‘Are those the infidels, sir?’
‘Aye.’
‘S … s … so many?’
Gregoras glanced down. He could see the terror in the eyes of the boy, who was probably little older than his and Sofia’s son. The lad, Bartolomeo, had adopted Gregoras ever since he was plucked from the sea. ‘Aye, they are many. But look at them.’ He knelt so his eye was level with the child’s, rested one arm on the rail, lifted the other. ‘That one ahead is a trireme. It has a mast but no sail raised, for we have the wind. Still, it is driving hard towards us, propelled by men on oars.’ He shifted his hand. ‘Those beside it are biremes, smaller, fewer oars, and those on either side, still smaller, are fustae.’
The boy laughed nervously. ‘They look like water bugs.’
‘That’s it!’ Gregoras threw his arm wide. ‘And look at us, how tall we stand in the water, how high the sides of our ships. Those we do not crash through we will squash …’ he stood, stamped, ‘like bugs.’
‘Bartolomeo!’
The call came from the boy’s father, a lieutenant on the ship. He was beckoning his child to shelter below. Behind him, on the raised aft deck, another arm was waved – at Gregoras. ‘Come! We are both summoned.’
He rose, the boy did not. ‘I wish to stay with you …’ his eyes went wide, ‘and watch the fight.’
‘I think you will see enough of it, wherever you are. But arrows are about to fall like rain upon us, so you need something over your head.’ He walked, the boy following. His impatient father muttered a curse, grabbed him roughly by an arm, started to drag him below. Bartolomeo glanced back to Gregoras, who quickly raised his mask, giving a flash of ivory. It had never failed to delight the lad, and it brought a smile now.
As the boy descended, Gregoras climbed the steep stair to the aft deck. Bastoni, master of the Stella Mare, the man who had summoned him, lifted his head from the straps of his breastplate. ‘So, Greek, it begins. Are you ready?’
‘I am.’ Gregoras had left his Ragusan name and mercenary history upon the vessel that had sunk. ‘Where do you want me?’
‘At the start, here beside me. There may be some parley and you speak Osmanlica better than any here.’ He cursed, fumbling with the strap. ‘Can you aid me with this?’
‘With pleasure.’ Gregoras bent to the straps, swiftly securing them. ‘And after the talk?’
‘Where you will.’ The man grunted. ‘I would not take lessons from you in how to sail my ship and I would not tell a hunter where to position himself for the kill.’
He gestured to the crossbow, propped up against the rail, amidst a pile of armour. Gregoras glanced, reappraising. He had won the weapon from the captain himself in a shooting challenge the second day aboard. Other Genoans had rushed to avenge this insult to their leader’s prowess, and each further challenge had given him the pieces of armour he needed to protect himself. They were mismatched, and nothing like his fine set that someone in Giustiniani’s company would have stolen by now. The sallet was impressive, near new, with the visor that was becoming more the fashion. The bevor was less so, and he knew he would not want to expose the gap between them too long, offering the chance for a keen-eyed Turkish archer to put an arrow through his neck. The breast-and back plates had belonged to a smaller man, and stopped well short of his waist. He would need to be standing behind something so that his bare legs were covered.
Gregoras jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘How long?’
The master looked past him at the enemy, up to his own sails, down to the waves. ‘A half-glass.’
‘Then I had better arm. Would you help me?’
‘Aye. If you’ll finish with me. There’s little I can do now except run at the whoresons.’
Each aided the other and both were soon done, the master standing in a beautiful suit of blackened armour, Gregoras in his motley. He reached into his visor, under his mask, as if to remove his ivory nose. Reconsidered. His sallet had a visor, so he was unlikely to get hit in the face. He dropped his hand.
Bastoni had seen the gesture. ‘You never told me the story of your nose,’ he said.
‘No. I never did.’
After a moment, both men smiled. Each took a deep breath. The Turks had got so close, heads could now be seen. ‘Go with God,’ Bastoni said, then turned and marched to the front of his aft deck.
Gregoras picked up his crossbow. It was a foot bow, a hunter’s bow, which he preferred, certainly for a sea fight. A bigger bow, wound with a crannequin, would send a bolt farther, harder, but it took too much time to fit the winding mechanism, draw up the string, unlock, aim, shoot. More to carry too, and heavier, when he shifted positions. A foot in the stirrup, a pull using the back, it was ready in moments. Turning it over, he studied the face plate. The decoration was nearly always the same – the Huntress, a naked version of Diana with long flowing hair and high-set apple-shaped breasts. It made him think of the last woman he’d seen naked, Leilah, a memory that brought a smile as well as a question: where was she now? Awaiting him in Ragusa? Would his change of heart cost him her?
The quarrels rested head up. He reached past the smooth sharpness, grasped a shaft, pulled one out. It was not as beautifully fashioned as the one he’d found outside the warehouse doorway in Constantinople, nor the one he’d pulled from the Scotsman’s pack in Korcula. Both those had curved flights of heron feather, could have been made by the same careful hand. Even though he knew that was impossible, he’d wondered briefly if some vengeful crossbowman had been stalking him. No, good bowmen made good quarrels, that was all. He would, if he’d had the time, for they flew that much more truly. Unfortunately, these flights before him were of curved leather, ordinary. Still, they would do the task at the range he would be shooting. But there were only twenty in the quiver. He would have to choose his targets carefully. Unlike arrows, quarrels were hard to scavenge in a fight. Once these were gone, he would need to rely on other ways of killing.
He checked that now – the falchion at his side. He liked the weapon, with its thick, slightly curving blade; shorter than most swords, it was perfect for the close combat he would soon be seeing. Sliding it back into its sheath, he checked that his small, round buckler was equally secure on his other hip, then rose, just as the master shouted his name.
‘Gregoras! They come!’
The distance had halved again. The Turkish vessels were spread out ahead in the shape of a buffalo, a thin, wide crescent like horns, the bulk in a body in the middle. Close enough now for Gregoras to notice at last what the stiff south-westerly propelling them had prevented till then – the music. The wind still kept it faint to his ear, though he knew it would be loud enough, and soon. It was the same on sea as on the land – the Turk fought to a constant, frantic wailing accompaniment of horns and drums.
The enemy had shipped oars, most of them now rolling in the swell. Only one kept coming, the biggest of the triremes, oars on both sides rising and falling like mechanical wings, the big kos drum keeping time – that, and the man Gregoras now saw striding the histodoke that ran the length of the ship like an exposed spine, bellowing commands. He carried a long whip, furled for now, and Gregoras winced at a memory. Six months a slave upon a galley before his escape, and weals like white worms crawling across every vertebra of his back.
‘Does he expect me to stop?’ Bastoni was pointing at the largest man on the trireme’s raised foredeck; the best dressed, too, with a suit of full mail and a huge helmet crested with peacock plumes.
‘No,’ replied Gregoras. ‘But he will make himself heard.’ He looked to his left. There sailed another of the carracks of Genoa. To his right, closest to them, was the one Greek vessel, a transport stuffed with grain from Sicily. It was wider, a little lower in the sides, though still sitting taller in the water than any of the enemy’s triremes. He understood little of seamanship, could only wonder at the skills it took for all the Genoan ships to trim their sails to accommodate the slower vessel. Their strength lay in their unity,
all knew. Besides, the grain in the transport’s holds might be the difference between the city they sought to succour starving to death or not.
When he turned back, the halved distance had halved again. The Turks had masterful sailors too. The kos drum received a single, mighty thump. The man on the histodoke cracked his whip and all the oars upon the trireme’s right side were lifted from the water. At the same time, three men pushed hard upon the tiller. The ship appeared for a moment almost to stop, and to tilt until the men upon their benches would have been able to dip their hands into the flood. But further shouts, further strokes of the left bank of oars jerked the trireme round and upright again. As the Genoan ship, its sails bellied, swept past, the drum began to beat triple time, the whip to snap and the oared vessel leapt forward alongside and perhaps fifty paces away.
‘A clear shot, if a tricky one,’ Gregoras said, placing his foot in his bow’s stirrup. ‘Shall I shoot him?’
Bastoni shook his head. ‘There’ll only be another sodomite to take over. Let’s hear what this one has to say.’
The Turk commander raised a trumpet. ‘You of Genoa! I am Baltaoglu Bey, kapudan pasha of the sultan’s navy. What make you here?’
Gregoras translated. Bastoni nodded. ‘Tell him that, if it is any of his business, we go to deliver goods to the city.’
‘Which city?’ Gregoras queried. ‘Galata or Constantinople?’
Bastoni smiled. ‘That truly is none of his business.’
Gregoras relayed the terse reply. Baltaoglu bellowed, ‘That is forbidden. You will allow us to board you and take you with us to the sultan. There you may find mercy. But if you refuse, you will get none from me. Refuse and every man will die. Some quick, most slow.’
Gregoras shook his head. ‘The man speaks with the most execrable Bulgar accent. Another renegade. But even with that, the message is clear: surrender or die. Slowly.’
Bastoni nodded. ‘Tell him to insert one of his peacock feathers and twirl.’
There was no direct translation, but Gregoras anyway had a better way of answering. Throwing down the trumpet, he placed his foot in the stirrup of his crossbow, pulled the string to its catch, snatched two quarrels from his quiver, one for its groove, one for his mouth, raised the weapon, took swift aim, pulled the trigger. Considering the rise and fall of the sea and the still gusting wind, it wasn’t a bad snatched shot. It snapped one of the feathers, the wind ensuring that it would never be used for the pleasuring suggested. With another bellow, Baltaoglu dived behind his rail, just as a line of Genoese crossbowmen rose above theirs and shot. Halfway between the ships, quarrels passed arrows loosed from Turkish bows.
‘I think he understands,’ said Gregoras, crouching, slipping the second bolt into the groove.
But Bastoni did not hear him. As an arrow glanced off his helmet, he raised his hand to his visor and, just before slamming it down, yelled, ‘Ram the bastards out of the way!’
The battle was begun.
– NINETEEN –
Before a Dying Wind
At first it was too easy.
Every yard was filled with canvas, every sail thrust out like babies in a belly, hastening to be born. The wind that had swept them past Chios swept them on now, and the captains of some of those triremes, biremes and fustae not swift enough to manoeuvre out of the way were soon trying to remember if they could swim. Banks of oars were snapped as the carracks ran the length of them; the high, hard oak prows of the Genoese harrowing the Turkish vessels like clods of earth in a field. Most managed to evade the rushing doom, but some were left foundering in the larger ships’ wakes, oars a-tangle, slaves fallen from benches to the deck, slavemasters wielding whips and curses to no effect.
Yet there were many, deeper into the pack, luckier, more skilful, and warned by the fate of their compatriots, who managed to evade, then turn to pursue. The fastest, with kos drums beating triple time and oars pulling dementedly, could keep up with the carracks for a while and their tillermen steered them close. Grappling hooks were twirled and thrown, and some bit into the wood of the ships’ sides. But the moment one held – and even Gregoras, for that moment, could feel the slight slip of momentum – a sailor was there with an axe, the barbed head was severed and the ship surged like a hound freed from a leash.
From the shelter of an aft rail, Gregoras watched the sailors do their work. Though arrows flew up around them, he did not return the shots. There was little aiming in the buck and jolt of the anafor and it would be an unlucky seaman who was struck. He had nineteen quarrels left and he was determined to find a fleshy mark for every one.
And then the chance came. A hook landed, a sailor raised an axe, and an explosion followed that drowned the drum. The sailor reeled back, half his face torn away. ‘Gun!’ yelled Bastoni, beside him. ‘What place do they have in a sea fight?’
Other sailors ran forward, to take away their wounded comrade, to strike again; the hook was severed. But more flew, and as another shot exploded a chunk of railing, Gregoras could see that they were attended to with less alacrity. He took a chance to peer over the edge. Upon the bireme’s deck, men were readying a culverin with powder. He waited until the deck beneath him felt steadier, as the vessel crested a wave. Then he lifted his bow over the edge, breathed, sighted.
He’d been aiming for the chest. He took the gunner somewhere near the thigh, judging by the way he instantly doubled over, gun exploding as it fell from his grip. Ducking back, Gregoras watched sailors hack the grapple clear. The ship surged again and, looking swiftly to port, he saw that the others were equally free. Ahead, the bulk of the Turkish fleet had been passed through. A few of the smaller fustae were rowing hard out of the way. He looked up and saw the ruins of the ancient Acropolis, surmounted by the newer tower of the Church of St Demetrius.
‘Acropolis Point,’ he yelled to the captain. ‘The Golden Horn and safety is round this bend.’
‘I know it well, Greek,’ Bastoni shouted back. ‘We will sail to the boom and keep swatting these flies until your countrymen can raise it for us.’
Others had recognised where they were. From each of the four ships came the sound of cheering. All aboard knew they were close to sanctuary. From the Turkish ships still in pursuit there came a different kind of shout, a chorus of fury.
And then, as sudden as a man’s last breath, the lodos wind died.
‘What is it, Mother? What is wrong?’
Thakos tugged at Sofia’s skirt. Minerva, who’d been dozing despite the shouting of the hordes on the Splendome, pulled her face from her mother’s neck.
Sofia stared. She had cheered, as loud as any, the ships’ sweeping progress and her mouth was dry. ‘The sails. They … they …’ she croaked.
The man next to her finished her sentence. ‘They’ve lost the wind, boy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘God help them now.’
All around, voices started up again. Not cheering now. These voices were low, words coming on whispers.
‘Holy Mary, mother of God, help these poor sinners.’
There were ten, fifty, hundreds. Muttered prayers, sobbed out. Buried in Sofia’s neck again, Minerva began to cry.
‘By Muhammad’s sacred beard, a miracle.’
Hamza marvelled at the suddenness of the change. Yet he’d always known that Mehmet was as changeable … as the wind, he supposed. Mere moments before, when the enemy’s vessels had burst into view round the point of land, their sails full, their own fleet trailing like exhausted hounds about a galloping stag, their sultan had blasphemed both the Prophet and Allah in terms that had his closest advisers turning away to quietly pray. Now he was urging his horse closer to the water’s edge, raised high in his stirrups, with nothing but reverence on his lips. The court – for all had followed Mehmet to this strip of sandy foreshore beneath the walls of Galata – moved forward with him.
‘See!’ Mehmet cried. ‘See what Allah has given me.’ He raised one hand to the sky, then swept it down, making obeisance. ‘He has brought
them here, cast them adrift right here before me, so that I may witness the triumph of my fleet. Is it not Allah’s blessing, Hamza Bey?’ He turned to grip the other’s arm. ‘Does this not, more than anything yet, show how our enterprise is holy?’
Hamza smiled, for show. He would gain nothing by crossing his master in this mood. But he had commanded ships at sea, and had fought Italians upon them. Even if they were becalmed, and the four vessels surrounded by twenty times that number, this was not going to be an easy fight. But he said, ‘Undoubtedly. Is not one of your titles “lord of the horizon”? Why would the weather not act on your bidding?’
Mehmet laughed, turned. ‘Bring me chairs, a table, food, wine. Let us feast and toast Baltaoglu the Bear’s triumph.’
Men scurried. Grooms came to take their horses. Within minutes, a small pavilion had been set up, leather stools unfolded. Mehmet clapped his hands. ‘Wine!’ he bellowed. When he got it in hand, he stood and raised his goblet to the scene. ‘Allahu akbar!’ he cried.
Only the imam and one or two of the more orthodox beys refrained from breaking Allah’s commandments while pledging Him. Most, even those who did not drink, like Hamza, raised their wine to the scene before them and, like their sultan, called for God’s victory.
For a while, they were just a spear’s throw from the walls of Constantinople. But then the current began to draw them away, drifting them, almost imperceptibly at first, towards the Galata shore. The Genoese ships seemed to be barely moving – though this was not true of their enemy. Gregoras, snatching glances under what had become a rainfall of arrows, saw that the Turks were now hindered by their numbers, that someone – this Bulgar renegade he’d parleyed with, no doubt – was trying to order the chaos. Drums and trumpets were being used for signals now, not just for courage. And judging by the steadier flow of stone ball that was thudding into the ships’ sides, Baltaoglu was having some success.