sky is suddenly lit with fire-arrows and you can be seen and the next arrows hit some of your men but you are not disheartened because a fiercer defence means more to defend. So you rush the single gate and manage, somehow, to force it open and, with shouts of triumph, you pour into the village.’

Luke looked across to Fiorenza, who was smiling slightly. ‘Except it’s not like any village you’ve ever seen. It’s a village from hell. It’s a labyrinth.’

Luke paused and walked around the table to stand next to Longo. He leant low over the model so that his head was just above the maze of tiny streets and houses. ‘Now you’re inside the village,’ he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, ‘but it seems deserted. So you assume everyone is hiding inside their houses which are, incidentally, much taller than when you were last here. Three storeys high, in fact.

‘You break down a door, since there are no windows at ground level, but instead of people you find animals inside and only a trapdoor in the ceiling to get to the rest of the house; and the ladder has been pulled up.’

By now, Longo was stooped inches above the model too, peering with curiosity at the inside of a house, its roof removed by Benedo Barbi.

‘Yes,’ Luke was saying, ‘in this village it’s the animals that live on the ground floor and there is no staircase to the floors above, just a ladder. Each house has its landing on the first floor, which leads to the living areas. And on the second floor, every house is connected to the next by a walkway above the street. So the village, in essence, has two levels.’

‘Ingenious,’ said Longo softly.

‘But there’s better to come,’ continued Luke. ‘Remember, lord, that you are a simple pirate and by now a little confused. So you leave the animals alone and come back out into the street just in time to see a pair of heels disappear around a corner, and you give chase. But you are in a maze which has corners and dead-ends and some streets which end in tunnels and some which don’t and some which seem to join to another street but in fact it’s a painting and you run into a wall.’

Longo was shaking his head slowly from side to side.

‘Then you notice, above you, a whole different world of interconnecting walkways which you cannot get to but which can certainly get to you. And you know this because the man beside you has been shot by an arrow released from an arch across the street and you’ve just heard the scream of another man, in the street next door, scalded by boiling water poured into a tunnel through a hole in its roof.

‘So now you’re getting enraged and a little scared and you think about burning it all down but everything seems to be built of stone, not wood, and anyway you don’t know where all your companions are because your whole band of fellow pirates is hopelessly lost in this maze.’

Benedo Barbi was pointing out details of the model to Longo, removing bits from houses and whole arches from streets and spanning alleyways with tiny ladders which he lifted between two fingers.

‘By now, lord,’ said Luke, straightening and looking at the back of Longo’s head which was bobbing up and down with the flow of information, ‘by now, you might have given up.’

‘Indeed, you might well.’ Longo was laughing now.

‘But let us say that you are an unusually tenacious band of pirates who don’t give up and, despite everything, manage to get to the centre of the village. What, lord, will you find at the centre of this labyrinth?’

‘Why, this tower,’ replied Longo, pointing at it.

‘Yes, you will. And’ — Luke bowed slightly from the waist and smiled — ‘it will be the final indignity heaped upon you! It will be your nemesis. Dimitri, pray tell Lord Longo of our tower.’

It was the first time that Dimitri had been asked to speak and, such was his surprise, he was silent for some moments.

‘Well, lord,’ he said at last, ‘to begin with, this tower is much bigger than any we have had before; big enough, in fact, to hold every person in the village. Then you will see that it has no door at all on the ground floor and can only be entered at the first level, using a ladder that is then drawn up. It has a large cistern below and a tunnel that runs to a well outside the village, so it’ll never run out of water. And there’s room in the upper levels for a month’s food and all the stored mastic. It is the last line of defence and impregnable.’

There was a long pause when nobody spoke and everyone looked at Longo, who was still bent over the model, lifting things and putting them back and then moving to look at them from a different angle.

‘Ingenious,’ he repeated at last, ‘but expensive. Too expensive, I fear. We are protecting mastic, not gold.’

‘But it is gold,’ said Fiorenza. ‘Listen, my lord, to what Dimitri will tell you of our mastic.’

Dimitri produced again his worn satchel with its two pouches, the contents of which he laid out in a field somewhere outside the village wall. He told of his invention and Longo’s eyes shone with imagining.

‘So you see, my lord,’ said Fiorenza, moving to stand beside her husband, ‘the villagers will have something to protect beyond the lives of their children. They will be protecting mastic because it will be theirs. Part of this plan involves giving the villagers a share of what they produce.’

‘So where will the mastic belonging to the campagna be stored?’ asked Longo.

‘At the new port,’ answered Benedo Barbi. ‘It will be stored in warehouses at the new port we will build at Limenas, two miles north of Mesta. It will be stored in the place it is shipped from and this is where the full garrison will be stationed to protect it. It’s logical.’

‘A new port?’ asked Longo with incredulity. ‘A new port on top of a new village? How can we possibly afford that?’

‘Not just one new village, lord,’ said Luke, ‘but many. This new industry will require new labour and we’ll need to protect all the villages where our workers live. Next to be built will be the village of Pyrgi.’

Longo looked from Luke to Barbi to Dimitri and then to his wife. He was shaking his head. ‘But the money,’ he said. ‘Where will we find the money?’

Fiorenza turned to face her husband and her fingers traced the length of the gold chain across his chest. ‘We can borrow the money,’ she said. ‘The alum that we ship from Chora goes mainly to the city of Florence for the Arte della Lana. Their banker is a man called Medici. In exchange for alum and mastic at a discount, he will fund this venture.’

‘You know this?’ asked her husband.

‘I’ve talked to his representative on the island,’ she replied. She smiled up at him and her dimples had never looked more charming. ‘He, too, has holes in his teeth.’

Marchese Longo looked at his wife in wonder, as did the others. It was the first that any of them had heard of this part of the plan. Then he leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.

‘You are mysterious and extraordinary,’ he whispered.

Longo drew apart and circled the table, once again taking in the brilliance of the idea before stopping to address them all. ‘This is revolutionary and will take time to absorb. There are many issues to discuss with the other signori, not least how long we can expect to stay on this island. Remember there is only so much time left on our lease.’ He spread his hands before him. ‘But I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I believe that, between you, you may have come up with something that will secure our future here and I’m grateful beyond measure. Now you must leave me to think.’

He turned to Luke. ‘Luke, please do me the honour of talking further with me.’

Longo walked to the door and Luke followed him, giving Dimitri a wink as he passed. Once outside the room, he was led to an antechamber with deep chairs and portraits crowding the walls amidst rich hangings. Longo sat and gestured to Luke to do likewise while a servant set wine and olives on a low table between them.

‘Luke,’ said the older man when the man had left, ‘how long do you plan to stay with us on Chios?’

Luke was taken aback. ‘Lord, I mean to leave for Mistra soon,’ he said carefully.

‘You must know that Fiorenza and I have become fond of you. We have not been blessed with children and perhaps it is your misfortune that we see you almost as our son.’

Luke felt the blood rise in his face. He thought of a night beneath mastic trees. ‘You … you honour me, lord. I do not deserve it.’

‘But you do,’ went on Longo. ‘Without you, this idea would never have happened. And it’s brilliant.’

‘Thank you, lord,’ said Luke.

‘Anyway, I wanted to say this to you.’ Longo leant forward and lowered his voice. ‘I want you to lead this venture and, if it works, I will make you part of the campagna. You will be rich, Luke.’

Luke stared at him. ‘Lord, I am but eighteen!’

‘Yes, but never did an eighteen-year-old have such a head on his shoulders,’ said Longo. ‘Will you do it?’

Luke’s mind was racing. How could he tell this man, who had been so good to him, why he must go to Mistra? ‘I will think about it, lord.’

Longo stood up. ‘I cannot ask for more. Please do think about it and know that there is a home for you here on Chios if you want it. And as an added inducement, you will take the full profit on the first boatload of mastic to leave the new port of Limenas when it’s completed. Build it fast, Luke.’ He smiled. ‘Now, there is someone who arrived on this island yesterday and wants very much to talk to you. Come.’

Marchese Longo led the way down the corridor towards an arch through which light spilt from the veranda. As they approached, Luke could hear the sound of voices, one of which was Fiorenza’s.

Then he heard another and a wave of unexpected joy swept over him.

Standing on the terrace, white-bearded, white-togaed and gesticulating, was the unmistakable person of Plethon.

As Luke stepped into the sunshine, the philosopher turned and gesture became embrace.

‘Luke!’ he said, pulling away and looking up into a face he’d last seen diving from the side of a ship. ‘I was overjoyed to hear that you’d found Longo. And Fiorenza tells me that you’ve found much more: Latin, Italian, mathematics … the list is endless. She tells me that you’re a glutton for learning.’

‘I have a gifted tutor,’ he said. ‘And now I have another. How long will you stay?’

Plethon didn’t answer. Instead he made a little bow to Fiorenza and Marchese. ‘You will forgive me if I steal Luke from you for a while?’

Fiorenza’s head was on one side and one blameless eyebrow had risen in surprise. Then she smiled. ‘Only if you speak in Latin.’

Plethon bowed again and drew Luke away. He led him over to a belvedere shaded by trellised vine and sat, arranging the folds of his toga on his lap. ‘I am only here for today, Luke. I go to Monemvasia tomorrow and then on to Venice. I have come to Chios to talk to you.’

‘To me? What about?’

Plethon smiled and lifted his hand to smooth his beard against his chest. ‘I have been learning a lot about you, Luke,’ he began. ‘It turns out that you have talents-’

Luke interrupted. ‘Sir, Fiorenza is-’

‘I know, I know. She is herself remarkable. But I’m not talking about that. I’m referring to your escape from Monemvasia. You tried to bring a girl with you. The daughter of Laskaris, the Protostrator.’

Luke stared at the man. How did he know?

‘You were friends?’

‘Plethon, she is the daughter of the Protostrator.’ He paused. ‘Yes, we were friends.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said the philosopher. ‘She’s out of reach so you’ve schooled yourself not to think of her.’

Luke looked down at his hands.

‘Well, you should cast aside this sense of inferiority, Luke. You are more than her match.’

‘Because I can now speak Latin?’

Plethon placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder. ‘You lost your father, Luke. I’m sorry. What was his name?’

A memory: darkness and wind and sea; a big man lying still on a rain-lashed jetty. He closed his eyes. ‘Joseph.’

‘And his father?’

‘Siward. Why is it important?’

Plethon ignored the question. ‘Why did Siward leave Monemvasia?’ he asked.

Luke chose not to answer.

Plethon removed his hand and rose. He swung a fold of toga over his shoulder and looked out over the view. ‘I have been in Constantinople,’ he said. ‘The Emperor summoned me. He is interested in the Varangian treasure that is said to be buried somewhere and wants my help to find it.’

Again Luke made no comment.

‘I began by going through the Varangian archives. A man called Siward, who’d come from the Peloponnese, turned up in Constantinople just after you were born. Would that be when your grandfather left Mistra?’

Luke said nothing.

Plethon continued. ‘He wanted to join the Varangians but was too old. Then he was enrolled at the special request of the Emperor himself.’

The philosopher paused. He turned. ‘Why would the Emperor do that? Was it, perhaps, because Siward brought something with him?’

Still no reply.

Plethon tried another tack. ‘What did your father tell you of the treasure, Luke? That your grandfather stole it?’

‘He didn’t steal it.’

‘No, I don’t believe he did. And nor does the Emperor.’

‘So why did he move it, then?’

Plethon shrugged. ‘Because he thought it was unsafe where it was? I don’t know. Did your father say what he thought the treasure might be?’

What had his father said?

If it is gold. It may be something else.

‘He didn’t know what it was,’ he said quietly. ‘But I don’t think he thought it was gold.’

Plethon nodded slowly. ‘No, quite possibly not. But he thought it lay still in Mistra?’

‘Yes.’

Plethon continued to nod, his lips pursed. ‘Or in Constantinople perhaps. After all, that’s where he’s buried. In the Church of the Varangians, where they say the treasure first came from. Perhaps he brought it back.’

Luke had no idea. Plethon was looking at him strangely.

‘His tomb is magnificent,’ he said quietly. ‘Very ornate. As befits a prince.’

Luke looked at him in astonishment. ‘What did you say?’

‘Luke, your grandfather was the direct descendent of Siward Godwinson, Prince of Wessex, in a place called England. He was the first English Varangian.’

Luke continued to stare at him.

Plethon smiled. ‘Which is why you’ve got to cast off this sense of inferiority, Luke. You have royal blood in your veins. You’re more than her match.’

Luke said, ‘But many Varangians were called Siward.’

‘But they were not Akolouthoi, Luke.’ He paused. ‘Did your father not speak of this?’

Luke shook his head. ‘He never mentioned my grandfather. Until the night I left.’

‘No. He was ashamed. But I don’t think he had any reason to be. Certainly the Emperor didn’t think so, otherwise he’d hardly have let him rejoin the Guard.’

Luke leant back against the stone of the belvedere. There was so much to absorb, so much to understand. If what Plethon said was true, then everything had changed.

He felt suddenly light-headed. ‘You said you were on your way to Venice. Why?’

‘Because I believe that they’re building cannon for the Turks. Bigger cannon to bring down walls. And Chios has something to do with it. The Venetians want the alum trade and it’s their price for the cannon.’

‘How do you know all this?’

Plethon tapped his nose with his finger. ‘Because philosophers have friends in many places.’

‘You’re a spy?’

Plethon smiled. ‘I am many things, Luke. I hope to persuade them not to build the cannon but I doubt I’ll succeed. The Venetians only listen to money and that’s the one thing the Empire of Byzantium doesn’t have.’

Luke considered what he’d been told. ‘You think the Venetians are behind these pirate raids, don’t you?’

‘Don’t you?

‘Yes, I do. I’ve thought so for some time. But we have plans.’

‘So I’ve heard. Fiorenza tells me they are ingenious. They want you to stay, Luke. So do I.’

‘Why? I want to go to Mistra.’

‘You’re more useful to the Empire here. Making sure that the Venetians don’t succeed in getting hold of this island is very, very important. If I can’t appeal to their better instincts in Venice, then the realisation that they won’t succeed at Chios might just persuade them not to give the Turk the cannon.’

‘Won’t the Turks simply go somewhere else for their cannon?’

‘Perhaps, but they would take much longer to arrive, by which time the Sultan may have been persuaded to change his plans. His court is divided about Constantinople anyway. There is a new threat rising in the east. Tamerlane.’

Fiorenza had told him of Temur the Lame, a man creating destruction on a scale unseen since Genghis. A man moving gradually west.

‘Which is why I need you here. To delay things. Delay is our friend.’

‘So I am to accept Longo’s offer?’

‘Yes.’ Plethon paused. Then he said softly, ‘Princes are sometimes not free to act as other men.’

He rose. ‘I am to leave for Monemvasia tomorrow. Anna Laskaris has returned there with the Mamonases who have been reinstated under Turkish protection. Do you have a message for her?’

Luke smiled.

You are more than her match.

‘That I’m alive.’ He paused. ‘And can speak Latin.’