‘More bleatings from goats!’ Zaganos stood to shout it, banging on the table. He had not risen from slavery to the command of a division to be frightened, even of a sultan.
But Hamza leaned closer, his voice silk, contrast to the other’s fire. ‘My friend, your loyal subject, speaks truth, lord. But let he and I go amongst your forces, and bring you news of them. Of the strength of their hearts. And remember, lord, that men fight for many beliefs. For Allah, most merciful, and the paradise that awaits should martyrdom call. For the glory of their people, the finest soldiers on earth. And for what the city promises – for they have not sat before these walls and fought as well as they have to return to their villages poorer than when they set out. Let us go amongst them, lord, and confirm this for you. And let us then pay no more heed to the bleatings of goats and listen only to what our hearts tell us.’ He reached then, took the younger man by the arm. ‘One more attack, lord. One more.’
Mehmet stared back, then laid his other hand atop of Hamza’s and squeezed before releasing it and rising. ‘Go amongst them, both of you. Tell me their hearts. And if we discover to be true what we all believe …’ he smiled, the first time in a while, ‘then I will lead them myself to the walls and beyond them.’
Both of the other men knelt, each reaching for one of Mehmet’s hands, touching them to their foreheads. ‘As you command.’
A noise from the tent’s entrance. At first Hamza thought it might be distant thunder again. But then he realised that a man stood there, clearing his throat, the sultan’s steward. ‘Lord,’ he said, when beckoned to speak, ‘your emissary Ismail has returned from the city. He brings a Greek with him, one Theon Lascaris.’
‘I know him, lord,’ Hamza said. ‘He is as twisted as the roots of a cedar from Lebanon. And, if I read him right, he has little stomach for the fight. If you were to make of him and his emperor impossible demands …’ he smiled, ‘then let me work on him again; we may have an ally when we need one. Not all goats are on one side of the walls.’
Mehmet nodded. ‘Leave him to me.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Bring me my armour, my sword. Let my household guard surround me.’ Men began rushing to obey his commands. ‘You two go – and find me out my army’s heart.’
They left by the rear of the tent. When they were a safe distance from any ears, they crouched, raised their hoods against a spatter of raindrops. ‘Do you think we will find what we seek, Zaganos? Will the army fight in the way we need them to?’
The Albanian nodded. ‘They will. As you said, offer them God, glory and gold, and most men will fight for one of them.’
Hamza nodded. He looked to the west, where thunder rolled and lightning jabbed at the earth. Then he looked to the east. He could just glimpse the top of the tower at the St Romanus gate. Even at this distance it looked huge. He shivered, though the air was close. ‘But can we triumph?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘We can. We will.’ Zaganos rose with a creak of joints, then turned and marched away. ‘Don’t you turn into a goat now, Hamza Be-ey-ey.’
The bleat was perfect. Hamza laughed. ‘Go with God,’ he called after him, then went the opposite way.
Gregoras felt the first of the rain and looked sharply up, glad that the storm was upon him at last, and that the terrible waiting – air growing so thick it began to choke him, lightning jabbing down in vivid spear thrusts, thunder crashing ever nearer like a titan’s approaching footsteps – was over. Yet when he saw clouds that were not grey but a rusty-brown, and that they filled the sky in flat waves from the distant waters of Marmara to the Golden Horn, driving now towards the city, he looked swiftly to the earth again. He was not a man who set much store by signs and portents. But above all the battlefields he’d fought, he’d never seen a sky so full of blood, fat drops of it now thudding into his hood, as if bodies were dangling above him, with throats freshly slit.
He pulled his cloak tighter around him, hot though he was. He wanted air, and lifted his mask to get some, sucking in deep draughts, tasting its foulness, spitting out the iron. He thought of taking it off, didn’t, for the same reason he wore one in most places in the world – his false nose attracted looks, some insults, attention.
