The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EDIRNE, OCTOBER 1396

In the Year of Our Lord 1354, an Islamic God had stamped his sandalled foot and the walls of Gallipoli fell like a camel sinking to its knees in the sand. A passing Ottoman war band then skipped into the fortress and so began the stream of Turkish men, women, children, sheep and saints that, ever since, had poured across the Dardanelles up into the fecund valleys of Thrace. Their ferries had been Venetian.

In that year, too, a philosopher called Plethon had been born in a city not far to the north. Adrianopolis, city of Hadrian. Now Edirne, city of Bayezid.

In that city, on the day following her race with Suleyman, Anna sat on a stone bench in a little courtyard made by Murad for his wife, the Byzantine Princess Gülçiçek Khatun, and stared at a pillar.

The courtyard was colonnaded with Roman columns resurrected from the earthquake and each one was different. A single tree stood at its centre, planted to mark the birth of the Princess’s first-born, Yildirim.

So absorbed was Anna that she did not hear the soft tread of the philosopher until he was next to her and had spoken the word of the Prophet.

‘“Cursed be the man who injures a fruit-bearing tree.”’

Anna swung around. ‘Plethon!’ she cried, jumping up from the bench and hugging the togaed midriff of the man before her. The sunshine glanced from his balding head and two cats tiptoed away to sleep in the trimmed borders that ringed the square. ‘Are you really here?’

‘In person,’ said the sage, performing a little bow. ‘It is, after all, my home. Or was.’

Anna smiled. She was dressed, from head to toe, in the whitest gown and her hair tumbled to her shoulders in waves of copper. Her face had thinned and there was shadow where once there’d been curve. Her eyes held something distant in them as if her mind was elsewhere.

Plethon took her hands and gazed at her, watching the colour creep slowly into her cheeks. ‘Anna,’ he said at last, ‘are you very unhappy?’

She laughed, but it was a thin sound. ‘I am well,’ she said with conviction. ‘I eat, I sleep, I live.’ She smiled. ‘No, I live in luxury and have iced sherbet on call. And I have a horse.’

‘A horse?’

‘Eskalon. He was Luke’s but he lost him. Now he’s mine.’

Plethon opened his mouth to speak but she put her finger to it and leant forward.

‘And he told me something.’ It was a whisper.

‘The horse?’

‘Yes. He told me that I must go to Luke and that he would take me to him.’

Plethon watched her for a moment, wondering if, perhaps, her mind had finally succumbed. How would she take the news he had to give her? Gathering the folds of his toga, he lifted his long beard free and sat down on the bench, patting the space beside him.

‘Anna, you have agreed to marry Suleyman. The world knows it.’

‘I have agreed to marry him in six months’ time if there’s been no word from Luke. There’s been word.’

‘From a horse?’

‘From a horse.’

Plethon frowned. ‘Luke’s destiny …’ he began, but then stopped. For a moment he wondered what right he had to say what he was about to say.

‘Luke’s destiny is to be with me.’

Plethon looked down at his hands, at the fingers that had too often pointed to false truths. But this one he was certain of. It was time to be brutal.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, looking up. ‘But there is something he has to do before he can be with you. I thought it was a question of treasure. Now I see that it’s also something else.’

Anna sat very still, dread climbing up her like a weed. She had given so much to this empire; given her brother, her freedom, nearly her mind to its ravenous maw. Must she now give Luke?

She looked away towards Yildirim’s tree. ‘What does he have to do?’

She looked back at him, the misery clouding her eyes a darker green.

‘You’ve not mentioned Prince Mehmed,’ she continued. ‘Mehmed would take the Turks east, away from Constantinople. Why not talk to him?’

‘Because Tamerlane is not ready yet. He needs to be persuaded that he wants to fight Bayezid. Mehmed is not the prince to do that.’

‘So find another prince.’

Plethon took her hand. ‘Anna,’ he said softly, ‘Luke is that prince.’

She frowned. Luke was no prince. He was a Varangian. The numbing dread was in every part of her now.

A Varangian sent to persuade Tamerlane. Luke is going to Tamerlane.

She had to think of something else. ‘Will Constantinople hold?’

‘Constantinople will hold until the Turks get their cannon. I come from Venice where I tried to persuade the Doge to sell them instead to the Empire.’

‘And will they?’

‘Before the crusade, perhaps. Now, no. They are Venetians.’

She frowned. ‘They’re also Christian … And the Varangian treasure, have you given up on that?’

Plethon shook his head. ‘While you were at Nicopolis, I entered Constantinople to search Siward’s tomb which is in the Varangian church there. But someone had been there before me.’

‘It was empty?’

‘No. The top had been removed. It was full, but with a body. There was no room for anything else.’

‘So where do you look now?’

‘Mistra,’ he said. ‘I go there next. There was a mural in the church that had been covered over with recent paint. Whoever did that wanted to hide its message.’ He paused and smiled. ‘I expect a proposition quite soon.’

Anna only half heard him. She was thinking of Mistra and of her yearning to be there. She said, ‘Tell me, Plethon, what is my destiny?’

‘To marry Suleyman.’

Anna shook her head. ‘Not if I can be with Luke.’

Plethon said nothing.

‘So you are on your way to Mistra. Why have you come here?’ she asked.

Plethon saw the fragility of her mind and the despair that made it so. He had dreaded this moment. ‘To take you with me.’ He paused. ‘Anna, your father is dead.’

At first the words held no meaning for her. Then they did. Of course he was dead. He’d been dead since Alexis had gone. He’d been dead when she’d seen him at Serres.

I shall never speak with him again.

Anna rocked back on the bench, embracing herself.

Plethon continued, very softly: ‘I’ve come from the Emperor Manuel to seek peace. To see what can be rescued from the ruins of Nicopolis. I’ve also come to ask the Sultan if I can take a daughter to Mistra to see her father interred.’

Anna tried to smile but the ice that had entered her soul froze it on her lips. ‘And what does the Sultan say?’ she whispered.

Bayezid had been drunk when he’d received him. The fair page from Trebizond had supported his more extravagant gestures of contempt as Plethon had argued the case for peace. But he’d agreed to Anna leaving because it would upset his eldest son.

‘He said yes.’ Plethon unravelled a fold in his toga. He put two fingers to his closed eyes and rubbed them. Anna saw how tired he was. ‘He even agreed to allow Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius to come with us: a Varangian escort. He must want to annoy his son very much.’

Plethon glanced around the courtyard. He’d seen movement among the tulips but it was only a cat, its grey-silk body flowing from the flowers like mercury. He rose and took Anna’s hand. ‘We leave tomorrow at dawn. The funeral is in three days. We’ll have to ride fast.’

Later that night, in that part of the palace reserved for honoured guests, Plethon’s drift into platonic sleep was disturbed by the arrival of a woman in his bedroom.

At first he thought he was dreaming. He sat upright in his bed, drew in his exposed stomach and rubbed his eyes. When he reopened them, she was still there.

The room was big and cool and had two large windows that looked on to a little garden of scented flowers. Diaphanous curtains filtered the moonlight into gently moving squares of white that stretched across the room to the foot of his bed. Standing, silhouetted in one of these, was the woman, and the moon made a mockery of her caftan as a thing of modesty.

He had guessed immediately who she was.

‘Zoe,’ he said.

There was no answer. He wondered how he would react to an invitation. She was rumoured to have a taste for the bizarre and it was just possible that she saw philosophers as such. A waft of jasmine travelled to him on the slightest of airs. The curtains moved fractionally.

‘Am I to be blessed?’

Now certain that she had entered the right room, Zoe glided down the path of silver that led to the bed and sat on it.

‘Unlikely,’ she replied. ‘Not, you understand, on account of your years. It’s the beard. I can’t manage beards of such length.’

Plethon smiled. He reached over and took his toga from a chair by the side of the bed. ‘How can I be of assistance to you, Zoe?’ he asked, wrapping the folds around his released stomach ‘If it’s not my body you want, am I to presume it’s my mind? Shall we light a candle?’

‘No. Too dangerous and I will not stay long.’

The girl drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her shins with her arms. Her long black hair followed the curve of her back like oil and the profile of her face was sharp with concentration. Her eyelashes curled above her eyeball and she seemed to Plethon like a cat-goddess.

‘You saw Anna this morning,’ she said.

Plethon didn’t answer.

She sighed. ‘I don’t expect you to like me,’ she said, resting her cheek on her knee and looking at him. ‘I am a Mamonas and therefore beyond redemption. But I have helped Anna in the past.’

