The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER TWO

THE CITY OF MISTRA, SPRING 1392

The darkness in the hole was complete and heavy, clinging to the little girl like a thing from hell. She felt it all around her, closing in with its searching tentacles, clawing its way into her soul with its foul presence. It stroked her hair and sent shivers up her spine with its reeking breath. It moaned with ghastly insistence, rising to a shrill scream when it felt itself denied.

Never before had she felt such fear.

She was curled into a little ball, her head sheltered beneath her hands in supplication to a God she knew had abandoned her for her disobedience.

I swear by my brother’s life I will never again disobey my mother. Let me see the morning and I will be good. I swear it.

The next morning seemed an impossibility. It felt like hours since that awful crash outside had told her that the storm had brought a branch down at the entrance to her hiding place. At first she’d tried to push it away, using all the weight of her seven-year-old body. But as it had refused to budge, she’d felt the first surges of panic rise up in her, quickening her heartbeat to a tempo that seemed to convulse her whole being.

Help. Help me. Help me. Help me.

But the panic had taken her voice. And the noise of the storm outside, as it ebbed and surged through the roots of the giant tree, drowned any tiny sound she could muster.

Please Father Jesus make Alexis come. I will never be bad again. I swear on his life.

To swear on her brother’s life was to promise a lot. There was no one more worshipped in Anna’s world than her only brother, three years her senior and idolatrously close to her God. But her brother didn’t know of this hiding place. One of the few secrets she kept from him was this little cave she’d found amidst the roots of the oak that grew in the corner of the Peribleptos Monastery walls. And she hadn’t told him for the very good reason that it provided the perfect hiding place in their games. Not even the monks who taught them knew about it.

Now she wished, with all her heart, that he knew of this place.

What was that noise?

She had heard a scratching noise. She was sure of it. It came from the entrance. It was closer than the storm. It came again.

They are coming for me.

She turned away from the sound and began to tear at the earth, clawing great handfuls from the blackness in front of her to escape whatever was coming. Dirt flew into her hair, her eyes, her mouth, engulfing her as she scrambled to get away.

Father Jesus, Alexis, Mother Mary … help me, help me, help me.

Then she felt air.

Miraculously, her fingers were free and she felt air on her palms.

Freedom!

She threw every last ounce of effort into widening the hole she’d created. She brought her other arm up and pulled aside the earth and grass to make the smallest of windows. She hoisted herself up and looked into the night, lifting her nose to breathe in the scent of pine.

Then she screamed.

Two eyes, yellow and beyond evil, were staring into hers.

Anna shivered. The night was warm but the memory of that night was still vivid. She’d managed to block it for so many years and it was only in these days of terrible suspense, as the Ottoman army bore down on her city, that it had risen unbidden from the depths of her unconscious.

Had she kept her promise to God? No, she could not claim that. Had she obeyed her mother without question from that moment onward? Assuredly not.

But then had her crime been so terrible? All she had wanted was to see the Despot and his new Despoena, Bartolomea.

But her mother had forbidden her. She’d taken her hand and led her past the honey cakes, plums and spiced chestnuts, past the partridge and quail in saffron with fried mushrooms, past hares baked in wine and grey mullet from Rhegis, past everything that Bartolomea would eat without her.

Once in bed, she’d determined that she would see the new Despoena, whatever it took, and she’d climbed out of her window and on to the branches of an apple tree.

But just as Bartolomea’s delicate toe emerged from her litter, the branch had snapped and Anna had fallen on to a clothes line from which hung some of her mother’s finest dresses.

So Anna had run away to the one place she knew she would not be found.

Now, eight years on, it was night again and a new fear was all around her. Anna was standing on the balcony of her house in the city of Mistra, looking out over the Vale of Sparta where the lights of countless campfires studded the darkness like fireflies and the conversation of fifty thousand Turks drifted up the hill in a single whisper.

Around her, filling the streets, squares, balconies and battlements of their small city, stood people looking on in silent vigil.

Anna felt a presence behind her.

Her brother was watching her. ‘Are you frightened?’ he asked quietly.

Anna turned to look at him. She smiled. ‘Do you remember when you found me, all those years past, wandering outside the city walls in my nightdress?’

Alexis nodded.

‘Do you remember I said then that I couldn’t remember what happened to me that night?’

Her brother nodded again.

‘Well, I’ve remembered.’

She turned back to look over the valley, and Alexis moved to stand next to her at the balustrade. Below them, far out on the plain, a deep drum had begun to beat. Then the squeak of heavy wheels could be heard between its thumps, and from among the campfires emerged horsemen holding torches aloft. Behind them rolled the engines of destruction: trebuchets, mangonels and tall, multi-tiered platforms with dripping hides hung from their sides. Anna had never seen such monsters.

‘And this is more terrifying?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘You see, this I understand. The Turks want our empire because it’s the last fortress to defend Christendom. Once they have it, then they can conquer the rest of the world.’

Alexis took his sister in his arms. ‘Anna, all that is left of the Empire is Constantinople and our little despotate. That’s all there is. We just have to hold them off long enough for the armies of Christendom to gather and drive them back.’

Anna shivered. She pressed her cheek against the hard buttons that ran up the front of his tunic. ‘Will I go into the Sultan’s harem?’ she asked.

Alexis laughed. ‘No, the Turks don’t enslave the well born, and our family is the most honourable in the despotate. You’ll be safe, I promise you.’

But eight years ago Anna had made a promise to God and not kept her faith.

‘Will Emperor Manuel in Constantinople not come to our aid?’ she asked.

‘The Emperor has no money,’ Alexis replied. ‘No emperor has had any money since the Franks pillaged Constantinople two hundred years ago.’

‘But surely Mistra has money?’ asked Anna.

‘Yes,’ said Alexis, ‘we’re rich. But not rich enough.’

‘What about Monemvasia?’ pursued Anna. ‘You’re always telling me that the Mamonases are one of the richest families in the world. Surely the Archon will come to our aid?’

Alexis turned to look up the hill, to the very top where the citadel’s bulk was silhouetted by a giant beacon blazing from its tallest tower.

‘That beacon was lit a week ago,’ he said. ‘It’s fifty miles to Monemvasia and there are beacons on every hill between. They’ll have seen the signal for days now but still we’ve had no word.’

Brother and sister were silent for a long while. The siege engines had stopped in front of the campfires and, if anything, seemed more menacing in silhouette. Great boulders would be hurled from the trebuchets tomorrow, boulders that would make short work of the city’s walls.

But did the Turks have cannon? Anna’s father, Simon Laskaris, was Protostrator of Mistra, second only in rank to the Despot. He had been urging Theodore for years now to invest in these new machines that used some form of igniting powder to hurl a stone. Indeed, a Hungarian had presented himself at the court only three years past, ready to sell this new technology. But the Despot had merely laughed and waved the man away. He’d rather use the money for new churches.

Anna said, ‘So Bayezid means to conquer the world?’

Her brother nodded. ‘This Sultan is far more warlike than his father. He has boasted that he will water his horse at the altar of St Peter’s in Rome.’

Anna shuddered at the thought of such desecration. Rome might be the seat of a Catholic Pope but he was still a Christian.

Just then a light gust of wind lifted the cooking of a thousand campfires.

‘Come, Anna,’ Alexis said. ‘We’re in God’s hands now. Let’s go inside and see what our mother has for us to eat.’

Anna did sleep that night. So quiet and well disciplined was the Ottoman host that only the neighs of their horses and the sound of mallet on tent peg disturbed the rest of those citizens of Mistra that lay abed.

When dawn came, it was as if a city of tents had risen from the ground in the night. The people of Mistra, emerging sleepily from their bedrooms, wondered at the sight before them. Even the cats were silent.

This was order indeed. For as far as the eye could see there were row upon row of tents, with streets and squares laid out between them and corrals for the horses on the banks of the Evrotas River. At their centre stood a gigantic pavilion, made up of silks of every colour imaginable. It had gardens around it with rows of fruit trees in tubs and caged birds suspended from their branches and neat lawns on either side with borders of tulips gently swaying in the dawn breeze.

Ten minutes later, the Protostrator Simon Laskaris and his daughter were hurrying up the streets on their way to the citadel. The streets were full of jostling crowds anxious for news or simply there to fill amphorae with the water they’d need for the siege. Simon was pleased to see that the praetors, whom he’d ordered be armed the night before, were keeping some sort of order in the queues for the wellheads. The city’s population was already swelled to triple its normal size by the influx of refugees from the countryside.

When she’d heard that her father wanted her to accompany him to meet the Despot, Anna had guessed that he wanted her with him to amuse the Despoena while the men talked. In fact he’d been so impressed by her calm at dinner on the previous evening that he wanted her with him as an example to the city.

And it seemed to be working. People stopped to bow to the Protostrator and stare at the girl striding behind him. They were used to seeing Anna chasing her brother through the streets with a catapult. They knew her as a tomboy, with mud on her knees, the women secretly worrying for the day they knew she would be forced to make some illustrious marriage.

But here she was dressed as a woman.

Anna Laskaris had Norman blood in her veins and it showed in the cascade of hair, soft and red as fox fur, that fell to her waist and in the two malachite eyes that stared out on the world from a face traced with the lightest patina of freckles. Dressed in a chemise of the finest white lawn and with the plaits of her hair braided with flowers, she radiated calm.

They arrived at the citadel to find the Despot already dressed in armour, his breastplate burnished to a perfect sheen. With him was the Despoena Bartolomea, who hurried over to greet them. ‘Anna, you look ravishing! How many soldiers did you distract from their important work on your way up? Come, let’s go and feed my marmoset and you can tell me how things are. That man’ — she nodded in the direction of her husband — ‘tells me nothing.’

The Despot, however, was not to be cheered by the sight of Anna. When the women left, he was still arguing with a Frankish knight over a scroll that lay on the table between them. Eventually, the Despot ripped it in two, handing one half to the knight who bowed stiffly and left.

‘Normans!’ said Theodore. ‘They can’t write and they won’t do anything unless you pay them.’ He looked down. ‘Get up, Simon. I can’t talk to you down there.’

Laskaris rose from his knee.

‘It’s their way of sealing a contract,’ said the Despot, pulling a chair to the table. ‘You put your mark on the paper and then tear it in two. They claim their money when we join the two bits later. Ingenious. Wine?’

The Protostator took the goblet.

‘Sweet wine from Mount Ganos.’ The Despot raised his glass and drained it in a gulp. He wiped his beard and looked suddenly at his friend. ‘Do we still have Mount Ganos, Simon?’ he asked.

‘I fear not, Majesty. Most of Thrace belongs to Bayezid now.’

The Despot sighed. ‘Well at least we’ll still have the Malvasia, assuming those Mamonas pirates haven’t sold the last barrel to the Sultan. Did you know they sell it to the Sultan?’

‘I had heard something,’ murmured the Protostrator, sipping his wine.

‘Horses too, I gather,’ went on the Despot. ‘Since the Turk took Adrianopolis for his capital and renamed it Edirne, they’ve been doing regular business there. The Sultan wants to build up his cavalry and Mamonas has access to Outremer stock. Apparently they’re fast and fierce. Destriers that bite their way into battle.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, we can’t afford them any more than we can cannon. Let’s go outside and see what’s going on.’

The Despot took the arm of his Protostrator and led him from the chamber, up the winding steps and out on to the top of the tower.

The Vale of Sparta stretched out before them in miniature. Simon Laskaris had woken every morning of his forty-eight years to the reassuring sight of that huge plain with its farms, orchards, vineyards, olive groves and the bright ribbon of the Evrotas River winding its way through it all. It was a world of green, ordered prosperity, a world in balance, a world worth fighting for.

Now he saw smoke rising across the plain. Closer to, he saw the tanneries and storehouses alight and tiny Turkish soldiers running to set fire to houses in the Albanian and Jewish quarters.

‘St Demetrius,’ said the Despot suddenly.

‘Majesty?’

‘He’s our patron saint, isn’t he? Have we done enough praying to him, do you think, Simon? Should I organise a procession or something?’

‘Highness, he was also patron saint of Thessaloniki.’

Theodore considered this, stroking his long beard. Thessaloniki, north of the Peloponnese, had fallen five years ago. He looked down at the square in front of the palace below. It was a place he’d wanted to be the new Athens, a place where children would sit at the feet of philosophers and learn of reason. It was a place he loved.

‘The Turks are a very conservative people,’ he said. ‘Their religion leaves very little room for doubt. They won’t keep our square.’

‘No, lord,’ agreed the Protostrator. ‘And the cathedral will become a mosque.’

Both men were silent for a while, each contemplating what this future held for them.

‘Well, no time for conjecture, Simon. What do we do?’

The Protostrator turned back to the plain and pointed at the gigantic pavilion in the centre of the camp. ‘Two Horsehairs, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Which means that someone other than the Sultan is leading this army.’

In the little square of beaten earth outside the entrance to the pavilion stood a single lance driven into the ground. At its top, moving gently in the breeze, were two horse-tails.

‘The Grand Vizier, do you think?’

‘No, I hear he is in Serres with his master. I think we may have one of Bayezid’s sons before us. Perhaps the eldest, Suelyman.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

Laskaris shrugged. ‘It is the janissaries who will decide the battle,’ he said. ‘Look at them! Have you seen such a sight?’

They both looked down at the gardens before the pavilion where groups of men with tall white hats, each sprouting an extravagant plume, stood talking to each other. They seemed in no hurry to begin anything.

‘Why should we fear them?’ said the Despot. ‘They look like peacocks.’

‘Peacocks perhaps,’ said the Protostrator, ‘but also machines of war. The Sultan’s father came up with the idea and it’s ingenious. Every four years they send their men into the villages of Rumelia and take Christian boys aged between eight and fifteen from their families. They indoctrinate them in Islam and train them for war. They call it the Devshirme.’

‘But they’re slaves!’ protested the Despot.

‘Indeed, lord. But never were there prouder slaves. Look at them. They’re the best. An élite fighting force that doesn’t know fear.’

‘And what do we have? Two thousand demoralised Albanian mercenaries and a handful of greedy Norman knights.’ He glanced at the Protostrator. ‘We need Varangians. That’s what we need. And their gold which, apparently, is buried here somewhere.’ Theodore sighed. ‘But it’s no more than legend,’ he said miserably. ‘There are four Varangians in the service of Mamonas, but they won’t fight for us.’

‘It’s not they who won’t fight, but their archon,’ said Laskaris. ‘We’ll have to bind Pavlos Mamonas to our cause if we are ever to get these Turks off our plain. We need him.’

The Despot nodded gloomily. ‘As always, Simon, you’re right. My brother the Emperor sees it the same way. He’s sent gold to bribe the bastards since they won’t be shamed into helping us. But I can’t see how we can get the message to Monemvasia. We’re surrounded. If only we had cannon.’

The Protostrator was about to reply when there was a distraction from the plain below. A warehouse had exploded and tiny, burning Turks were running towards the river.

Anna was at the top of the staircase, holding her breath. Having got bored of the marmoset, she had come to find her father and had overheard most of the conversation. She coughed.

‘Anna!’ cried Theodore. ‘What a sight you are! Simon, we should put her image on every banner in the city. It will remind us what we’re fighting for.’

Anna stepped forward to be kissed. But she wasn’t really concentrating. A very daring idea was taking shape in her fifteen-year-old mind.

Five minutes later, Anna was running back to her house as fast as the crowds would allow. The Laskaris house, one of the largest in Mistra, was situated in the lower town within its own walled garden and orchard. It was about as far from the citadel as any house could be.

At last she stood, panting, in front of the tall gates with the heavy coat of arms above the archway, listening for any signs of life. There was none. It seemed that her mother had taken the servants up to the palace for safety.

She climbed the broad stone steps to the front door and pushed it open. The triclinium was empty of all furniture and tapestries and her short breaths came back to her as echoes. The vivid wall scenes from Greek mythology seemed gaudy without the divans from which her mother’s aristocratic friends would swap court gossip. And without the rich carpets, the marble floor felt cold beneath the soles of her shoes. All that remained was a solitary prie-dieu and the hollow sound of the fountain that played in an alcove at the other end of the room. Through the tall, curtainless windows she could see the houses of her beloved city climbing the hill to escape the Turk. She felt emboldened.

I can save this city.

She straightened, clenched her fists and ran up the staircase to her room, pulling off the chemise as she went. After frantic searching, she found riding breeches and some stout leather boots. She pulled them on with one hand while tearing the flowers from her hair with the other. She ran to her brother’s room and found a doublet and the riding hat he sometimes wore. Finding a mirror, she looked into it and smiled.

From girl to boy. From Mistra to Monemvasia. Now I need courage.

At the gates of the Peribleptos monastery, Anna flattened herself against the wall, nervously peering around it to see if her way was clear. A monk was hurriedly pulling plants from the little herb garden to make potions for the wounded. At the smithy beyond, two more were hammering swords into shape before plunging them into a cauldron of water while another carried blocks of ice from the underground ice house to keep it freezing. The buildings stood hard against the city walls and, looking up, Anna could see soldiers on the ramparts clearing the machicolations of weeds so that boiling water could be poured on to the heads of the attackers. From the kitchens behind the scriptorium came the smell of baking bread, and a cart stood at its door waiting to take it to the city’s storehouses.

Then she saw it.

The old oak tree stood in the corner made by the city wall and the refectory. This was the first time she’d seen it since that night and it sent a shock of fear coursing through her body.

I have to do this. I’m the only one who can.

She drew a deep breath and half ran, half crawled along the walls until she was lying facing the tree. Fighting down her panic, she parted its roots and slipped inside.

Immediately she felt terror. She was inside the hole and there was no turning back. All the horrors of that night came back to her. The blood was pounding in her temples and she felt faint. She was shaking uncontrollably.

Sweet Virgin Mary, help me.

But she couldn’t move; her limbs were paralysed.

It’s just a hole.

She managed to reach out an arm, feeling for the earth in front of her, praying that it was still loose.

There it was. Softer to the touch. Easily moved.

Her fingers scrabbled their way through, pulling it into the hole until she could see daylight beyond.

Freedom.

The opening grew wider and soon was big enough for her to crawl through. Stretching her body, she used all her strength to wriggle her way up and out and collapsed, exhausted, on the grass. The smell of pine and wild garlic smelt better than any meal. It was the smell of the forest, of deliverance, of a fear conquered. Gradually her senses cleared. She needed to think. She needed to be careful.

She rolled over on to her front and looked up at the ramparts. No sign of the soldiers. She looked down the hill towards the plain. No Turks as yet. They’d yet to surround the city after all.

Finally she looked into the forest that climbed the slope outside the city walls. All was quiet.

Bringing her fingers to her lips, she let out a low whistle. There was a pause and then she heard an answering neigh.

Anna allowed herself the briefest of smiles. All was going to plan. Looking once more up to the ramparts to check that she hadn’t been seen, she crawled on to the edge of the trees and then rolled forward into a ditch that would hide her from view while she collected her thoughts.

To travel the fifty miles to Monemvasia, she would first have to climb the hill, then drop down the other side into the deep valley between Mistra and the slopes of Mount Taygetos. She knew that she could pick up a path there that wound round the back until it joined the Monemvasia road some three miles further on.

But where are the Turks?

Anna picked herself up, brushing the pine needles from her brother’s doublet, and whistled again. Again came the reply.

She pushed her way through the branches of the trees until she came to a small clearing where a ruined hut stood, its broken beams pointing up to the sky like teeth. Stones lay in a jumble all around it and, amongst them, a tethered pony patiently cropped the grass, its tail languidly swishing flies.

Pallas.

Anna smiled. She’d had Pallas since birth and he was old now but he’d have to make one final effort today. If he got her there, she would give him the most comfortable berth in Monemvasia.

She went over to the pony and stroked his neck, untying him and leading him through the trees to the path beyond. When they reached it, she stopped, looked around and listened, shushing Pallas, who had begun to eat noisily again. She could hear nothing but the sounds of the forest and the occasional birdcall echoing through the trees. They were alone.

Slowly and carefully, she got on to the pony and was pleased to see that he could still take her weight. She urged him into a slow trot, her feet barely clearing the ground, her back jarring against his unsaddled back. She climbed the path, moving deeper into the forest. A red butterfly danced before her in dust that floated in a shaft of sunlight and Pallas gave a familiar snort of satisfaction. Anna began to feel safer.

At the top of the hill, the path plunged deep into the valley and then veered sharply eastwards, the trees gradually clearing to reveal the sheer sides of rock that backed the hill of Mistra to her right. The citadel, with its beacon still burning, was just visible at the top.

On her left, the forests of Mount Taygetos gave way to scree on its upper slopes. She looked further up to the snowline that never melted, even in summer, and then beyond to the distant peak soaring into the clouds. Anna remembered playing with Alexis on those slopes when they were young and she closed her eyes as the sun reappeared from behind a cloud and bathed her in new warmth.

Then she heard it.

The unmistakable twang of a bowstring and the sound of an arrow in flight. A heartbeat later, it was embedded in a tree inches from Pallas’s head.

The pony stopped suddenly and Anna was flung across his neck. She looked up, her heart racing, and saw a flash of horse and rider between the trees to her left. She saw rich colour: silk with mail. Not Greek. Not Norman.

The sunlight was blinding her and she shielded her eyes. There was nothing there.

The crack of a branch and a mocking laugh told her that the danger was now on her right. Another arrow hit the tree behind her as she tried to wheel Pallas to see her assailant.

‘Who are you?’ she called, angry at the fear in her voice. ‘I’m not alone. There are soldiers behind me!’

Again came the laugh and a third arrow thudded into the ground beside her, causing the pony to rear. Anna was thrown from his back and landed heavily on the ground, hitting her head hard. All went black.

A moment later, she came to and heard the rustle of mail as someone dismounted very close to where she was lying. She opened her eyes but they had dust in them and she couldn’t see properly. She wiped it away with her hand and looked up at the figure bent over her.

Two yellow eyes stared into hers.

In the square in front of the palace, the Despot and his Protostator sat on the wall and looked out over the plain.

The sun was at its zenith and, although a breeze had arisen, both felt uncomfortably hot in their armour. They had taken the precaution of sitting in the shade of one of the fruit trees which lined the square and, in better times, might have provided the headrest for some sleeping philosopher. Simon Laskaris could feel the sweat coursing down his back. He wasn’t used to wearing armour.

The Ottoman army had at last deployed, in one expert movement of dust and silence, into a vast crescent behind the siege engines. In the centre stood the massed ranks of the bashibozouk irregulars, who would rush forward to die in their thousands against the city walls, the cry of ‘Allahu Akhbar’ on their lips and a vision of black-eyed houris before their eyes. Behind them, in perfect order, stood the ranks of the janissary regiments, each with its standard and its aura of invincibility. On either wing of the crescent stood the sipahi cavalry dressed in their skins with their bows resting on their saddles, great quivers of arrows slung by their sides.

The only sounds that came from this army of fifty thousand were the snap of banner and the jangle of harness.

Simon Laskaris mopped his forehead. The cloth smelt of his wife and he breathed in its fragrance. He wondered where his daughter had disappeared to. He moved his gaze to the soldiers on the battlements. Would they really die for a city that wasn’t even theirs? Probably not.

Theodore seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Will they fight?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘With you amongst them, lord, they’ll fight.’

The Despot sighed. ‘And when I retire to the citadel, Simon? Will they fight then, do you think?’

The Protostator leant forward. ‘We’ve discussed this many times, lord. Your duty to your people is to survive to rebuild this city once the Turks have gone. This is probably just a raid. They’ll ransack the lower town and then leave.’

‘Where are your family?’ asked the Despot. ‘Are they safe in the citadel?’

‘I hope so, lord. Except Alexis. That’s him now.’

Running up the steps to the square came his son. He was dressed in full armour but his head was bare.

How young he looks.

The boy dropped to one knee. ‘Majesty, I have news from the Turks,’ he said between pants.

Theodore lifted him to his feet. ‘Nothing that won’t wait for you to recover your breath, Alexis. Sit down and drink some water.’

Alexis sat on the wall and drained the water brought to him in one gulp. He ran his hands through his hair and flicked away the sweat. ‘Thank you, Majesty. It’s a steep climb.’

‘Yes, Alexis. Steep for us, steep for the Turk. Now, what do they say?’

Alexis pointed up at the flag that flew from the palace tower. ‘Their message is this, lord. If, by lowering our standard, you signify the surrender of Mistra and your vassalage to the Sultan Bayezid, then the city will be spared.’

‘And if we choose not to?’ asked the Despot.

‘Then the city will be taken and all will be put to the sword.’

Theodore was silent for a long time, stroking his beard.

‘How old are you, Alexis?’ he asked at last.

‘Eighteen, lord. Nearly nineteen.’

The Despot smiled and considered the person who came closest in the world to being his own son. God had not granted him and the Despoena the blessing of children.

‘And how would you feel if you knew that those eighteen … no, nineteen years were the last of this thousand-year empire?’

Alexis glanced at his father, who was standing next to them listening. Then he looked straight into the eyes of his ruler. ‘We must fight, Majesty. We have our walls, we have our valour and, above all, we have our God. We can win.’

‘And our citadel, Alexis,’ added Theodore. ‘Don’t forget the citadel,’

‘Indeed, lord. And it cannot be taken. The ground is too steep for their engines. Even if they succeed in taking the lower town, we will attack them from above.’

Theodore templed his hands and brought them to his mouth. ‘Who commands their army?’ he asked.

‘We’re not sure, sire. Some say it is Suleyman, eldest son to the Sultan. But no one has seen him.’

The Despot pondered this. ‘Tell the heralds to say this to Prince Suleyman, if indeed it is he: that Christian Mistra will remain Christian. Tell him that Mistra will stand.’

Alexis sprang to his feet, delight creased into every corner of his face.

‘Oh, and another thing, Alexis,’ said the Despot. ‘I want you to carry the message yourself. You will be herald.’

‘But, Majesty, you know that the herald does not fight. I-’

Simon Laskaris had stepped forward. ‘You will do as the Despot has ordered, Alexis,’ he said quietly.

The boy looked from one to the other of them, opening and closing his mouth. Then he frowned, picked up his helmet and saluted. He began to turn but stopped in front of his father.

‘Goodbye, Father,’ he said simply, embracing Simon Laskaris with all the strength he possessed.

Then he was gone.

Theodore glanced up at his oldest friend, still standing looking after his son. ‘Yes, Simon,’ he said quietly. ‘Mistra will stand. God help us.’

Soon afterwards, Alexis was cantering towards the Ottoman army. He delivered the message with as much flourish as he could muster and then wheeled his horse around and trotted back to the city walls. He felt the gaze of twenty thousand citizens on him as he rode. What would they say when they knew of their despot’s decision?

Alexis was angry to be left out of the fighting. Heralds were expected to sit out the battle so as to be there to acknowledge the victor. Now flies were buzzing around his horse’s head and the heat was searing. He hated this inaction. He hated the silence before the first rock was launched at the walls above him, before the scream of ‘Allahu Akbar’ set the bashibozouks in motion. And, most of all, he hated the fact that he’d have to ride to one side and do nothing to stop them.

Then he heard something. Not a rock in flight but the sound of many men in voiceless movement. The bashibozouks to his front were opening their ranks to let someone through.

Alexis could see a spiral of dust far behind them moving towards the front of the army. There was a single rider approaching.

He strained his eyes to see better, leaning forward in his saddle and shielding them with his hand. He was nearly blinded with sweat.

The rider came closer, his mail catching the sun through gaps in the dust cloud and his harness clanking to the heavy rhythm of his hooves.

Now the bashibozouks were bowing as he passed through them and suddenly the rider had broken through their front rank and his ebony black mare was performing a practised rear. The dust settled around him and all was still again.

Alexis gasped. He could not believe what he was seeing. There, perhaps four hundred paces to his front, was the most magnificent warrior he had ever seen. He was clad from head to toe in shimmering gold mail. Even the tall, spiked dome of his helmet was gold. Whether or not he wore a breastplate, Alexis couldn’t see. For, seated in front of him on the horse, was his sister Anna.

She seemed to be dressed in his doublet, and his riding hat sat crookedly on her disordered hair. She was covered in dust and stared miserably at the ground. The warrior’s arm held her firmly to his front and his shoulders above were rising and falling. He was laughing.

Then, in fluent Greek, he addressed the city walls. ‘People of Mistra! I have here one of your prettier citizens!’

Anna struggled against his arm but he tightened his hold.

‘I found her outside the city walls, trying to get help from Monemvasia, I believe.’ He paused while his mare wheeled. The extra passenger was making it skittish. ‘I am Prince Suleyman,’ he continued, his voice rising. ‘Eldest son to Bayezid, whom some call Yildirim.’

The city held its breath.

‘I have an army of fifty thousand on this plain and siege engines which will demolish your city within minutes. Your despot says you will stand against us. But will you stand and watch this beautiful hostage die?’