He did not need it as a disguise. Not when he was among so many fellow Christians. The first of these he’d accompanied from Galata, joining a party of Genoan merchants of that city, off to trade with the Turk, riding one of their pack horses the long land route around the Horn, abandoning ride and traders before the towering walls of the Blachernae palace, from which he’d set out only eight hours before. And then he was with more Christians, for a good part of the sultan’s army worshipped the Cross. As he’d begun to walk up the hill, unchallenged along the siege lines that paralleled the city walls, he heard Vlach cavalrymen from Wallachia, Hungarian gunners, Serb miners, the guttural bark of Bulgarian azaps. At last, when he’d forded the stream called the Lycus, where one hill descended and another began to climb, the languages shifted too, eastwards. To a variety of oriental tongues, most of which were unintelligible to him. But mainly to Osmanlica, which he spoke well. The river marked a boundary, that between the European levies of the sultan’s army and its Anatolian heart.
It marked another boundary too. And Gregoras knew that his one long glance at the city there was as responsible for his shortness of breath as the foul sky above him. The vast numbers of the enemy was one thing. Their mighty cannon, the mightiest of which drowned out the thunder even as his feet got wet at the ford, was another.
But the wall …
He took more breaths, finding enough sweet amidst the foul to steady himself. He could not succumb to despair. He was there to spy, to report. So he looked again …
… at the outer wall, middle of the three, the one the generals had chosen to defend, because the higher, inner one was in such a state of disrepair and the one over the fosse too low. And here, where two hills climbed away from each other and a river ran, here Mehmet had moved his biggest cannon and increasingly concentrated his attacks. Gregoras knew because he had stood there upon the battlements, three hundred paces from where he stood now, could clearly see his comrades, many Greeks with the soldiers of Genoa, under the red cross. He had fought with them, helped drive each assault back.
‘How?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Holy Father, how?’
Because there were no battlements. The middle wall was no longer there.
He knew that already, in his heart. He had seen the damage that the enemy’s huge cannons had wrought. He had helped to repair it. But only standing here, behind their lines, could he see the extent of that damage, those repairs. The wall had been replaced, for a good four hundred paces, by a stauroma. This stockade was made from the slabs of broken stone of the former battlements, of timbers from pulled-down buildings and destroyed boats, of the trunks and branches of trees. Crates had been filled with straw and vine cuttings. Earth had been scooped from behind and bound the structure tight, and together with the skins of animals formed a softer surface for the cannon balls to sink into, absorbing some of their ferocity in a way the walls had not. Surmounting it all, barrels filled with earth and stone took the place of the former crenellations.
Gregoras knew all this. He had scooped, filled, levered, stacked. And yet seeing it now from the enemy’s viewpoint, it looked so fragile, a toy built by a child for play. He could not understand how the vast forces arrayed against it and concentrated in this spot did not just walk up to it and, with one soft breath, blow it away.
The rain was a deluge now, the stockade shifting before his eyes, vanishing as he expected it to vanish. He turned from it. He had a full reckoning of his country’s weakness. Now he had to do his job and gauge its enemy’s strength.
Yet it was near impossible to see, let alone make any sort of tally. Hard too to keep his feet, in tracks transformed to mud streams in moments. A lightning bolt snatched his vision, forking down onto one of the few trees left standing on the plain. Fire shot from it, flaming branches tu
mbled onto shapes that screamed, leapt from the little shelter it had provided. And in a heartbeat, less, before the light was gone from the searing of his eyeballs, thunder came to assault his ears, right above him, Gregoras now the centre of the storm, dropping to his knees with the force of it.
He could not stay there, in the open. He knew that atop the hill facing the St Romanus gate, Mehmet had pitched his pavilion at the centre of the fight and a canvas city had grown up around him, and spread far behind. Somewhere, surely, in those winding alleys, there was someone who would give him shelter?
Head bent, he drove himself against the rain and up the slick slopes. Gaining the summit at last, at the same time he felt a slight lessening of the water’s force, heard the thunder peal behind him, realised that the main body of the storm was moving past to engulf the city. He could see ahead now, Mehmet’s tug to his right, its horsetails lying lank and sodden beneath bells too waterlogged to chime. He moved away from that, from the guards who would challenge any who got close, heading instead into a narrow path that nonetheless ran straight between the tents, one of many conduits in his camps that the Turk scrupulously left clear to speed his messengers. Men crowded beneath every eave, water cascading before them, others already shoving ahead of him to be admitted. Gregoras walked on, seeking a sign, some gap he could squeeze into.
