The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHIOS, SUMMER 1396

Luke had no idea how or when the complicated business of separating their limbs had taken place, but when he awoke to sunshine and headache and deafening birdsong, Fiorenza had gone. And such was his state of bewilderment that he wondered, with some hope, if she’d ever been there at all.

But she had. Because beside him the grass was flattened and at his feet were two cups resting on their sides. He sat up and held his head in his hands and let his tongue explore the bitter residue of wine in his mouth. Then he looked carefully around him. Her mare was no longer tethered, so she was not somewhere in the valley gathering their breakfast.

She had loved him, and left.

Luke sat up and reached forward to pick up a cup. The smell from it was not entirely of wine and he examined the inside more closely. On its curved bottom, amidst the spots of pooled liquid, were gathered the smallest of white lumps. Luke put in a finger and drew it to his lips.

Mastic.

Mastic as aphrodisiac. He’d never believed it, thinking it a placebo for the ravenous harem, but perhaps mixed with something other?

Luke pushed his hands through hair that still smelt of her and thought of Anna. He rose and walked unsteadily to the stream and lay down in it, gasping at the cold. He rubbed his arms and legs and cleaned between his thighs. He put his head against the flow and scratched his scalp with his fingers. And he drank until his cheeks were frozen and his teeth ached. Then he climbed on to the bank and lay in the weak sun and tried to think of what to do.

What have I done? Oh God, what have I done?

A whinny from the trees reminded him that he was not alone. Norillo was there and was nosing something on the ground: his clothes. He got up and walked over to the stallion and placed his cold cheek against the warmth of its neck.

‘Norillo,’ he whispered, ‘where did she go?’

He stooped to his clothes and pulled them on over his stillwet body. Something remained where they’d been. It was a small phial and it was nearly full of a clear liquid. He removed the stopper and lifted it to his nose.

Mastic as aphrodisiac.

He untied the horse and began to walk back up through the trees and into the field of poppies that led to Cape Pari and where it had all begun the evening before.

He reached the top of the hill and stopped, staring out to sea.

There, sailing gracefully south, oars moving in perfect unison, was all that was left of the once-magnificent fleet of the Byzantine Empire.

Ten ships. Ten triremes flying the yellow and red of the imperial pennant, the basilikon phlamoulon, from their mastheads. Ten where there had once been hundreds. If ever there was proof that the Empire was in its last days, it was surely here in these ten, lateen-rigged triremes that had rowed themselves away from the Ottoman fleet besieging Constantinople but had still managed to punch their way through the Ottoman ships encircling Chios.

Luke leapt on to the back of Norillo and shouted and waved but they were too far away to see him and the drum would anyway drown the sound of his voice. So he dug his heels into the sides of the horse and raced back down to the track in the direction of Chora.

Norillo needed little encouragement to stretch himself and it was only three hours later that Luke found himself trotting through the outlying streets of the capital towards the seafront. Word had got out that the fleet was approaching and there were excited people all around him moving in the same direction. When he reached the broad boulevard that skirted the bay, it was already thronged with citizens of every age.

Luke steered Norillo towards the castle at the north end of the bay, passing between windmills that turned their latticed blades to the breeze that crept in from the sea, and was soon riding across the moat and through the Porta Maggiore with its gaudy Giustiniani arms above.

Luke looked down and saw grass stains on his hose. He had not shaved and, despite his bathe in the stream, could still smell the scent of Fiorenza on him. The Adorno Palace was nearby and he knew that Signor Gabriele’s stout wife had a fondness for him and that her husband was most probably on his estate on the Kambos. He would find fresh clothes there and tools for shaving. He turned towards it.

An elderly servant answered to his knocking and seemed unsurprised to see him. Opening the door, he bowed as low as he was able and ushered Luke past him and into a large hall ringed with tapestries of the hunt. Its floor was of black marble and provided Luke with a clear reflection of his appearance.

‘I wondered …’ he began, but the man put his finger to his lips and beckoned him towards the stairs where a second servant was offering a glass of something that Luke didn’t want to drink.