Plethon still made no comment. He let her consider her next words.

‘I can help you.’

Plethon smiled. Then he said, ‘Anna told me you’ve been away.’

‘The Prince Suleyman desired my presence.’

‘To fire cannon or climb scaling ladders? Your gifts are endless, lady.’

The girl’s face hardened. ‘We all do what we have to, to survive,’ she said quietly, ‘even you. Why else are you here?’

Plethon nodded and pulled the toga tighter around his shoulders. The night breeze was slight but he had shivered. This was a strange world of ever-present danger and he felt it all around.

‘I was in Venice two months ago,’ he said. ‘Your father and brother were there. Did you know that?’

‘No.’

Plethon believed her.

‘I saw them in the Doge’s barge. A great honour.’ He paused. ‘They were with a man called di Vetriano.’

Zoe looked up sharply. She frowned.

Di Vetriano.

‘Why is this interesting?’

‘Because he is working with your father and brother to supply Suleyman with the means to take Constantinople. But then you’ll have worked that out, as you’ll have considered that it may be time to look to different alliances.’ He paused while they studied each other in calculation. ‘You opened the tomb,’ he said.

Zoe breathed deeply and looked away.

‘As soon as Luke left with Suleyman, you went into Constantinople and you opened the tomb. You found something and now you want to make a bargain.’

She released her knees and turned to face him on the bed. ‘I know where to find the treasure in Mistra.’

Plethon considered this. She might just be telling the truth. But, if so, why had she not gone to get it? He lay back against the pillows, putting his hands behind his head. ‘I assume that it’s occurred to you that it might not be gold that lies there?’

She smiled. ‘Of course. The legend has it that it was a single casket that was buried. That wouldn’t be enough gold to be interesting. Certainly not to me, anyway.’

‘So what do you think it is?’

‘I’ve no idea. Something that will save the Empire, they say. Anyway, that’s where you come in. I take you to the treasure, you make use of it in any way you want and I take my reward from a grateful Emperor.’

‘And what would that reward be?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ She got up to leave. ‘I will see you tomorrow dressed for the ride to Mistra.’

The following morning, Luke was riding behind Omar through the hills east of Bursa, leaving the snow-capped peak of Mount Uludağ towering behind them. This was rich farming country, land that had been held by Byzantium for centuries until taken by the Turk. It had been held by akritoi, Greek frontiersmen who’d been exempted taxes in exchange for guarding the border. Many of them were still here, tending their fields next to more recent sipahi settlers. It was a country of hard fields and skeletal trees, a country with its produce stored, a country waiting for the first snows of winter.

Luke pulled his cloak around him. ‘Where are we going, Omar?’

‘We’re going out into the steppe where the nomads live and you’re going to live with them.’

Luke was baffled. How could this be useful to the Empire? ‘But I’m not a nomad,’ he said. ‘I know nothing of their ways.’

‘So you’ll learn.’

Luke thought of his life in Monemvasia and Chios, his life of comfort and friendship and learning. His easy life.

‘Will you be there?’ he asked at last.

‘No, you’ll be on your own. You’ll learn more that way.’

‘But how will I talk to them?’

Omar laughed. ‘Really, Luke, how do you think? You’ll learn their language.’

Luke considered this. He wanted to know more. ‘Tell me about the Germiyans.’

Omar brought his horse to a stop and leant forward in his saddle, both hands on its pommel. ‘The Germiyans were just another tribe of Oghuz Turks that were driven west from their lands around the Caspian Sea,’ he said. ‘But they were well led and expanded their territories under Yakub’s grandfather. His generals established their own beyliks, which took their lands from the Byzantines and stayed friendly with the Germiyans. For a time it seemed that they would become the dominant clan. But then the Osmanoğlu produced one truly inspired leader in Osman and the Ottoman dynasty was born. Four years ago, the Germiyans finally succumbed to their rule.’ Omar smiled. ‘So you can see why Yakub hates Bayezid.’

‘But what of the tribes further to the east?’

‘The Black and White Sheep Ilkhanates? They are what’s left of the Mongol Horde that swept west two centuries ago under Genghis Khan. They are nomads of the same stock as Tamerlane but have settled.’

‘So they’ll not welcome Tamerlane?’

‘No, but they may give him the excuse to invade. Both he and Bayezid count them as vassals.’