He came to a crossroads of sorts, hesitated. To the right, to the north-east, were the European levies, more Christians amongst them. Perhaps they would give one of their faith, howsoever lapsed, some charity? But then he remembered who these men were, who they fought for, who against, and stepped forward.
Another crossroads, another choice. He looked to the left, and saw it. Before a small tent, a pole. At its apex, a scroll of vellum, sodden now, ink running from its folds like black blood. It was peculiar, and so he went to it, poked in a finger, peeled back the parchment enough to see the remains of a zodiac, his own symbol of the Gemini, just where his finger touched, dissolving as he did.
‘A magus,’ he muttered. The sign was an invitation to consult. He had three gold hyperpyra in his purse. They were meant to be used as bribes, if he needed them. One was far too much for even the most gifted of seers. Yet for shelter, a chance to get out of this rain?
He bent to the flap. ‘Are you there?’ he called. ‘May I come in?’
It took a while for the reply. When it came, it was a woman who answered, her words clear. ‘I have been expecting you.’
As Gregoras pulled open the flap, he was smiling. What sorceress worth a gold hyperpyron wouldn’t have seen that I was coming? he thought.
He stepped inside … and his smile vanished.
Sitting on a carpet, in the centre of the tent, was Leilah.
– THIRTY –
Signs and Portents
Three horoscopes, inked on large vellum sheets, lay before her. Her own and those of her two men of destiny. Twins, in a way, for Gemini ruled the heavens now and both Mehmet and Gregoras.
Leilah stared down. There was a day five days hence, one of such power that she had never seen its like before. Mercury and the Sun were in conjunction, so huge achievements were possible. But Mars, god of war, was almost touching Uranus. So the risks that must be taken for such achievements were enormous.
It was a day when one world could end and another begin. When one man’s triumph was another’s disaster. With her between them, needing them both for her own triumph.
Yet the stars, as ever, spoke of opportunities, not certainties. They impelled. They did not compel. And for all her calculations, Gregoras’s part was still dark to her; she could not bring him into the light. She could not simply trust to fate, not with so much strife in the heavens.
She needed to see him. She needed to compel him. Perhaps she needed to go and seek him, before the world exploded.
She’d thought all this – and then there he was. Standing in her tent, eyes so wide above his mask that she could only laugh. Laughter of joy, of doubts banished, of hope and prophecy both fulfilled in a moment. ‘What …?’ he was saying. ‘How …?’
Delight bore her up, flowing from the ground, to stand before him, look up into those wide eyes, as green as she remembered them. Her tent was hot, for she kept a brazier ever alight to burn her incense upon, to heat liquids, to turn to smoke certain words she wrote down. She could see wisps of steam already rising from his soaked cloak. ‘Come, Gregoras,’ she said, as calmly as she could, reaching up to the clasp at his neck. ‘Surely you will be more comfortable if you are not wet?’
His hand folded over hers. He was shocked, he who did not shock easily, and for a long moment he could not think beyond the surprise, could only hold her hand, feel the heat in it, in the tent, in her eyes. Then something in them shifted something in him. He could not remember the last time he’d laughed. With her, probably. So it seemed right to laugh with her again.
He did, letting go of her hand. ‘What kind of sorcery is this?’ he said.
‘My kind,’ she replied, flicking the clasp at his neck now, heaving the sodden wool off his shoulders. She reached with her fingers, pushing them up into his sweat-damp hair.
‘Leilah,’ he murmured. She was dressed for the heat and for privacy, dressed in little, a silken shift, held in straps from her shoulders. The brazier-light flickered from below, casting shadows, showing a deeper darkness at the tip of her breasts, at the joining of her legs. ‘Leilah,’ he said again, more thickly.
‘Talk, talk,’ she replied, slipping her hand around the back of his head.
They kissed, her mouth opening, tongues meeting, she sucking hard upon his as if to draw him down, her weight adding to the tug. He fell to his knees, her before him, and she swung onto hers so she could grab the buttons on his doublet, open them one by one. When the last one popped, he shrugged out of the garment, then out of the shalvari that swathed his legs. ‘Better.’ She reached again, pulling his mask aside. ