The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ANATOLIA, OCTOBER 1396

Luke pulled up his horse. The thunderclap had been endless, rolling back and forth to reach a crescendo of deafening percussion. The animal had stopped suddenly, its body rigid with terror. Luke whispered into its ear, his hand massaging the wet down around it. At last it calmed and Luke felt the tension seep through his legs.

It was a good horse, intelligent and strong. It had understood perfectly the need for silence as Luke had saddled it at dawn and led it out of the still-sleeping monastery. That had been eight hours ago.

Before the rain had come again.

Now it fell in torrents, hitting the dry steppe around like a drum-roll, making Luke’s cloak a thing of weight rather than warmth. He was wet to the bone.

He hadn’t slept at all in the night. He’d gone to bed with two words jostling each other in his mind.

Mistra.

He would leave at dawn, ride back to Mistra, tell Plethon of what he’d found written on the sword. He would see Anna and tell her that he’d come back to her from wherever it was he had to go, tell her to wait for him. Then he would return to Omar. His note explained it all. He’d be back at the monastery in ten days, maybe less. Omar must have faith in him. He’d even left his bag as hostage.

But now, as the landscape around him became less certain through the rain, as the warnings crashed out from the heavens, as the varied smells of the steppe combined into a single stench of wet leather and horse fear, he was not so sure.

Have I done the right thing?

He looked around him. It was as if he was separated from the world by this curtain of grey. He felt water course its way down his spine and thought of the spiced wine of the night before. He looked down at the sword by his side, saw the rain hitting the dragon head pommel in tiny explosions. He shivered.

Then he heard something beyond the curtain, something faint that wanted to get through: a shout.

Immediately he thought of the group that they’d seen following them on the previous day. It must be them. But where to hide? There were no hiding places on the steppe.

He stopped and listened.

The shout came again, this time closer — in front. Luke strained his eyes, wiping the drips from his eyelashes and nose.

There. A rider. Just one. Approaching fast.

A rider in a hurry.

Luke waited for the man to draw up to him. He was cloaked against the rain and had large saddlebags strapped to the horse’s flanks. Luke couldn’t see his face.

‘Friend,’ the man said. He spoke in Turkic but it was not his tongue. ‘Is there a monastery ahead?’

Luke uncovered his head. ‘Benedo Barbi,’ he said, smiling. ‘You followed me?’

Just then the sky delivered another bone-jarring crash and Barbi’s horse reared. The Italian swore and grabbed hold of its mane. For a moment, Luke thought he might fall.

When he’d come back to earth and settled his horse, Barbi said, ‘I followed you from Bursa. It wasn’t difficult. You and the old man make strange companions. I came when I remembered where I’d seen the man before.’

‘What man?’

‘One of the men following you.’

Luke frowned. Unease had settled on him like another cloak.

‘His name is di Vetriano,’ said Barbi. ‘He’s Venetian. I saw him watching you in Bursa.’

Di Vetriano.

‘You know him?’ asked Luke.

‘He’s an assassin. I met him in Cairo. He tried to kidnap one of the Mameluke chemists I was working with. He’d been sent to get what we knew about Greek fire.’

‘By the Doge?’

Barbi shrugged. ‘Probably. Anyway, he’s following you and that can’t be good. You’ve not seen him?’

Luke nodded slowly. ‘Yesterday. We saw him yesterday. With others. I must have passed them when I left this morning.’

A sudden gust of wind blew the cowl up over Barbi’s mouth. He pulled it down. The rain was harder now, almost blinding.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

But Luke was already turning his horse. ‘Later, Benedo. For now, we have to ride fast. There’s a good man in danger.’

In Mistra, the Despot was wiping away a tear. The tear was of happiness, of grief, of guilt. Anna, whom he’d last seen two years past at Serres, who’d probably saved his life then and whom he’d not expected to see again, was sitting across from him.

With her was Plethon. Zoe had been left at the Laskaris house with Maria, who was still sleeping. She and Anna had talked quietly through much of the night of the one thing that mattered most, that gave hope.

I am in love.

Maria’s mind had been more fragile than Murano glass and anything that might shatter it — Alexis, her father — had been put to one side to be looked at later when the time was right. Instead they’d talked of Luke, and Anna had woven a tapestry richer than any the Laskaris house possessed. She’d created a fair Varangian, a prince of England as Plethon had told her, taller than most, who rode a horse named Eskalon and wielded a sword with a secret. She created a man who could speak languages and dream labyrinths into life. She talked of how he’d saved her life once and then nearly brought her across the sea to Mistra. Her threads were of the real and unreal until they joined in a single weave, as Anna had intended, and her mother fell into the first sleep she’d had in weeks.

Finally, when she’d gently kissed her mother’s forehead and put a blanket over her, Anna had sat and listened to the air around her still ringing with her song of Luke, played to a distant, eastern drum.

Now she sat with Theodore and Plethon at the end of a long table in the Despot’s palace. The windows beyond them were canvasses on which an autumn sky was painted. A fire burned noisily in the grate and warm wine was laid before them.

The Despot spoke. ‘So the Emperor’s given up on negotiation?’

‘There’s no point, Majesty,’ said Plethon. ‘The Sultan laughed at me when I saw him in Edirne. Bayezid has resumed the siege and means to take Constantinople. Then it will be Mistra.’

Theodore sighed. He’d been feeling much older lately, as if the season’s decay had entered his bones. He missed Simon Laskaris with an intensity that had surprised him. He cried a lot these days.

‘How long will it be, do you think?’

‘No time soon,’ said Plethon. He’d not met this man before but had heard much to recommend him, especially from Anna. ‘They need cannon of a size as yet uncreated to bring down the walls.’

‘Which the Venetians are building for them?’

Plethon nodded. ‘Yes, but not always successfully. The casts are too big. They blow apart.’

‘And you encourage this … combustion?’

Plethon smiled. ‘I do what I can. I have a little money.’

Theodore rose and walked to one of the windows. On one side of the mullion, a pattern of leaves had arranged themselves across the glass. He breathed and rubbed his sleeve across its surface.

‘I’m told you do wonders,’ he murmured. He turned. ‘I’ve long wanted to meet you, Plethon I hope you will do me the honour of staying at the palace tonight? I would talk with you further, alone.’

The philosopher dipped his head. ‘The honour would be mine, Majesty.’ He paused. ‘The Emperor wishes me to go to Methoni. There is a bishop there.’

Theodore nodded. ‘The Bishop Adolfo. He is a Venier, cousin to the Doge of Venice.’

‘He is sympathetic to the cause of union,’ said Plethon. ‘He has the Pope’s ear, and his cousin’s. May soon be made cardinal.’

‘But you cannot believe that another crusade is possible? Not after Nicopolis?’

‘The Christian princes are competitive, lord. Where one fails, another may succeed. It is possible with the Pope’s blessing.’

‘And the price?’

‘The union of the Churches of West and East. As you would expect.’

‘Which,’ said the Despot, ‘I am told you support. But it is not popular with the people. They would see it as another conquest. This time the Pope’s.’

Plethon nodded. He had placed his palms side by side on the table and seemed to be studying nails that needed some attention. ‘The talking may be enough,’ he said at last. ‘If the Venetians see another crusade as a possibility, then they may be persuaded to blow up more cannon. We need time.’

‘Time? Time for what?’ asked Theodore.

There was silence then. It was Anna that broke it.

‘Tamerlane.’

She had hardly moved during the conversation. Now she rose from the table and went over to stand next to the Despot. ‘Tamerlane to come to our rescue. One tyrant set against another. We are all pawns, aren’t we?’

Theodore took her hand. The tears were already in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Anna.’

Anna turned to the man sitting at the table. ‘Why him? Why must Luke do it?’

‘Because Luke can do it. He has the talents and he has the will.’

‘And will he return?’

‘I hope so. And when he does he will be a hero. The truth is now known about Nicopolis.’

‘Then I am released from Suleyman?’ she asked quietly. ‘If the Sultan goes to war with Tamerlane, what point is there any more in me marrying his son? Perhaps I can marry the hero instead?’

Plethon spoke with care. ‘Anna, much has to happen before Bayezid meets Tamerlane on the field of battle. We cannot afford to anger Suleyman or Mistra may fall before Constantinople.’ He paused. ‘You must go back.’

Anna nodded. She’d known it must be thus. They’d talked of it only days ago. She went over to a chair on which her cloak had been laid. Her voice was dull. ‘We should leave for my father’s funeral. Plethon, will you come with me to collect my mother?’

In the little church of St Sophia, the body of Simon Laskaris had been dressed in a long tunic of brushed silk of the deepest red dye. His face shone with the embalmer’s oil so that he seemed to be perspiring. He was laid out on a bed of velvet supported by trestles and behind him was a board on which the Laskaris arms looked out with dignity for the last time. There would be no heir to this illustrious name.

Anna had walked to the church, hand in hand with her mother, the Despot and Plethon either side of them. Black hung from every window and whispers hung over the people lining the streets like a shroud.

Simon Laskaris was to be buried at last.

For most, it was a relief. Since Serres, he had acted as a man deranged, walking the streets at night in his bedclothes, his white hair unkempt, his beard brittle with food. People had ached to see such a man shorn of his dignity and they remembered the cause of it and wept.

Tonight, they stood beneath their torches until the Despot’s party had passed and then followed them up the hill to stand in silent vigil around the church of St Sophia.

Those inside the church took their seats in the side chapel where the leaders of Mistra had been buried for generations. Anna, Maria, Theodore and Bartolomea sat in the front row. Behind them sat the highest-ranking men of the court and their wives.

Now the singing began and the incense swirled and the candles fluttered in the small draught that came through the windows high in the chapel’s walls. The Despot rose to stand beside the body of his oldest friend and spoke a solemn eulogy that told of greatness and friendship.

And Anna watched it all with dry eyes.

Simon Laskaris dead. Alexis dead. Luke as good as dead.

For no reason, she thought of Zoe. Had she come?

Zoe had come. Her rank permitted it and she was deemed unguilty of the sins of her father and brother. She had crept into the chapel after the service had begun and now stood at the back. Her eyes were fixed on the wall behind the altar.

It was dark by now and difficult to see much above the weak light of the many candles. But she could just make out a figure, then another.

Yes.

It was a scene she’d seen before, a scene she’d covered with paint in a Varangian church in Constantinople..

It wasn’t identical, but the composition was the same: the open tomb, the guards lying asleep around it; one guard, his sword pointing. But there was something new in this picture.

She looked up. Her heart was beating fast.

Yes. There it was. The risen Christ.

She had lied to Plethon. She’d found nothing in Siward’s tomb in Constantinople. She had come to Mistra hoping to find something.

And there it was.

Luke and Benedo Barbi rode into the village of Seyit Gazi beneath a steady cascade of rain that drilled into their backs without mercy. By now, the steppe around them had turned into a brown glue that gripped their horses’ hooves and made every step a journey. Sound, at least, was obliterated by the downpour. They felt invisible.

Above them, somewhere, was the monastery, but the rain was too dense for it to be seen. They reached a little square where the bulbous dome of a mosque could just be made out on one side. There was a man beating his fist against the door.

Luke kicked his horse and rode up to him. The man was dressed as a monk and his sodden robes clung to his body like a second skin.

‘Are you from the monastery?’

The man turned and began to back away.

Barbi said, ‘We are friends. We’re not with the Venetians.’ He wondered if he understood Greek.

The man stopped and stared up at them. He was shaking with cold and fear and rubbing his palms against the sides of his tunic as if they might somehow dry.

Luke asked, ‘Are they inside the walls?’

Now the monk stepped forward, bringing his hands to his head and pushing his long hair away from his eyes. His face was shiny with wet and filth. ‘They were dressed as pilgrims. For the vigil. The saint’s vigil.’ He looked from Luke to Barbi. ‘We thought they were pilgrims.’

Luke dismounted, unsticking himself from the saddle with pain. The insides of his legs were raw. He approached the man. ‘How did you get out?’

The monk looked behind him, up at the louring bulk of the monastery somewhere beyond the rain. ‘I swam,’ he replied. ‘There is a cistern and a pipe to the outside for when it over-flows. I came out through the pipe.’

‘And the others? Did others manage to escape?’

The man shook his head. ‘Only me. It’s too dangerous now. All this rain will fill the pipe.’

‘How many Venetians are there?’

The monk considered this. ‘They’re not all Venetian. Just two. The rest are of the Karamanid tribe.’

Luke had heard of the Karamanids. They were the neighbouring tribe to the Germiyans and their enemies. They had yet to succumb to Bayezid. He walked back to Barbi, who was still on his horse. He looked up, shielding his face from the rain. ‘Can you swim?’

Barbi shook his head. ‘Never learnt. Can you?’

Luke grinned. ‘Like a dolphin.’

Barbi dismounted. ‘Luke, you heard him. It’s too dangerous.’

Luke shrugged. ‘It’s the only way in. They’ll have barred the gates and manned the walls. It’s the only way to get inside and you can’t swim.’

‘But you’ll drown.’

‘Not if we hurry.’ Luke turned to the monk. ‘Father, can you show us this pipe?’

Minutes later they were leading their horses across the square to the edge of the village where they tied them to a fence post. Luke patted his animal and then stopped. He’d had a thought. He walked over to Barbi.

‘Have you got the Greek fire in your saddlebags?’ he asked.

The Italian nodded. ‘I have two siphons and the solution inside it. Do you want them?’

‘Bring them.’

The monk leading, they began to climb the hill, their feet slipping in the mud. The siphons were heavy and Barbi struggled to keep up.

Then they were there. The monk stopped. He was kneeling next to the opening to a clay tunnel. It was not much more than a man’s width across.

‘It’s still dry,’ said the monk. ‘But the moment the water inside the cistern reaches its level, it will come out in a rush. You’ll need to be quick.’

Luke had taken off his cloak. ‘Give me one of the siphons,’ he said to Barbi. ‘Help me to strap it on to my back.’

The engineer lifted the siphon and helped Luke into its harness. Water was drumming against its metal and splashing into their eyes. Luke tested the straps, then: ‘Let me tell you my plan,’ he said.

But Barbi was shaking his head. ‘I already know your plan,’ he said. ‘And it’s insane.’

Inside the monastery crypt, all was yellow. Tall tallow candles cast their unreliable light over the tombs of the saint and his Byzantine princess, bathing them in a wash of quince. Around the tombs were low arches supported by stout pillars and the floor was squared by flagstones rippled by the flow of time. The only metal objects were rings, some driven into the beams above the tombs and one large one in the floor. Around the walls, half in shadow, stood men dressed in the clothes of pilgrims, their hoods drawn back. All had the wind-blasted features of men of the steppe.

Suspended above the tombs in the pose of crucifixion, with his hands inside two rings, was Omar. He was naked to the waist and, in the candlelight, his skin had the texture of unfeathered chicken. His feet were resting on the giant’s tomb.

Before him stood the Venetian di Vetriano. He had his short sword at his side and was holding a crossbow that was pointed at Omar’s heart.

There was a sudden gust of wind as the crypt door opened and the candles jumped and cowered. One went out. A man dressed in black had entered and shook the rain from his cloak. ‘We found nothing,’ he said to di Vetriano. ‘Just his bag.’

‘And you searched it?’

‘Nothing. No capsules, nothing.’

‘What of the monks?’

‘Locked in the refectory. They’re not talking. I don’t think they know where he’s gone anyway.’

Di Vetriano frowned. He turned to Omar. ‘It would seem that he’s done it again. Magoris seems to have infinite cunning when it comes to escape. First Monemvasia, then my friend Rufio’s boat. Now this monastery.’ He paused and walked up to Omar, his head the height of his waist. He looked up. ‘Where is he, old man?’

Omar didn’t answer. He was looking at the Venetian with calm and some interest. He knew him now. ‘Di Vetriano.’

The Venetian performed a little bow. If he was surprised by the acknowledgement, he hid it well. His face, pointed and sallow, was a mask. Venice was good at masks.

Omar continued: ‘Why would the Serenissima’s most infamous sea captain be looking for Luke Magoris?’

This time the Italian didn’t respond. He didn’t know who Omar was but he felt a power emanating from the old man that was beginning to unsettle him.

Omar said, ‘Why would this sea captain, the same that brought Luke Magoris’s mastic from Chios to Venice, be searching my young friend’s baggage for a capsule?’ He paused. ‘A capsule of what?’

Di Vetriano frowned. ‘You ask too many questions, old man,’ he said. ‘It will be my turn soon.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Fabio, take some of these animals and make another search of the monastery.’

His companion gestured to two of the Karamanids and left. Another candle went out with the draught.

Di Vetriano went over to one that was still alight. He set down the crossbow and prised the candle from its holder with both hands. Hot wax dripped on to the back of his hand and he swore. He returned to Omar, climbing to stand on top of the saint’s tomb so that they were facing each other.

‘I’m told that old men’s skin burns like parchment,’ he said genially. He was holding the candle in the space between them and lifted it so that the flame was almost touching Omar’s nose. ‘Now, once again, where is Luke Magoris?’

Pieces of Omar’s beard and eyebrows were curling and there was the acrid smell of burning hair. The only movement in his face came from the clenching of teeth. He stared straight into the Italian’s eyes. ‘I don’t know. He left this morning without saying goodbye.’

Di Vetriano laughed softly, a dry sound. He broke off a piece of wax from the top of the candle, studied it for a moment and then pressed it to Omar’s cheek. There was a smell of scorched flesh and the old man flinched but no sound came from his lips.

‘Do I have to ask you again?’

Then Omar blew. He lifted his beard and puckered his lips and the candle went out. Di Vetriano stared at the smoking wick in amazement.

Omar said, ‘You need to listen, not talk, di Vetriano. You’ve made a mistake.’

The sopracomito’s smile was, just for a moment, unfastened from his face. He took a step backwards, lifting an arm to keep his balance on the curve of the tomb.

‘It doesn’t do what you think it does,’ said Omar.

Di Vetriano had gone very still. ‘And what do I think what does?’ he asked slowly.

Omar didn’t directly answer the question. He shifted his weight and looked up at an arm. A trickle of blood was running down from his wrist. He looked back. ‘I was in Venice when your ship came in,’ he said. ‘With my friend Plethon. We were there to meet with your doge. We saw your ship held in St Mark’s Basin flying the flag of plague. Yet there were men brought ashore. We speculated why.’

Di Vetriano was watching the man in front of him closely, his arms folded tightly to his chest. He had not relit the candle.

Omar shifted his weight again. ‘You will permit,’ he continued, ‘that the lands of the Prophet have been far more advanced in the field of medicine than Christendom? Indeed, remain so, yes?’

Di Vetriano didn’t answer.

‘We have long understood that a mixture of mastic from Chios, orange blossom and other ingredients can offer some amelioration against the onslaught of the plague.’ He paused and then he said, ‘It can delay the plague’s advance for a matter of weeks, but it can do no more.’

There was sweat now on the Venetian’s brow. A bead broke free and ran unrestricted to the bank of his moustache. His eyes were unfocused.

Omar spoke again, quietly and with sympathy. ‘Signore, your agreement with the Serenissima would seem voided.’

Below the crypt, below the flagstone with the ring at its centre, the cistern was filling fast.

Luke was in the tunnel with the siphon on his back, the straps biting into his shoulders. At his waist was an oilskin containing the stuff to make fire. The pipe was bigger than he’d thought it would be but it was dark and slippery and rose at an angle that meant he had to use his elbows to make any progress forward. The pain was excruciating.

He stopped, closed his eyes and listened.

Nothing, except the steady fall of water into the cistern ahead. He adjusted the siphon on his back and inched forward. Around him was a black woven so dense that it seemed palpable. For a moment, he thought of the labyrinth and a dream that had brought forth a village. Without darkness, there could be no light.

He stopped and listened again. The sounds ahead had changed. There was silence now. No water meeting water. Just silence.

Then something else.

Water was coming towards him and was approaching fast. It sounded like a huge snake slapping its flesh against the sides of the pipe. He took a deep breath and ground his body into the sides of the pipe.

Coming. Coming. Com …

Then it was upon him. He just had time to brace himself before it hit, pushing him backwards so that he had to use his knees as well as his hands to stop himself from going with it. It filled his nose and his ears and plastered his hair to his skull. The noise was deafening. It went on and on.

Luke felt himself slipping and his lungs ready to burst. The straps of the canister were like knives in his shoulders, pulling them from their sockets. He pressed every part of his body into the wall in one last effort.

Hold on.

Then it was gone.

As quickly as it had come, the water vanished and Luke opened his eyes, shaking his head and blowing water from his nose. He was breathing hard, the sound filling the space around him.

It will come again. I must move fast.

Taking another deep breath he began to edge forward. He could feel air on his face. He must be almost there.

Then he was. He could see nothing but blackness but his head and shoulders were suddenly in a bigger space and there was an echo to his breathing. He’d reached the cistern. He pulled his body through the end of the pipe and down into the deep water, his legs working to keep him afloat. It was bitterly cold.

He reached up and found only air. Then he crouched down and launched himself up as high as the siphon on his back would let him. This time his fingers touched stone. He sank back into the water and listened, clamping his teeth together to stop them chattering. The only sound was the rush of water into the cistern.

I don’t have much time.

He looked up, his eyes raking the darkness. Nothing.

Then he saw it. A tiny sliver of light that meant a wellhead.

The crypt.

Shifting the siphon into a more comfortable position, he swam towards it. The sound of falling water was lower here and he could hear faint voices above. He looked beyond. There was another sliver of light, just as the monk had said. It had to be the refectory where the other monks were being held.

He paddled over to it and waited. He could hear nothing above.

He ducked deep under the water and brought his fist into a clench. He rose and his knuckles hit wood.

Now there were voices. It was so, so cold. His teeth were hitting each other so hard he felt they must break.

Hurry.

He punched up again. There was a pause and he heard the sound of wood shifting, of a rope straining. The slice of light grew into an oblong and then, slowly, into a square. Within the square, circled, were the faces of men.

‘Help me up,’ he breathed, his voice almost taken by the cold. ‘I’m heavy. I’ve got something on my back.’

In Mistra, it was an hour before dawn and the night was clear and bright with stars. There was a quarter-moon which gave small light to the little city on the side of the hill. But then no one was abroad except the messenger cats.

It was some hours since the Despot had emerged from the church of St Sophia and told the people still keeping vigil to go home. Now, even the breeze had gone, perhaps taking the soul of Simon Laskaris to some other, kinder world.

The church was quiet but some light could be seen in the little windows high in the side chapel where he’d been buried.

Anna looked up at them and rubbed her eyes. She should feel exhausted, she knew, following her ride and the long talk with her mother. But things had happened to keep her awake.

First, she’d felt the presence of Luke. Not there, but in her bedroom where she’d lain, trying to sleep.

He was coming to her, she was sure of it.

She’d risen, put on a shawl and crept past the room where Zoe was sleeping to tiptoe down the stone staircase and out into the street. She’d walked to the city gate where the stables were and she’d found Eskalon. It was dark and difficult to tell stall from stall, but he’d called to her and she’d found him. She’d taken his big head between her hands and lowered it so that she could look deep into those brown eyes. Where she’d seen him before.

He wasn’t there.

Then she’d sat on a bale of hay and wept for a long, long time. Luke was somewhere far away and was going further. And she had to marry Suleyman.

She looked over to where Eskalon’s head was turned towards her, watching her, and she felt a sudden longing to lead him from the stable and let him take her to wherever Luke was. Eskalon would know where to go.

She even rose and walked over and closed her eyes and put her cheek to his neck, breathing in his horse-smell; the smell of Luke.

Where are you?

Finally, she’d left and slowly, slowly walked back to the house, every footstep pulling its chain of misery. But as she’d approached the gate, she’d seen movement in the little square behind it. A figure, definitely female, was hurrying across. Anna stepped back into the shadows.

Zoe.

Anna sank further into the shadows and drew her shawl over her head. Where was Zoe going at this time of night?

Why do I even need to ask? You’re going to the treasure.

She heard soft footfall drawing nearer. Then Zoe was passing her, almost at a run. Anna waited a while, then followed her.

Zoe was climbing the streets of the city with the stealth of a cat, keeping to the shadows and constantly turning her head to left and right. Once she stopped and turned and Anna just had time to back into a doorway. Had she been seen?

When Anna stepped out into the street, Zoe was no longer ahead.

Where did you go?

Anna lifted her nightdress and quickened her step, passing the shadows of shop booths on either side. She rounded one corner then another, going faster all the time.

Still no Zoe.

She came to the big square on which the palace stood. Two guards were bent over a brazier, warming their hands against the first chill of winter.

Then she was across it and still climbing. Was Zoe ahead of her or had she stopped somewhere?

Anna reached the little square in front of the church of St Sophia. She saw the dark bulk of the cistern and the well by its side, shadowed by a yew tree between. There was light inside the church.

Anna considered what to do. If Zoe was in there, it was because she thought the treasure was there too. And if she meant to remove it, she’d need help. Male help. Were there others in there with her?

She turned and began to walk back down the hill. She would need to find Plethon quickly and Plethon was asleep inside the palace. Ahead of her, she saw the guards huddled around the brazier. She walked up to them.

‘Which of you is in command?’

The guards looked at each other. Had they understood? Then one of them stepped forward. ‘I am in charge.’ The accent was thick.

Albanians.

Anna took a deep breath. ‘You know the one they call Plethon?’

The man nodded.

‘Go into the palace and find him. Tell him Anna is in the church. With Zoe and others. Do you understand? Zoe and others.’

The man nodded again, then leant down to pick up his helmet. Anna turned and began to climb the hill again, reaching the little square with the yew. She crossed it and tiptoed up the steps to the church’s door. It was fractionally open. She pushed it, praying that it wouldn’t creak, and listened. No sound, just the sombre stillness of an empty church and her own, careful breathing. She walked in.

Inside, there was some light. It came from the side chapel at the end, the chapel where her father lay. It was a soft, unwavering light and it held her gaze for some moments before a shadow passed before it.

You’re here.

Anna crept along the wall of the church, placing one foot in front of the other with infinite care, until she reached the altar where she stopped and crouched low. She could smell herbs now, the thyme and rosemary that had been laid either side of her father’s body when he’d slept on his velvet bed. An owl cried outside and was answered by another.

She rose slowly and edged along the side of the altar until she could see inside the chapel.

Zoe was kneeling on the floor with a candle in one hand. She seemed to be reading the inscription engraved on the marble tomb below. Simon Laskaris’s tomb was on the other side of the chapel, an open grave with its slab to one side, awaiting its own inscription.

Zoe looked up and stared for some time at the mural above the altar. Then she rose and walked towards it, holding the candle aloft.

As the light approached the mural, Anna could just see the painting of figures surrounding a tomb, a tomb that had been opened. One figure lay propped against its front: a soldier asleep, a sword in his hand. Zoe lifted the candle and its light fell upon the sword.

Anna gasped and clutched hold of the altar. She held her breath, the blood pounding in her temples. Zoe stood very still in front of her, the candle held high.

Have you heard me?

But Zoe was still studying the painting. Anna narrowed her eyes to see what she was seeing. It was Luke’s sword. There was no mistaking it. The dragon pommel, the hilt. It was Luke’s sword.

And its blade was pointing towards the tomb where Zoe had knelt.

Anna’s mind raced. Plethon had talked of a mural in some church in Constantinople, a mural seen by Luke and Zoe. A mural with a question. Was this the answer?

Zoe stood for a while more, staring up at the mural. Then she turned and walked back to the front pew of the chapel. She reached down with one arm. When she rose again, there was a loaded crossbow in her hand. She was pointing it to where Anna was crouching.

‘Come out, Anna,’ she said quietly.

Anna didn’t move. She was still shielded by the altar and the door to the church was not so far. She could run but then …

But then what?

This has to happen.

Slowly she stood. She walked forward into the chapel and stopped in the aisle. She was at one end and Zoe at the other. And Zoe held the crossbow.

Anna asked, ‘Whose grave is it?’

‘Manuel Cantacuzenus. Some say the greatest of the Despots. And his wife Isabelle of Cyprus.’

‘And the date?’

‘The year of his death: 1380. The year Siward left.’

Silence.

Then Anna said, ‘Why did you lie to me?’

‘About Suleyman?’ Zoe shrugged. ‘It was necessary.’

‘You’ve always been his lover?’

Zoe said nothing.

Anna said, ‘And Luke?’

Zoe shook her head. ‘It would have been nice. But no.’

Anna thought back to the cave and knew this to be true. That had been Luke’s first time, she was certain. But she had no doubt that Zoe had tried. She looked into eyes that were harder than stone.

‘Have you ever loved?’

Zoe laughed. ‘Loved? Why would I have loved? It ends in nothing.’

Pavlos Mamonas. Of course.

Zoe had been her father’s son, the one he should have had. She had been the child with the genius for trade. He’d sent her abroad to learn more, and she’d learnt. Then he’d taken it all away.

Anna said softly, ‘You cannot have that empire so you want another. Suleyman’s. And I’m in your way.’

Zoe was watching her through half-closed eyelids. Her head was to one side as if Anna was a thing of interest. She seemed amused.

‘But why the treasure?’ Anna asked. ‘Why is gold important? Suleyman has gold. He doesn’t need more.’

Zoe smiled then. It might have been a smile of friendship were it not for the crossbow. ‘You think that’s what’s down there? All this trouble for a little gold? Plethon sent by the Emperor to dig up a single casket of gold? I don’t think so …’

Anna waited. There was more to come.

‘The legend has it that whatever’s down there can save the Empire,’ continued Zoe. She looked down at the tomb. ‘But whatever can save, can also destroy, if given to the right person, wouldn’t you think?’

Anna understood. ‘So you give it to Suleyman who takes Constantinople, becomes Sultan and marries you,’ she murmured. She was staring into a candle, into a single tongue of flame rising above its wick, rigid with certainty. She looked up. ‘You would betray your empire.’

‘This Empire that devours its children? Yes, to gain another. It’s not a difficult choice.’

‘And the treasure, or whatever it is? How will you get it up?’

‘I have friends. You remember the Albanians that Alexis took to Geraki? The ones that disappeared? They’re inside the city.’

Albanians. The guards around the Grazier. Plethon won’t be coming

Anna slowly nodded. She needed to escape. She needed time. ‘You know, I actually thought you cared for Luke. I was even a little jealous.’

Zoe was looking at her as if in wonder. ‘We are so different,’ she murmured, shaking her head. ‘You have the heart of the man who will rule the world and yet you want a Varangian. We are so very different.’

‘Was that why you never married? Did you always plan this?’

‘Something like this. And it would all have been so much easier if you hadn’t arrived.’

Zoe looked beyond Anna.

‘Richard, tie her up.’

Before she’d had time to react, Anna’s arms were pinioned to her sides. She felt breath upon her neck.

‘We’ll not kill you yet,’ said Zoe. ‘You can see what we bring up before you die. You can tell your father when you see him.’

Anna’s hands were pulled behind her back and she felt the bite of rope around her wrists. For a moment she thought about screaming, but a gag was now covering her mouth. She was pushed forward on to a bench and Richard Mamonas appeared before her.

Zoe pointed towards her cousin with the crossbow. ‘Did you know that he killed your brother?’

Anna clenched her jaw. Alexis, his pale, anxious face set in entreaty, rose up before her. She closed her eyes but he was still there, this time straining to tell her something, to tell her of cannon.

This Empire that devours its children.

She opened her eyes and looked up at the painting. It was Luke lying there. Luke in a place with another open tomb. How could she make him wake up and come down with his dragon sword to help her?

Richard Mamonas was now tying her to the bench. When it was done, he checked the knots, straightened and walked over to join Zoe. He’d not looked at Anna.

There were footsteps in the church outside and two men walked in, one of whom she recognized. They held torches and carried the tools for lifting.

Then the three men got to work. Chisels were inserted into the sides of the stone and hessian applied to their tops to muffle the sound of the hammers. Soon, they were levering the stone up with iron bars until it broke free of its mortar and bigger bars could be put in to lift it. The men’s faces were taut with concentration and shone with sweat in the candlelight. Then the top of the tomb was free and had been lifted to one side. Zoe picked up a candle and stepped forward to peer inside.

‘Lift them out.’

Richard and one of the Albanians lowered themselves into the hole and lifted one, then two bodies out. They were wrapped in a heavy material bound by ropes and they scattered earth as they came.

Zoe said, ‘What else is down there?’

‘Just earth,’ said her cousin. Only his chest, shoulders and head were visible above the hole.

‘It must be beneath.’ She looked up and gestured to the other Albanian. ‘Give them spades.’

The two men began to dig, throwing the earth on to a pile on the chapel floor. It was not long before Richard Mamonas stopped. ‘I’ve hit something. Metal.’

Zoe knelt down. ‘It will be heavy. Can you get ropes around it?’

‘Yes, with more digging. Get them to bring the pulleys.’

Two more Albanians entered the chapel and set up lifting pulleys at each end of the grave. Richard Mamonas dug further and then disappeared to tie ropes to whatever was in there. After a while he reappeared, nodded at Zoe and climbed out of the hole.

‘Lift,’ Zoe said, signalling to the Albanians.

Four men bent their backs to the ropes, placing hand over hand to pull them. There were squeaks and groans and curses when, once, the object snagged itself on the grave’s walls.

Bit by bit, something came into view and Anna leant as far forward as her ropes would allow.

It was a casket, perhaps six feet in length, which had once been made of wood but was now a series of metal bands holding together its splintered remains.

Slowly, slowly, they lifted it from the grave and then swung it sideways to allow it to come to rest beside the hole.

No one spoke. The Albanians recovered their breath and looked at one another. Zoe and her cousin just stared at the casket.

‘Get rid of them,’ whispered Zoe, not moving. ‘Tell them to go.’

Richard Mamonas said some words to the soldiers and they picked up their tools and left. There were just three of them in the chapel now.

Zoe said, ‘Bring her over here.’

Mamonas crossed to Anna and untied her from the bench. Then he pulled her to her feet and led her over to stand at the side of the hole.

Zoe looked at her. Her eyes had a curious light in them. ‘Do you remember me washing you in that cistern below the palace?’ she asked. ‘Just after Richard here killed your brother?’

Anna remembered the cistern and a woman that had brought her a bath and the stuff to wash herself. She remembered steam and the sting of cuts dabbed by a gentle sponge. She remembered the comfort of disclosure.

You are scared of being buried?

Something like that.

Then she remembered a dread, a familiar dread that was now rising inside her.

‘Well, I remember it well, anyway,’ continued Zoe softly. ‘I remember when you told me about your deepest fear.’ She looked into the hole. ‘It’s in there, isn’t it?’

Anna felt faint. Her head was swimming. She was standing on the edge of the grave and, looking down, could see nothing but black. She closed her eyes and saw a hole beneath a tree, a box that smelt of fish, a cave with a lamp that had gone out. They couldn’t be thinking …

‘Get in,’ said Zoe. ‘Or I’ll fire this crossbow and you’ll fall into it. It’s up to you.’

Anna’s legs nearly gave way. She felt that every nightmare she’d ever had was gathering in that chapel, gathering amongst the saints and sinners on the walls, amongst the visions of hell and damnation, crowding in to finally drive her into madness. She swayed.

‘Get in.’

Then she was pushed.

Her head hit the side as she fell and her breath left her in a rush as she landed at the bottom of the grave. She felt the cold earth against her cheek as she lay there between its steep walls, winded and dizzy. She couldn’t move. She was paralysed with fear. The fall had taken the gag from her mouth but she couldn’t speak.

Then the first earth landed on her. She heard, dimly, the scrape of spade on stone above and felt the first gritty clod on her face. Still she couldn’t move. She could only stare out at walls that towered above, up, up … going on forever.

The earth kept coming, more and more, heavier and heavier, a blanket to cover her. Then her eyes were covered and she could no longer see. She could only smell the blood-scent of the earth. Something moved over her gagged lips: a worm. A worm to crawl into her brain.

Her ears were filled with the sounds of the lost, the damned. She heard praying and screaming and the sounds of wild animals trapped in their cages. A convulsion overwhelmed her body, coursing from her toes to her shoulders, one last spasm. She felt herself falling, falling, falling.

And then she screamed.

Inside the palace, Plethon was woken for a second time in a week by the presence of a woman in his room.

At first he thought her veiled. She was sitting at the end of his bed, her head slightly bent and her long hair falling into her lap like moonlit rain. She had made no attempt to touch or speak to him.

‘Maria?’ he whispered.

The woman turned to him and he saw her eyes as two points of light between the strands of her hair. She didn’t answer.

Plethon sat up. He leant forward and took her hand. ‘Why are you here, Maria?’

There was no reply. The woman lifted her head and glanced around the room; once, twice.

‘Are you looking for someone?’

Her eyes came back to his. ‘Anna.’

‘But she’s with you, Maria.’

The woman shook her head. ‘No.’ Certain. ‘No, they’ve gone.’

Plethon frowned. ‘They?’

‘Anna, the other one. They’ve gone.’

Plethon felt something cold trace its way up his spine. He’d seen Zoe after the funeral and they’d agreed to meet the next day to go to the treasure. Had she gone already?

With Anna?

Something was wrong. He let go Maria’s hand and got out of bed. ‘You must be cold. Take my bed, here. I will go and find them.’

Plethon put her to bed and arranged the blankets to warm her. Then he leant and kissed her forehead, his beard against her hair; silver on silver. ‘Don’t worry. Anna will be back.’

She’s all she has.

He went to the door, opened it and walked along the corridor to the stairs. There were guards at the bottom, men of the Royal Guard. As he descended the stairs, they came to attention. He addressed one of them. ‘Go to the barracks. There are three Varangians there. Find them and wake them. Tell them to meet me at the palace gate. Tell them to bring weapons.’

Ten minutes later, Plethon was standing, shivering, just inside the palace gate. The moon was a luminous sickle and free of clouds. The houses on the hill of Mistra were unmoored from their foundations, floating in the pale light like ships at anchor. Plethon looked up at the church of St Sophia. Were there lights inside?

Is that where you are?

He heard a noise behind him and turned to find Matthew approaching, Nikolas and Arcadius behind. They were wearing armour but no helmets. All had swords in their hands and bows slung over their shoulders.

Plethon put his finger to his lips as they approached. ‘We need to be quiet.’ He looked over his shoulder and then back. ‘Aren’t guards supposed to be at this gate?’

Matthew glanced around him. He nodded. ‘Yes. I saw them earlier. Albanians.’

Albanians.

Plethon frowned. He said, ‘we are going up to the church. I think Anna’s inside, with Zoe and quite possibly others. Look to your weapons.’

They set off through the gate, taking care where they placed their feet. Even if Zoe was inside the church, there might be Albanians keeping guard outside it. As the four of them approached the square in front of the church, they saw silhouettes of men sitting on the wall, each with a drawn sword. There were three of them.

Matthew and the other two crouched down beside Plethon. ‘One each,’ whispered Matthew. ‘I’ll take the one on the left.’

‘And I’ll take the one on the right.’ said Nikolas. ‘That leaves the fat one to you, Arcadius. Think you can manage?’

Arcadius grunted. The Varangians drew knives from their belts.

Plethon put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Remember. Silently.’

The three crept forward, more silent than shadows. To Plethon, watching with his breath held, it was as if they’d disappeared. Then, moments later, there was a small sound and no longer any silhouettes on the wall.

Plethon gathered his toga and crept up the street to the wall. At the Varangians’ feet were three soldiers with their throats open. Matthew said, ‘there may be more inside the church. We should arm ourselves.’

Leaving Plethon to find the steps, the three Varangians lifted themselves over the wall and fell noiselessly into the square. They took their bows from their shoulders and put arrows to their strings. They edged their way around the cistern, grateful for the yew’s shadow, their bows at the ready.

Ahead of them, the door to the church opened and two Albanians appeared, closing the door behind them. The men were carrying ropes and pulleys. Matthew nodded to Nikolas. Seconds later, the Albanians lay on the ground, arrows in their necks and the apparatus for lifting all around them. They had died as silently as the Varangians had intended. Five down was good but how many more were there?

Plethon joined them, his toga too bright in the quarter-moon. He rose to go to the door. Matthew’s arm stopped him. ‘No. We go first.’

Plethon opened his mouth. ‘But…’

He got no further. A scream rent the night. He looked at Matthew, his eyes wide with horror. ‘They’re killing her.’

The Varangians rose and drew their swords. Matthew leading, they ran to the door. They turned the handle. Locked.

‘Arcadius,’ shouted Matthew. ‘Break it open.’

They heard shouts inside. Arcadius stepped back, lowered his shoulder and charged the door. It wouldn’t budge. He tried again. No movement,

‘Help me,’ he said and the three of them lined up, shoulders down, and charged together. This time there was a crack.

‘Again!’

This time the door broke and they crashed into the church. Two Albanians were there to face them but fell at the first sword strokes. Then there were two more, better fighters who managed a parry or two before they died.

Plethon came into the church behind them. ‘Quick, the chapel.’ He lifted his toga and ran to it, the Varangians on his heels.

Inside were a man and a woman standing either side of a casket. There were spades and a crowbar leaning against a pile of earth. The man had a crossbow in his hand.

‘Duck!’ yelled Matthew, pushing Plethon to the floor as a bolt whistled over their heads. Another arrow flew, this time from behind them. He looked up to see Richard Mamonas thrown back against the wall of the church, an arrow in his chest, amazement on his face. He fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft, then pitched forward onto the stone. He was dead.

Zoe was looking around for something.

‘Don’t’ said Matthew, rising. His bow was aimed at her heart. “You’d be dead before you got to it.’

Plethon got to his feet. He raked the chapel with his eyes. ‘Where is she?’

Matthew was looking at the open grave ‘She’s in there. Nikki, Arcadius, get her.’