Luke pondered this. He asked, ‘So will Tamerlane come?’

Omar lifted his palms to the heavens. ‘That, Luke, is what the world is asking. Tamerlane has unified the Mongol Horde again and broken out of his lands in the east with a savagery never seen before. Great cities have been laid waste as far west as Baghdad, their citizens butchered and towers built of their skulls. No one knows where he’ll go next.’

That night Omar and Luke stayed at a monastery where Christian monks welcomed them with generosity. They ate roasted quail and cabbage and Luke was given hot wine. The monks talked to Omar around the fire and Luke fell asleep to the murmured debate of learned men who wanted to find things to agree about. He didn’t remember being put to bed or the sound of the wind that blew in from the steppe.

They left early and rode all of the next day through land that was unfolding into plain and Omar talked unhurriedly of Islam. Luke listened and thought of Plethon. Two teachers. Two teachers of kindness and patience. Two messages of surprising similarity.

At length they came to the city of Eskişehir, said to be the loveliest in all Anatolia. It had been the birthplace of Osman. They rested there in the caravanserai and shared a meal of roast partridge with men travelling east for the haj.

From Eskişehir they turned south and headed further out into the steppe.

The steppe.

Luke had grown up in a small city on the edge of the sea. He was used to narrow streets and the noise of human exchange. Now all around him was nothing. No buildings, no people, no sound except the wind. There were no towns or villages on the steppe, no trees or fields, no farms. There was nothing but mile after mile of grass and rock and low, sweeping hills, fissures scarring their sides like claw marks. So vast was this land in every direction that it merged with the sky.

Which was why they saw the riders.

They were far, far behind: tiny specks that never got closer. When they stopped, the specks stopped too. There were many.

‘They’re following us,’ said Luke.

‘Yes, and not caring much if we know it.’

‘Who are they?’

Omar shrugged. They had stopped side by side and were looking back at their pursuers. ‘One of the tribes curious to know why we’re here? I don’t know.’

It was late afternoon and the day was beginning to darken. A sudden gust of wind lifted the horses’ heads and Luke looked into the distance. Curtains of rain were moving fast towards them, their shadows mottling the ground like a disease. Lightning branched out across the sky and the horses pricked up their ears and pointed their noses towards the danger. Luke leaned forward and whispered words into a quivering ear and the ear was still.

Omar spoke. ‘We are still far from our destination. We need to hurry.’

It took three days of hard riding for Plethon, Anna and Zoe, and their Varangian escort, to reach Mistra. They’d left Edirne at dawn and ridden without conversation all day. The others had changed horses but Anna had Eskalon beneath her and he’d looked ready to ride the same distance again when they stopped at an inn south of Corinth on the first night.

The truth was that Anna hadn’t really known what to say to Zoe.

Certainly, Zoe had helped her in the past and she’d believed her a friend. But she’d lied to Anna about Suleyman, whom she now knew to be her lover, and she was certain that her interest in Luke went beyond concern for his welfare.

So, at the first opportunity, she’d gone to find Plethon. He was washing his face from a bucket outside the inn.

‘Why is she here?’

Plethon’s face had been pressed to a towel. He emerged, blinking. ‘Because she may or may not help me to find the Varangian treasure in Mistra,’ he said. ‘Her interests may just coincide with mine.’

‘She is Suleyman’s lover,’ said Anna.

‘And you are to be his wife. We are not all free to be what we want to be.’

The conversation had ended there. They’d gone to bed, slept for a few hours, and been back in the saddle before dawn, so it was in a state of some exhaustion that they dismounted to enter the little city of Mistra on the following night, leaving their horses at the city gate. Anna bade farewell to the Varangians who were to stay at the palace barracks, while she, Plethon and Zoe would sleep at the Laskaris house.

All except Anna were entering for the first time. Plethon’s travels had taken him everywhere except, surprisingly, Mistra, and for some time he’d longed to see the place that some were calling the Empire’s finest jewel. Zoe had found no cause; her family did little business with the city and, in recent times, no Mamonases would have been welcome there.

Anna had not seen her home for two terrible years and her tired eyes strained to conjure memories from the shadows around her. It was approaching midnight and the streets were deserted apart from the cats darting from door to door like messengers, their tails aloft. The street lights were newly extinguished and a faint smell of resin hung in the air. There was a cry from an upper window, perhaps a dream of a time when Suleyman had stood before their gates with a young girl before him on his saddle.

The moon emerged from behind a cloud. Plethon had stopped and was looking up at the dark mass of the Despot’s palace. There were lights in its windows.

‘The Despot works late,’ said Anna, stopping beside him. Zoe had wandered on ahead. ‘We go there tomorrow.’

They walked on and caught up with Zoe and were soon turning into the street where the Laskaris house lay.

Approaching the door, she saw a small woman standing alone beneath a street lamp, bent with waiting. The light from it turned the woman’s hair into a long, disordered veil of mourning white, ribboned by scissors. Not the colour of her mother’s hair.

When she got closer, when she realized that it was Maria standing there, she let out a cry and brought her balled fist to her mouth. Then she was running, running as fast as her tired legs would allow to reach this woman who had suffered two deaths and then a third: her very will to live.

Moments later Maria was in Anna’s arms, and in her raised face, wet with tears, Anna could see the deep scars of her pain. She held her mother’s head between her hands, the white strands of hair spilling through her fingers, and whispered the four words she knew might bring her back from the dead.

‘I am in love.’

That night was the last that Omar and Luke would spend together before reaching the tribe.

They had arrived at an old Byzantine monastery perched on a hill above a small village called Seyit Gazi. It now held a mosque with outbuildings gathered within stout walls. They had ridden up the path to its gate in the rain and dark on horses whose heads hung low with fatigue.

Omar was both well known and loved by the men of this place. As soon as they’d ridden through the gate, they were surrounded by torches held high above faces shining with relief that they’d arrived late but safe.

One came up to Omar and embraced him as soon as his feet touched the ground. He seemed to be of similar age. ‘Welcome, old friend!’

Omar kissed both of his cheeks. ‘There are men following us, Abraham.’

‘Then we will bar the gates and post guards,’ said the monk. He gestured to another, who hurried away. ‘This monastery is difficult to break into.’

While Omar went into the mosque to pray, Luke was led across the courtyard by Abraham and down some steps into a large vaulted room with cells on either side. In the middle of the room was a long table with plates neatly laid out and a cup by each place. There were candles in wooden holders and baskets of bread and earthenware jugs in between.

Abraham sat and gestured for Luke to sit beside him. ‘We were worried for you. The steppe is not a place to spend the night if you are not a nomad.’ He lifted one of the jugs. ‘And there is more rain coming. Much rain.’

Luke looked around him. Some of the cell doors were shut.

‘Each door leads to a cilehane,’ said Abraham, ‘“a place of suffering”, in your language. Men come from far away to live in them and, while here, they will fast, talk to no one and read only the Koran.’

‘As I did,’ said Omar, who’d arrived to take the seat next to Luke, ‘for five years; with Abraham, who chose to stay.’

‘Why?’ asked Luke. ‘Why here?’

Omar leant over and took a basket filled with bread. He offered it to Luke. ‘Because it has special significance. It is the shrine of one of our saints, Battal Gazi. He was a giant Arab who fought the Greeks many centuries ago and ran off with the Emperor of Byzantium’s daughter. Theirs was a great love. Her tomb lies next to his in a vault below.’

He looked around at the cells, then he turned to Abraham. ‘The cells are taken?’

‘Many already. People come early.’

Omar turned to Luke. ‘It is the saint’s birthday tomorrow and there will be a vigil in the crypt tomorrow night. Many pilgrims have come already. More will come tomorrow.’

Much later, when they had eaten hot food and the last of the monks had gone to bed, Luke and Omar walked across the rain-splashed courtyard to the room they would sleep in. There were two beds in the room and a fire in the grate and a stone canopy above it shaped like a holy hat. Chairs had been placed before the fire and a jug of wine sat on a low table between them.

‘I don’t usually drink wine,’ said Omar as he sat, ‘but tonight I’ll make an exception. I’m sure Allah will overlook it.’

Luke shook the rain from his cloak and laid it next to the hearth. Then he poured wine for them both. It was hot and strong and tinctured with cinnamon and Luke felt warmth flood through him. He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.

‘Don’t go to sleep,’ chided Omar gently. ‘I have much to tell you and this will be my last chance to do so.’

Then Omar began to talk and his deep voice rose above the wind and the rain outside and Luke sat forward and stared into the fire and listened to every word.

Omar spoke of Battal Gazi, who had loved a Byzantine princess with a passion that had transcended creed; then he talked of other things. And, as he spoke, Luke began to know this wise and funny man who’d forced his gentle way into his existence and why he’d cared to do so.

At last he said, ‘That is why we’ve come to this place, Luke. Because its beauty lies in the love that is buried deep within it.’ Omar prodded the embers with the tip of his shoe. ‘Like you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you, Luke. You know love without question. That is rare.’

The fire was bright in Omar’s eyes, casting miniature dancers in his pupils. His beard had been touched by the alchemist’s hand and ran in silver to his waist.

Luke said, ‘But many people love.’

‘Yes, but not like you. There is great power in such a love. Power that can be used for good.’

Luke leant back in his chair and stared into the fire as if it might hold answers amongst the embers. He suddenly felt tired and perhaps a little drunk. The jug was almost empty and Omar hadn’t touched the cup beside him. The walls around him were now almost lost to darkness, and he heard the noise of the wind and rain beating against their ancient stone. There was one question still that needed answering.

He said, ‘Why are you helping me, Omar? You’re a Muslim like Bayezid. Why are you helping a Christian?’

‘Religion is not the point, Luke. Reason is the point. There is a new flame of reason that’s been lit in the West among the city states of Italy. People there are beginning to think in new ways and show it through their art, their writing, their systems of government.’ Omar sighed. ‘But there is also a darkness coming in from the East, two monsters who would extinguish that flame, who would drag us back into another dark age. Bayezid and Tamerlane must be made to destroy each other. It’s the only way.’

‘Which is what you and Plethon want to bring about. But I am confused as to my part. Is it to find a treasure or to meet a madman?’

Omar turned to the fire. His eyes had taken its embers. ‘Which would you like it to be, Luke?’

Luke shook his head. ‘I was left a sword,’ he said. ‘A sword to take me to a treasure.’

‘Or to remind you that you are a Varangian? A Varangian prince?’

Omar rose and went over to his bed. His back was to Luke. He turned.

‘I have your sword here,’ he said, lifting it so that the fire made a river of its blade. He lowered it and walked over to Luke. ‘Here, it’s yours. Yakub brought it from Suleyman’s tent. He thought you might need it.’

Luke took the sword. He looked down at the dragon head, at its open maw.

A Varangian sword. For a Varangian quest.

‘Well, I can’t go back anyway,’ he said. ‘I am a traitor in the west.’

Omar shook his head. ‘I could pretend so, but I won’t. Sigismund of Hungary has told Emperor Manuel the truth about Nicopolis. You may not be welcome in Burgundy, but you can return to Mistra.’ He paused. ‘Anna is there now. With Plethon.’

Luke stared at the old man. ‘In Mistra? Why?’

‘Because her father is dead. She will attend his funeral. She will be there for some weeks.’

Luke felt a wave of happiness break over him. He could walk out of the monastery that very moment, ride to Mistra and find a future with Anna. Somewhere. Somehow.

He took a deep breath. ‘Why have you told me this? You could have kept silent and I’d have done what I had to do.’

‘No, Luke.’ Omar shook his head. ‘That is the old way; not the way of reason. You must make this choice for yourself.’

Luke looked further into the fire, into its endlessly shifting centre. So many questions.

Much later, when Omar had gone to bed and the wine jug was empty, Luke sat with the sword in his lap and stared at it.

He’d looked again at what was scratched into its hilt. He’d read the word ‘seputus’ and seen the date below it.

Except that it wasn’t a date. It was a name.

Mistra.

Outside the walls of the monastery, on a low hill to the west, twelve men were preparing for sleep.

They had ridden all day and kept the two men they were following always in their sight. Now, as they spread their bedding out on the ground, they looked up at the sky and swore beneath their breaths. The rain was closing in and it would be a hard one. Most were men of the steppe, of the Karamanid tribe, and they could feel its rhythm in the earth beneath them.

Two of their number were not of the steppe. They lay apart and looked not at the sky but at the black hulk of the monastery that broke the darkening horizon. One of them smiled. He’d watched the two men enter earlier and had seen the gates bolted behind them.

The men were exactly where he wanted them to be.

He yawned and drew his cloak around him. Tomorrow would be busy. For now, he would sleep.