The first sound, then, came from the city. It was a low murmur of anguish and fear that rippled across it like rain.

On the palace square, the Protostrator had fallen to his knees, his head in his hands. The Despot was no longer with him, having taken up a position on the city walls. Then Simon stood, helped to his feet by two of the Guard. If his daughter was to die, then he wanted one last look at her.

But Anna had no intention of dying.

With all her strength, she drove her heels into the flanks of the mare, which started just enough for Suleyman to release his grip. In one fluid movement, she threw her leg over the horse’s neck and vaulted to the ground.

Then she began to run as fast as she could towards the city walls.

At the same moment, her brother snapped out of his shock and spurred his horse towards her, urging it forward with every muscle in his body.

The city held its breath and watched as brother and sister raced towards each other, the ground between them closing with unnatural slowness.

Suleyman had by now reined in his mare and, for a brief moment, looked in amazement at the scene taking place before his eyes. Then he dug his spurs into the sides of his horse and it sprang forward after the girl.

The two riders reached her almost simultaneously, both pulling their mounts to a stop in a cloud of dust either side of Anna.

‘Who are you?’ Suleyman demanded of Alexis, his hand resting on the jewelled pommel of his sword.

‘I am her brother,’ shouted Alexis over his sister. ‘And you’ll have to kill me first before you touch a hair on her head!’

Sipahi cavalry were closing in on the scene and Suleyman raised his hand to halt them.

‘I’m sure that can be arranged. Don’t you feel a touch outnumbered?’

Alexis shot him a furious glance. ‘And don’t you feel a touch ashamed, terrorising a girl of fifteen?’

Suleyman glanced down at Anna. ‘Fifteen? I had hoped for older. No matter, she will grow.’ He looked back at Alexis. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

Anna stepped forward. She had her brother’s cap in her hand. ‘Alexis,’ she said. ‘Alexis Laskaris and he is twice the man of you.’

Suleyman smiled. ‘Laskaris?’ he asked. ‘Laskaris, as in the Protostrator Laskaris?’

Sister and brother exchanged glances.

‘So,’ said Suleyman softly, ‘it seems I have two valuable hostages for the price of one. What good fortune!’ He turned to Alexis. ‘Can you tell me why your city is so stubborn, Alexis Laskaris? You know you can’t win.’

But it was Anna who answered again. She was standing with her legs apart and her hands on her hips. There was colour beneath the freckles of her face, colour to match her hair.

‘You are right. You can take our lower town,’ she said. ‘But you will never take the citadel. Look at it!’ She pointed above the city walls. ‘It’s impregnable! And it has cannon.’

‘Cannon-?’

But Anna hadn’t finished. ‘What would Yildirim say if you were to return with only half your army?’

Suleyman snorted. ‘I can lay waste your lower town and not bother with your citadel.’

‘And where is the honour in that?’ she asked. ‘Is that what Saladin would have done?’

There was a long pause. Then Suleyman threw back his head and laughed. ‘Saladin!’ he cried. ‘Very good. But he was Egyptian and I am a Turk.’ He studied Anna for a tense moment. He looked at the bustle of red hair, the wide, defiant eyes, the set jaw and the fifteen-year-old body poised to burst into its full blaze of beauty. He would like to see that.

He smiled. ‘You are an extraordinary girl,’ he said, bowing from the saddle.

And then he turned his horse and cantered away.

Simon Laskaris had watched all this with a mounting sense of foreboding. It seemed that both of his children were now to be taken hostage and he cursed himself for allowing Alexis outside the city walls. But something unexpected was going on in the plain below. Instead of seizing his children, Suleyman appeared to be conversing with them — and Anna was doing much of the talking.

Then, to his astonishment, he saw Suleyman ride back to his lines, only slowing to issue a command to the sipahis that had ridden out to escort him. And, miracle upon miracles, the whole Ottoman army turned around and began to march back to its tents, the siege engines rumbling slowly behind them.

It seemed to the Protostrator that a tiny wind had risen across the hillside of Mistra as twenty thousand breaths were released below him and a city’s population looked down at its children and saw a future before them. Then, little by little, the wind rose to a roar, a roar of such jubilation that it seemed the very stones of the houses might be lifted from their mortar.

The city of Mistra was saved.

And out there on the plain below stood its saviours, hand in hand.