The Varangians ran to the grave and Nikolas jumped in. A moment later he’d risen with Anna in his arms. Her head to one side and her eyes closed. She was a figure of clay, her hair a tangle of roots plucked from the earth. Plethon went over to her, looking down into a face without movement. There was blood on her lips.

We were too late.

‘Lay her down. There.’ He turned to Zoe. She was perfectly still, staring at the casket. ‘Did you hurt her?’

Zoe shook her head, her eyes vacant, unseeing. ‘She fell.’

Plethon knelt. He took a fold of his toga and began to wipe the dirt from Anna’s face, the blood from her lips. Her mouth was open.

She’s breathing.

Her eyelids fluttered. He lifted a corner of the toga to them, using it to take away the earth. She opened her eyes. She looked at Plethon for a long time before she spoke.

‘Open it,’ she whispered.

He knew what she meant. Plethon sat back on his haunches. He looked up at Matthew who was kneeling across from him.

‘Take Zoe and the others out of the church. Make sure no one comes in. No one.’

Matthew began to say something, but stopped. Then he nodded and rose. He signaled to the other Varangians and they left the church, Zoe between them. There was a dull thud as the door closed.

Anna had risen to her feet and was sweeping the remaining dirt from her clothes. There were bruises on her arms from where she had landed in the grave. She ran her hands through her hair and more earth fell to the ground. She wiped her hands on her thighs and took Plethon’s hand. ‘Come.’

They found candles and brought them over to the casket. They saw that Richard Mamonas had broken two of the metal bands, leaving one intact. Plethon gave his candle to Anna, picked up the iron bar and put it between the metal and the wood. It broke easily.

Then he sat back. Anna was by his side holding the candles and the casket was ready to open. They looked at each other, saw excitement and fear mirrored in each other’s eyes.

‘Are you ready?’ asked Plethon quietly.

Anna looked down at the casket. She took a deep breath and nodded, once.

Plethon placed his hands on the lid, his thumbs below the rim. He lifted it free and it slid to the ground. They looked into the casket.

Inside was an object wrapped in layer upon layer of coarse cloth. The cloth was ancient and frayed and smelled of must and decay. A faint cloud of dust rose from it.

The candles in Anna’s hands flickered as if a wind had passed. It was suddenly much colder in the chapel. She turned to Plethon and saw, in the candlelight, that he was ashen white. She took his hand and found that it was trembling.

‘Do you know what it is?’ she whispered.

Plethon didn’t answer at first. He seemed transfixed by what was before him. Then he nodded.

Anna looked down. ‘What is it?’

Slowly, slowly he turned to her and, as he did so, a cock crew somewhere further down the hill of Mistra. The sun had risen.

‘Something that will change the world.’

In the monastery of Battal Gazi, the Venetian sopracomito had not believed the old man who was straddled above him in crucifixion. He’d seen the wretches in the Arsenale. He’d drunk the mixture himself and survived the plague.

He was standing, legs apart, in front of Omar. He had removed his doublet and in one hand held a branding iron, which he was heating over the largest of the candles. The air smelt of singed flesh.

‘One more time,’ said di Vetriano. ‘Tell me where Magoris is and all this can stop. I’m losing patience.’

A few Karamanid tribesmen were standing somewhere among the shadows of the crypt. Others were manning the monastery walls. The other Venetian, Fabio, was lounging against the door studying the pitted blade of his sword. The steady drill of rain on stone could be heard outside.

Omar’s upper body was a mass of blisters where di Vetriano had applied the brand. Some were oozing blood and a yellow liquid that glistened as it ran. The old man’s eyes were closed.

Di Vetriano sighed. He withdrew the brand from the flame and blew on it so that the metal glowed. He began to walk towards Omar.

There was a banging behind him and he stopped. It came from the door. Fabio straightened and glanced at di Vetriano, who nodded. The door was opened.

A Karamanid tribesman was standing there. He said something in a low voice.

‘You won’t believe this,’ Fabio said, turning. ‘Magoris is here. At the gate. He wants to come in.’

A lightning flash lit into day the courtyard outside and, seconds later, a peal of thunder exploded into the room like cannon-shot.

‘He’s alone?’

Fabio nodded.

Di Vetriano turned to Omar. ‘Who says fortune only favours the good? He must want to save you.’ Then: ‘Fabio, tell them to bring him. And search him thoroughly.’

They waited for Luke in silence. Omar’s eyes remained closed and his head was slumped to one side as if he was asleep. Di Vetriano made no attempt to inflict further pain on him but sat on the tomb contemplating first one boot, then the other. The branding iron was leant against the wall.

At last the door opened and Luke walked in flanked by two tribesmen. He was wearing a long cloak that seemed more water than wool. His long fair hair was caked in dirt and straddled his face. The rain outside swept in and water quickly entered the crypt around him, spreading across the stone so that it soon seemed as if they were afloat.

He stared up at Omar. ‘Cut him down, di Vetriano.’

The Venetian shook his head. ‘I think not. You seem to me the sort of fool more likely to talk if someone else suffers. He’ll stay where he is.’ He rose to his feet and picked up the branding iron. ‘We’ll keep him there and you’ll talk and if you don’t I’ll burn him some more.’ He paused. ‘You’ll talk in the end, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

Luke said, ‘What do you want to know?’

Di Vetriano walked over and sat on the smaller tomb. He picked up the crossbow and began to examine its mechanism, his brow furrowed. He was choosing his words. ‘When I last met you it was on a galley that had amongst its cargo some jars of mastic mixed with other ingredients. It was thought to fix dye.’

Luke glanced beyond di Vetriano. Omar had opened his eyes and was looking hard at Luke. A trickle of blood had emerged at the corner of his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue.

Vetriano said, ‘As precisely as possible, please tell me the formula.’

Luke frowned. Surely the information was now useless? The tests had proved negative.

What does it matter? I just have to keep him talking.

He looked up at Omar, at his body scarred by fire, and wondered if he could hold on just a little longer. He thought of another man about the same age who’d stood before a city wall on another night of storm and swung his axe.

Luke began to speak. He spoke of mastic and orange blossom and the distillations from twenty other flowers and herbs, all the while looking straight at Omar. He talked in Italian and Latin and he used his hands to clarify points. Di Vetriano couldn’t keep up.

‘Wait!’ he said. ‘I need to write it down. Fabio, bring me a pen.’

But Luke went on talking, but to Omar. He said, ‘The compound mixture is complicated. The amount of each ingredient must be mixed with exactitude. It is like Greek fire, which, they say, no one man ever knew the full formula of.’

By now, the Venetian had the means to write. He bent over the parchment. ‘Say it all again. Slower.’

Luke took a deep breath. At last he’d seen smoke. He felt like a necromancer summoning forth magic from the depths. He glanced at Omar. He’d seen it too, curling in wisps from the flagstones, gossamer-thin.

Omar caught Luke’s eye and nodded.

Understood.

Di Vetriano was busy with his pen. ‘Say it again.’

The Venetian Fabio had seen the smoke too. He opened his mouth to speak.

But Omar spoke first. He looked round at the tribesmen and shouted: ‘Karamanids, you have defiled the tomb of Seyit Battal Gazi! You will burn in hell for this deed. See, the flames come for you!’