Again he tried to speak but was hushed politely and the finger pointed upstairs. It seemed there was someone asleep, or perhaps at prayer, above who was not to be disturbed, although the palace was large and on at least three levels. Luke made signs to leave but the retainer was insistent that he follow him and Luke agreed, straightening his pourpoint and checking his buttons.

At the top there was a curving balcony and several closed doors and one that was slightly ajar, and which had voices coming from the other side. The servant gestured towards it and Luke walked forward and opened the door.

The first person he saw, seated with others around a large mahogany table, was Marchese Longo. By his side, in clothes he did not recognise, sat his wife, the Princess Fiorenza of Trebizond.

The others around the table were all male and constituted a gathering of the shareholders of the Campagna Giustiniani. There were the signori of the Banca, the Campi, the Arangio families, and all the rest, and at their head sat their solid host, the elderly Gabriele Adorno.

He rose when Luke entered. ‘Luke … a surprise,’ he said bowing slightly and smiling with what seemed genuine pleasure. ‘We hadn’t expected you, but it is fortuitous that you have heeded the call. It is your navy that we expect at any hour to grace our harbour and we have assembled here to agree what is to be done.’

Luke realised that he’d been staring at Fiorenza. He recovered and allowed himself to be led to a chair. ‘Forgive my appearance, my lords,’ he said, sitting down. ‘I have ridden fast.’

He looked around the table. Fiorenza was looking at him with one eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smile playing at the edges of her lips.

Gabriele Adorno nodded absently and then turned from Luke to the business of the meeting. He addressed his fellow signori.

‘My friends, the galleys of the Byzantine fleet will be in our harbour by nightfall. We need to agree how we will receive them. Marchese, please.’

Longo got to his feet and walked over to where a large map of the Middle Sea had been pinned to an easel. He drew his dagger and used it as a pointer.

‘The fleet has come from the port of Palea, above Monemvasia, where it has sheltered since learning that the Ottoman fleet is equipped with cannon,’ he said. ‘We don’t know its destination but we can suppose Constantinople. The arms they carry on their decks would suggest that they mean to have another try at breaking the blockade, despite the cannon.’

He paused and his dagger travelled the map. ‘Gentlemen, we Genoese have created a trading empire across the eastern Middle Sea and up into the Black Sea. Its centre has always been Constantinople, or at least our port of Pera, across the Golden Horn, and we have been a good ally to the Empire.’

He stepped back from the map and lowered his dagger. He looked at the men gathered around the table. ‘But we have to acknowledge the possibility that Constantinople will fall, and may fall soon. And we have to recognise that the Turks may become a naval power to rival ourselves and Venice. They have already approached our brothers in Genoa about the possibility of us building ships for them and they’ll be doing the same at the Serenissima.’

He paused and lowered his voice. ‘But perhaps the worst thing we must face, gentlemen, is that we may have been backing the wrong party all these years, and the Venetians may now be backing the right one.’

Marchese walked over to the table and placed his two fists on it as he leaned forward.

‘If I may put it plainly, signori,’ he said softly, looking from one to the next, ‘if Constantinople falls, then next to fall will be our island and the Turks will have a ready ally in Venice. It is on this basis that we should decide whether or not to give shelter to the Byzantine navy.’

There was an uncomfortable silence around the table broken only by the asthmatic breathing of Adorno. ‘But our tribute, Marchese,’ he said. ‘Would the Turk so readily risk such a source of revenue? The Venetians are hardly reliable.’

‘No?’ answered Longo. ‘We’ve always believed that. We’ve always thought that only we Genoese understood the alum business which pays our tribute so handsomely. But look at Trebizond.’ Here he turned briefly to Fiorenza as if she were its embodiment. ‘The Venetians cheated us out of the alum monopoly from the mines at Karahissar and have learnt how to ship and trade it from Trebizond. They could do the same here. Why not?’

Still none of the signori spoke.

‘So, I ask again: are we about to antagonise the Turk by revictualling the navy of its enemy?’

Then Zacco Banca spoke. ‘We may not be able to pay the tribute at all if we can’t ship our alum. Remember, the Turkish pirates captured three of our round ships last month and another two last week. Now we have this blockade and no way of getting to our markets in the west.’

‘Indeed,’ said Giovanni Campi. ‘So what, Marchese, are you proposing that we do?’

‘I don’t see we have any choice, my lords,’ he said quietly. ‘I fear we must refuse entry to this fleet.’

Fiorenza said softly, ‘My lord, this is unworthy.’

Longo gazed down at his wife and there was love and sadness in his eyes. ‘Unworthy? Yes, lady, it is unworthy. But what else would you have us do? This Empire is doomed and our duty must be to Genoa. To Chios. To ourselves and’ — he glanced at Luke — ‘to our children.’

The sadness in Marchese Longo’s eyes was in those of every other one of the Genoese sitting around the table and the noises of the city outside were suddenly inside the room amidst the long silence. A decision had been made about loyalties and honour and every one of the signori wanted to be somewhere where they might better convince themselves that it had been the right one.

Then Luke spoke. ‘There is another way.’

The heads turned to him with impatience. The difficult decision had been made. And he was not one of them, not of the Campagna Giustiniani.

‘Let Luke speak,’ said Fiorenza. ‘It is his island too.’

Longo looked from his wife to Luke. ‘By all means speak, Luke,’ he said and sat down.

Luke rose to his feet and walked the length of the table until he reached Fiorenza and the map. ‘My lords,’ he began, ‘I have lived amongst you now for some time. You have been kind to me and I hope that I’ve done you some service in return. I know you to be worthy men and that any decision you make today will be as honourable as the times allow. But there is another way, which will serve all parties, I believe.’

‘Another way?’ asked Longo.

‘Yes,’ said Luke. ‘What if the fleet is, in fact, admitted to the harbour here at Chora, and the Megas Doux and his captains received with all the pomp we can muster? What if we then offer them an alternative as to where they might go next? The Empire needs two things to survive: success for the crusade that is assembling in the west, and money. What if we persuade the Megas Doux to instead take his ships to Venice, and to go with their holds full of our alum? From Venice they can put themselves at the disposal of the Duke of Burgundy’s crusade and the Empire can take a generous share of the proceeds from the alum.’

There were frowns on every face around the table now, except that of Fiorenza. Gabriele Adorno’s frown was the darkest of all.

‘But, Luke,’ he said, ‘I can think of at least two reasons why this is a bad idea. First, why would we want to lose profit on our alum? Second, why would the Turk be any less annoyed with us if the fleet goes to support the crusade being sent against them?’

‘My lord,’ Luke went on, ‘surely it’s better to make some profit on our alum rather than the none we’ll make if it rots in our warehouses here? In former times you might have expected help from other Genoese carriers, but they are all in the Black Sea and cannot get past Constantinople.’

‘All right,’ said Longo, ‘but what of Gabriele’s second point? Surely the Turk will punish us for giving the fleet shelter?’

‘Possibly,’ acceded Luke, ‘but he may punish us more for not giving him his tribute. And we can only do that if we sell the alum which, you must be aware, is reaching record prices since the Venetian convoys from Trebizond can’t get through.’

Now the first of the nods began and, Luke was pleased to see, it came from Longo, who said, ‘Am I right in assuming your mastic plays a part in this somewhere?’

Luke nodded. ‘Yes, it does. We’ve discovered that the mastic works well as a sealant for wounds. Very useful for an army. It may even do what alum does. It will fetch a good price in Venice.’

The nods were universal now. No matter how hard the signori poked at it, the plan seemed sound — even brilliant. It would allow them to do what they most desperately wanted to do before knowing the outcome of the impending crusade: remain neutral.

Marchese Longo rose. ‘Let us prepare ourselves for the Megas Doux then.’

What Luke knew, Fiorenza suspected and the signori didn’t, was that the Megas Doux had never had any intention of going to Constantinople. It had always been his plan, indeed his orders, to go to Chios and then on to Venice and the support of the Crusade.

Standing at the top of the long ramp down to the sea, Luke was studying the impressive heavy artillery on board the ten galleys that had dropped anchor in the bay. He smiled in anticipation of meeting certain members of the party now being rowed towards him in the best of the campagna’s barges. He thought of that meeting with Plethon all those months ago.

The Venetians only listen to money and that’s the one thing that the Empire doesn’t have.

The barge was a gilded affair and, curiously, modelled on the Venetian version. It had eight oarsmen to a side, all in Giustiniani colours, and a low silk awning at the back beneath which the Megas Doux and his entourage would be sitting in great comfort. Above the tall rudder flew two flags, those of the Campagna Giustiniani and the Empire. The flag of the Empire was on top.

A pale moon had risen above the bay and the sun was setting in a riot of red and orange that threw its colour across the water like spilt paint. A dozen ducks rose and arranged themselves in formation and headed noisily inland and everywhere was the low burble of excited talk. This was an event not to be missed by the people of Chios. Or Scio.

‘They’re taking their time,’ said Longo irritably, who stood beside Luke dressed in magnificent black and gold figured silk.

Luke stared out across the water. He would have to find the right moment to tell them of his decision to leave, although he suspected that one of them, at least, already knew it. He looked at Fiorenza and saw that she was entirely composed. She was dressed in the Trapezuntine, rather than Genoese, style, in a high-necked, narrow gown of pale cream damask with buttons of embroidered silver at its front. The cloth glowed slightly in the last light of the sun and its long, fluted sleeves half covered her folded hands, corded with rings. Her expression was unreadable.

Soon the barge was close to the quay and its oars were in the air and a trumpet sounded amidst the banners behind. The reception party readied itself to receive the Admiral of the Byzantine fleet.

The Megas Doux turned out to be a small man of middle age weighed down by cuirass and gold and, perhaps, the responsibility of preserving his little fleet. Nevertheless, he was a man of energy and he leapt nimbly from barge to quay and the welcome of the twelve signori of Scio.

But Luke hardly glanced at him, or at the ten captains that followed him. Instead he looked into the dark area below the awning for its other passengers. Then there they were, emerging one by one and dressed as he’d never seen them before.

Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius. All in the uniform of the Varangian Guard.

It was two years since he’d seen them last and the tread of seasons seemed to have left little imprint. Matthew had a new beard, a thin thing of no direction, while Arcadius was stouter and limping. Luke had seen him in boats before and suspected a heavy wave. Nikko, finally, had less hair and seemed to be going the way of the entirely bald David. But all were ruddycheeked and filled their fathers’ Varangian armour to an inch.

Luke was behind the reception line, watching them search the crowd for him and whisper to each other. The Admiral and his captains had been properly greeted and were now moving slowly up the ramp towards the gates, led by Longo and two Genoese soldiers with flambeaux held high.

‘What took you so long?’

‘Luke!’ cried Nikolas, spinning around.

‘And what are you wearing?’ asked Luke, stepping back to take in the Varangian splendour. ‘They gave you those?’

Then the four of them were laughing and huddled together in a circular embrace and were boys again. And as they laughed and jostled each other, Luke felt a wave of love and memory break over him. They were boys without brothers who were better brothers than any he knew. They had shared stories and girls and blows on the training ground since they’d learnt to walk. They had a friendship that was higher than mountains and deeper than oceans and were any one of them to call out in need, be it only a whisper, it would be heard by the rest.

Luke remembered a rain-lashed jetty and a girl he’d meant to escape with. A girl they’d yet to mention. Did he dare? Not yet.

‘So you delivered the message?’

‘The Admiral didn’t think twice,’ said Matthew happily.

‘And the holds are empty?’

‘You can put in as much alum as you want, and there will still be room for all your money. I hear you’re rich.’

‘Not yet, but I’m practising,’ said Luke, still whispering. He paused. ‘But you’ve not told me of Anna. Where is Anna?’

The jostling stopped.

‘We don’t know,’ said Nikolas. ‘She went with Suleyman. It was part of the deal struck by Zoe to save our lives and to let Rachel leave the palace and go home. She’s probably at the camp at Constantinople.’

‘With Suleyman?’

There was silence in the huddle and Matthew was the one to break free. He stood in front of Luke and held his friend’s arms above the elbows. It was almost dark now, the flambeaux having gone with the signori, and they were enveloped by the deep shadow of the citadel wall.

‘You should know,’ he said quietly, ‘that Prince Suleyman is enamoured of her. I don’t know why … something to do with their first meeting at Mistra. And I don’t know if he’s even touched her yet. If he has it will have been against her will, you can be sure.’

Luke shook his head, unbelieving.

Anna at Constantinople. With Suleyman?

‘I shall go and get her,’ he said.

But Matthew shook his head. ‘From the Sultan’s camp? That’s impossible. You’d be killed.’

‘I have to try! What else can I do?’

A voice came from the shadows. ‘You can go to Venice, Luke. As you intended.’

Luke turned and saw the woman who, last night, had lain beneath him. Now she was half in shadow and that part of her face lit by the moon was solemn. She moved away towards the gate and Luke followed her.

‘That was prettily done, Luke,’ she said softly when they were beyond the hearing of the Varangians. ‘Getting a message to the Admiral via your friends. You knew the fleet was going to Venice anyway?’

Luke was silent.

‘What would Marchese say if he knew you were deliberately diverting Giustiniani funds to aid the Empire?’

‘He would approve,’ answered Luke. ‘He is a good man. And a wise one.’

‘And would he approve of what happened last night?’ she asked.

‘No. He loves you.’

‘And I him.’

‘So why …?’ asked Luke.

‘Can’t you guess?’ The Princess from Trebizond reached up and put a soft hand to Luke’s cheek and let her thumb gently stroke its curve. There were tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve been used, Luke, yes. And you will hate me now and forgive me later.

‘So that’s why you must go. You must go to forget and, I hope, to forgive. You must go to Venice where Plethon awaits you. He’ll need you there to sign over to the Empire your profits from the mastic, as I know you’ve determined to do. And then you’ll go to the crusade with your friends and you’ll win. And when you come back, you’ll bring Anna and you’ll be rich, for the signori have, this afternoon, agreed to make you one of their number.’ She paused. ‘And, God willing, you might even greet our son.’

Then the Princess from Trebizond stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘You are Escrivo, Luke,’ she said, and turned to go.

Three days later, Luke was standing on the stern deck of a trireme galley as it rowed to the beat of a drum out of the port of Limenas. The wind was boisterous under a leaden sky and his hair and cloak snapped in the blow as he watched the island of Chios, his home for two years, blur into distance.

Next to him stood the captain, his hand raised to deliver the order for the oars to be shipped and the two giant lateen sails raised. Luke looked up beyond the mast basket and saw the pennants of Byzantium stretch and buckle and point back towards the island. Towards Fiorenza.

Then the order was shouted and carried through the ship by others and the galley shuddered as the sails broke out and bellied, and 170 rowers, three to a bench, bent over their oars in relief. Luke looked down the long central gangway to the marine crossbowmen gathered on the fighting-stage of the prow next to a single catapult. He thought, without connection, of Eskalon. This galley was a katergon rather than a taride and therefore not adapted to carry horses. He’d had to leave Norillo behind and he’d been surprised by how little it had mattered to him.

Eskalon. Are you somewhere in this world?

Luke looked out at the grey expanse of sea, at the curve of the waves as they rose, white-tipped, in a rising wind and pounded the sides of the ship. They were alone in this sea, the other galleys having left, with his friends aboard them, from Chora two days before. Nine galleys with holds crammed with alum while his was filled with bales of mastic. All were headed for Venice.

And, as agreed with Marchese Longo all those months past, the entire profit from the sale of this first shipment from the new port of Limenas would go to Luke. He smiled.

Or to the Empire.

Luke knew that Plethon would be in Venice. He’d worked with Benedo to create a compound of mastic and other elements that might or might not work as a dye fixative. They’d know for sure in Venice since it was the colour capital of the world. If it did, then the profits could be enormous and Plethon would know how best to use them to the Empire’s advantage.

The reunion with his three friends had been, at least in part, joyous. He’d learned that his mother, while still a prisoner, was now at least imprisoned in her home. He’d make sure that a small part of the profit from the mastic would somehow get to her. He’d learned that Monemvasia was little changed by the presence of a regiment of janissaries within its walls and that the little city on the edge of the sea continued to prosper as it had always done. But over everything had hung the cloud of Fiorenza and what he’d done with her, and of Anna, whom he’d betrayed.

Anna who was now with Suleyman.

Luke shivered and drew the cloak around him.

‘Sad to leave?’

It was the captain who’d spoken and Luke turned to a handsome man of middle age who was watching the sails and testing the tension of a stay. He didn’t have the air of a sailor, being neat in quilted surcoat beneath his cloak. His boots were long, expensive and wet.

‘I was asking myself the same question,’ replied Luke.

A sudden surge caused the galley to lurch and Luke took hold of the deck rail. Rain had begun to fall in bursts, carried by the gusting wind, driving his cloak against his legs. ‘Should we go closer to the shore?’ he asked.

The man shrugged. ‘There is no shore. It’s all open sea from here to the straits between Negroponte and Andros. But this is a good south-westerly and it will take us there in two days.’

‘And if the wind drops?’

‘Then we row. At twenty strokes a minute, we can cover six miles in a day. We’ll be home in two weeks.’

‘Home?’

‘I am Venetian, can’t you tell? Or did you miss the horns?’

Luke smiled. He said, ‘We have two weeks together. Why don’t we begin by assuming that we know nothing, good or bad, about the other? Then perhaps we will enjoy two voyages: one to Venice and another into each other’s story.’ He paused. ‘I would like to hear yours, at least.’

The captain looked at him and his eyes were half closed against the rain. Water rolled down his cheek and collected in a fold in the coat. ‘I have some good wine in the scosagna. We can’t do more here. Let’s go below.’

Inside the cabin it was warm and cushioned and there was a fug that came from a wood-burning stove, which was slightly smoking. Light was diffused through small windows and a latticed lantern had been lit which swung heavily in the swell. Several good pieces of furniture occupied the low space that had the musky air of a seraglio. A flask of wine and several tin cups sat on a battered oak chest.

Luke walked in and removed his cloak, then his boots, and accepted a cup. He sank into deep, tassled cushions.

‘You have two questions in your mind,’ began the captain after emptying his cup in one gulp and wiping his beard on a sleeve. ‘First: why is a Venetian sopracomito in the employ of your empire, and second, why is Venice apparently supporting both sides in this impending crusade? Am I right?’ As he spoke he removed one of his gloves, finger by finger, to reveal long and delicate hands that might have belonged to a harpsichord-master.

‘More or less,’ said Luke.

‘Well, it is the circumstances which answer them,’ said the captain. ‘But first, names. Mine is Niccolò di Vetriano, Knight of the Order of San Marco.’

‘And mine Luke Magoris, born in Monemvasia and latterly of the island of Chios.’

They nodded to each other and Luke raised his cup from his cushion. So this was a Venetian nobleman. He was different in tone from the preposterous Rufio, but was he different in morals? Was each Venetian as venal as the next?

The captain studied him through narrowed eyes as he removed his other glove with his teeth and unbuckled the belt that held his cinquadea short sword at his hip. Then he unbuttoned the front of his surcoat and poured himself some more wine. He sat on a low stool and leaned forward from the waist.

‘So, why is a Venetian sailing this ship?’ he went on. ‘Why do Byzantium and Venice have bad blood between them? Questions.’ He paused. ‘Another question. Is it not usual for a father and son to both love and hate each other at the same time as one takes over from the other? Especially if they are alike?’

The Venetian drank more wine. ‘So it’s the same with Byzantium and Venice. Everything we have, we have from you. Our clothes, our titles, our buildings, our rituals. Even our horses. The four horses on top of our Cathedral of San Marco? They came from your Hippodrome. We owe you everything, yet we can no longer support you in your old age. We are not a good child.’

Luke was silent, swaying with the movement of the ship. It was rolling heavily now and he could hear the sounds of a sail being lowered outside.

‘Then there’s the thorny issue of the Crusade. Imagine. We ferried the robbers and rapists to your walls and then demanded money to pass you by. And when you couldn’t pay, our blind doge led them over the walls. Even your fierce Varangians couldn’t stop the slaughter that night. You still hate us for that and you’re right to.’

A large wave made the boat heel over and some wine lost itself in the rich reds of the carpet.

‘That night we took away your empire and created our own. A third of all your territories went to us. We took all your islands and trading posts so that we could dominate the trade of the Middle Sea. We snapped up your colonies on the cheap. We bought Crete for thirty pounds of gold. Have you seen the Sposalizio?’

Luke shook his head.

‘It’s the ceremony of our marriage to the sea. Every year we throw a ring into the lagoon and everyone cheers. We got that from you, too. So why don’t you do it any more? Because you have ten galleys and we have two hundred. Because you don’t have any sea left.’

The captain lifted his short sword and placed it on a chest from where it slid noisily to the floor with the next roll. He trapped it with his foot.

‘So now there are some new robbers and rapists who wear turbans and fight with swords that aren’t straight. And they’re not even Christian. But that hasn’t stopped us from plotting with them to bring about your final downfall. From which, of course, we expect to do well.’

He paused again. ‘But we’ve come up against a problem. These new robbers in their turbans seem to want boats. This isn’t as it should be; they were always gazis of the steppe, not mariners. We are the mariners. And doesn’t that mean that they can now reach all those islands and trading posts? Suddenly we feel nostalgia for our father’s tiresome rituals and old-fashioned manners.’

He looked directly at Luke. ‘So now we talk to the Duke of Burgundy about his crusade. But sotto voce, of course.’

‘While you make cannon for the Turk,’ said Luke. ‘Cannon big enough to bring down Constantinople’s walls.’

‘Do we?’

‘You know you do. And the Turk has promised you Chios in return.’ Luke paused in his turn. ‘What do you know of this crusade?’

‘Only that it may fail,’ said the Venetian. He didn’t sound particularly disappointed. ‘There’s no unified leadership,’ he went on, ‘and the Comte de Nevers is wasting his time jousting with the German princes instead of hurrying to Buda to join up with the Hungarian army. The crusaders may be the flower of French and Burgundian chivalry but they’re too vain, too complacent and, worst of all, are giving Bayezid time to prepare. Are you determined to join it?’

Luke nodded again. ‘I’m a Varangian,’ he said simply. ‘I can be useful.’

‘I don’t doubt that. Your three friends were on my galley on the way to Chios. I saw them practise with their axes. They are fine fighters.’

‘We were taught well,’ said Luke, and then added pointedly, ‘and we listened to our fathers.’ He paused. ‘So what will Venice do for this crusade? Sotto voce.’

The captain shrugged. ‘I dare say we will carry provisions up into the Black Sea and sail down the Danube to meet the army. Perhaps we will give them your mastic for their wounds.’

That halted the conversation.

‘You will get a good price for it,’ said the Venetian, ‘especially if it fixes dye as well.’

Luke frowned. How had he known this? But then, how could he not? The compound had been put in separate jars and Limenas was a place of gossip. He changed the subject. ‘The Christian army will be large. France, Burgundy, Hungary, Germany, Austria and the Knights Hospitaller. An alliance like this has never been seen before. The Turks will be stopped.’

Di Vetriano managed a smile but it was bleak. ‘Perhaps, perhaps. I hope so.’

‘So that’s Venice. What about you?’ asked Luke.

‘I am doing penance,’ said the captain sourly.

‘Penance? Penance for what?’

‘I was the captain of a great galley once,’ said the Venetian. ‘It was, perhaps, the finest galera ever to come out of the Arsenale. Four banks of oars; four hundred rowers. It could cover eighty miles in a day and turn back to front on a ducat. Magnificent.’

Luke had seen the great galleys of Venice off Monemvasia. The entire population turned out to watch them come in. It was one of the greatest spectacles on earth.

‘Mine was called the Vetriana. Did you know that all sopracomiti call their ships by the female version of their name? It was used for all our important dealings with the Turk,’ he went on. ‘I spent much of my time sailing between Venice and Edirne, ferrying men to meetings to discuss new ways to dismember your empire. I got to know the Sultan’s court well.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Luke.

‘I got carried away. I learnt their language and made friends with a eunuch in the harem, bribed him to let me see inside it. Just see, that was all. But we were caught and he was strangled with a bowstring and I was demoted. Now I am on secondment to your empire.’

‘And what did you learn at the court of Bayezid?’

The Italian looked up slowly. ‘That the Sultan is a man of strange desires which are too often frustrated by toothache.’ He smiled. ‘So Chios is spared for now. Because of a man who can fill holes.’

The Venetian was yawning now, showing unfilled teeth between lips half hidden by a fringe of tailored beard. ‘You probably know him.’

Luke didn’t answer because it hadn’t been a question. He felt dog-tired and the effects of the wine were creeping over him. The cushions beneath were soft and there was a skin on the floor that would cover him. He lowered his head on to velvet and closed his eyes.

It was sometime after dawn on the second day that he and the captain were awoken by the news that two Saracen galleys were approaching from the Negroponte Straits.

‘What are they flying?’ asked di Vetriano, climbing the stairs to the aft-deck and rubbing his eyes.

‘No crescent, lord,’ said the boatswain. ‘Anyway, the Sultan’s fleet is at either Constantinople or Chios.’

‘Mamelukes?’

‘That or corsairs, lord. Shall I run for shore?’

‘Do we have time? I doubt it.’ The captain had, by now, buckled on his cuirass. He turned to Luke. ‘There’s armour in that chest,’ he said. ‘Put it on and join me on deck.’

Luke emerged on to the deck to see the rowers pulling hard for the shore and the marines, all armoured, crowding the foredeck with crossbows at the ready. Out at sea, to their front, were two Turkish galleys driving fast across the water to cut them off. It seemed likely that they’d succeed.

The ships were low, sleek and built for speed. Their sails were furled and they each had a small boat slung between mastheads crammed with bowmen. The ships’ sides glittered with bright, turbaned helmets and chain mail and there was no doubt at all of their intention.

Luke was standing next to the captain. ‘Isn’t Negroponte Venetian?’ he asked.

‘It is,’ said the captain. ‘It seems the pirates do not respect Venetian authority.’

The two galleys were now directly ahead of them and close enough to hail. They had stopped and a bristle of oars hung either side above the water.

Now Luke could see more. There were bombards between the soldiers at the sides, their barrels pointed downwards. And at the bow and stern were bigger cannon, aimed higher, at their rowers.

The captain swore softly at his side.

‘Can we fight?’ asked Luke.

‘Yes, and we can be blown to bits by those cannon.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We see what they want.’

He hollowed his hands to shout. ‘By what authority do you prevent our progress? We are under the protection of Venice and these are Venetian waters.’

At first there was no answer but something moved behind the serried ranks of men at the ship’s sides. Flashes of more opulent colour appeared behind them and a small man with a pumpkin for a turban climbed the steps on to the stern deck. He looked more like an official than a soldier.

‘You have one they call Luca on your ship?’

The captain lowered his loudhailer and looked at Luke. ‘What do I say?’ he asked.

‘My name is not Luca.’

The captain looked at him without expression. Then he raised the loudhailer again. ‘We have no one of that name on board!’ he shouted.

The turban rose again. ‘We have cannon. You cannot win this battle. You can only drown. Give us Luca and you can go on your way.’

The captain looked at Luke. ‘I don’t think we have any choice.’

Luke glanced at the shore. ‘I could swim,’ he said. ‘If they see me in the water they won’t fire at you and I might just make it.’

The captain looked at the islands ahead. ‘You’d never make it,’ he said. Two marines had moved silently behind Luke and now stood either side of him. The captain nodded to the boatswain who turned to the ship’s longboat.

And then Luke understood. This had been planned. A Venetian captain and a course set for Venetian Negroponte.

‘You bastard,’ he said quietly.

The captain looked unembarrassed. ‘I cannot endanger my crew,’ he said. ‘And they have cannon.’

Niccolò di Vetriano, Knight of the Order of San Marco, had turned his back and the two marines took Luke’s arms. He was led to the side and below him the small boat was being lowered into the water.

He would not join the crusade.