Luke pointed to the wellhead, where the smoke was seeping more thickly through the cracks. The guards either side of him had seen it and were yelling to their kinsmen in the shadows.

Di Vetriano looked up. He cursed and got to his feet. ‘What is this?’ He stared at the wellhead and then spun round to face Luke. ‘What have you done?’

The Karamanids were now backing away from the smoke, their boots squelching in the water that was already an inch deep. There was a strong smell of sulphur. The man next to Luke turned and began to pull back the bolts on the door.

Di Vetriano aimed his crossbow at the closest tribesman.

‘Where are you going?’ he shouted. ‘It’s just vapour!’ He moved to the wellhead, slung the crossbow over his shoulder and took the metal ring in both hands. ‘Help me!’

A tribesman came over and took hold of the ring beside him. They both heaved.

The two men fell back as the stone came up. Fire rose into the room with a roar, a livid tongue of orange and red that shot upwards the height of a man. When it fell back, the water around it caught fire. The floor of the crypt was ablaze.

The Karamanids were already at the door, thrashing at their clothes, desperate to escape the wrath of the saint. The door opened and gusts of wind swept in over their heads, fanning the flames behind them.

Di Vetriano had risen from the water, his clothes alight.

‘Fabio, get them back!’ he yelled, trying to sweep the fire from his shirt.

But Fabio had other priorities. He’d tried to stop the tribesmen but they’d ignored his crossbow and pushed him back against a pillar. Then, as his finger had searched for its trigger, Luke had rushed him.

Now the two of them were locked in an embrace, the Venetian’s back to the pillar. He’d managed to draw a dagger from somewhere and held it an inch away from Luke’s face. But Luke was stronger and the dagger was being forced slowly back so that, quite soon, it was pointing at the ceiling.

Luke’s hand turned quickly on the man’s wrist and the dagger dropped. A second later, Luke’s forehead made contact with his nose and his knee came up into his groin. Fabio went down and, as he did so, Luke hit him again.

Luke spun round.

The sopracomito was standing behind Omar on top of the tomb. He had his forearm around the old man’s neck and the crossbow dug into his side. Omar’s face was knitted with pain but he uttered no sound. The beam above them was alight.

‘Ingenious,’ said the Venetian. ‘You set the cistern alight with Greek fire.’ He looked around the crypt at the carpet of fire around them. ‘Where did you get it?’

Luke saw that di Vetriano’s finger was on the crossbow trigger and that his hand was shaking. He saw something wild in his eyes. He said, ‘Give me the old man, di Vetriano, and you can go.’

But the Venetian was shaking his head. There was sweat coursing down his cheeks. He pulled Omar more tightly to his chest and the old man grimaced. Still no sound came from him. ‘Oh no. I will leave this place,’ he said, pressing the crossbow into Omar’s side, ‘and the old man will be my way out.’

‘You won’t make it,’ said Luke. ‘You have one crossbow bolt and the Karamanids have fled. Be sensible, Vetriano.’

The Venetian was untying Omar’s hands with one hand, keeping the crossbow aimed at Luke with the other. He stepped down, pulling Omar with him. The water was no longer alight and there was only smoke rising from the wellhead. He moved to its edge, glancing down. He brought the crossbow bolt to Omar’s neck.

‘Where is your accomplice, Magoris? The one with the Greek Fire?’

Luke didn’t answer. He’d heard movement behind him.

Fabio.

The other Venetian had got to his knees, sweeping the blood from his nose and eyes with his arm and shaking his head. Luke could hear him searching in the water for his weapon.

Di Vetriano said, ‘Fabio, go and find the man with the Greek Fire.’

But Fabio wasn’t listening. He saw no reason why Luke shouldn’t die before he went anywhere. He’d found the dagger and was wiping the blade against his sodden shirtsleeve. He stood up.

‘Fabio?’

Fabio staggered forward, lifting the blade to strike. One step, two steps. Then he stopped. His mouth was open, blood spilling over his bottom lip. He let out a groan and fell forward into the water. Vinsanto red.

Bennedo Barbi was standing in the courtyard with a crossbow in one hand and rain drumming on his shoulders. In his other hand was a canister strap.

Vetriano laughed. ‘Thank you, Barbi. I’d have done the same myself but I need the bolt. Now throw me the canister.’

Barbi didn’t move. Di Vetriano pressed the crossbow bolt further into Omar’s neck. ‘Magoris, tell him to do it.’

Luke said, ‘throw it, Benedo.’ His voice was flat.

Barbi walked up to the doorway. With a metallic crash, the canister landed at di Vetriano’s feet. He kicked it into the wellhead and they heard a splash.

‘You’re right, of course, Magoris. I’d not get far with all those trigger-happy monks outside. So I think I’ll leave in the same way that you, presumably, got in. I imagine there’s an outlet somewhere. I’m sure I’ll find it’ He glanced down at the hole. ‘The water’s no longer aflame and without the Greek Fire, you won’t be able to re-light it.’

He was edging towards the edge of the wellhead, the old man with him. Would he kill Omar before he jumped?

Luke thought quickly. He has one bolt.

‘You still won’t make it, Vetriano,’ he said. ‘I posted a guard at the tunnel entrance.’

One crossbow bolt. One guard.

Vetriano frowned, considering this information. Then he’d decided. He pushed Omar away and jumped. Another splash.

Luke span round, ‘Where is it?’

It was propped up outside the door, out of sight. Barbi reached around the door and dragged it inside and over to the wellhead. He found the tinderbox in his pocket, wrapped in oilskin. He unwrapped it, fumbling.

Luke pulled the canister to the opening and aimed the tube below.

‘Ready?’

The flint was struck and the tube spat flame. The water below caught fire and, out of sight, they heard the scream of a man alight. The sound came and went, loud and muffled. It went on for a long time. At last it stopped.

Barbi turned to Luke. ‘It’s a bad way to die. You either burn or drown.’

Later, when the fire had gone out and the rain stopped, Luke and Omar sat on the walls of the monastery and waited for a new day to begin. Luke’s sword was leaning against his thigh. There was a single star left in the sky.

‘Kervan Kiran,’ Luke said, looking up. ‘Plethon’s star.’

Omar turned to him. He wore a clean white shirt and there were bandages around his head. His beard was curled and yellow at the edges and he smelt of herbs. He looked much older. ‘Have you decided what you are going to do?’

Luke remembered a conversation with this man not long ago.

‘I was left a sword to take me to a treasure.’

‘Or to remind you that you’re a Varangian prince.’

He said softly, ‘the sword had Mistra written on its blade, Omar. It was a message.’

The old man nodded. Just then, the sun crested the horizon with a suddenness that made both of them look out over the steppe. There was nothing there. But above, above in a sky still flecked with scattered rainclouds, there was another world, a giant, golden sea with islands in it and, thought Luke, a longship sailing towards them. He narrowed his eyes and stared. Siward. Miklagard.

Miklagard.

He looked down at the sword hilt resting on his thigh. Siward’s sword. The dragon head was alive, its eyes glowing. It was looking up at him.

Suddenly he knew.

They’ve found the treasure.

He turned to Omar. ‘Plethon’s found the treasure,’ he said. ‘I go to Tamerlane.’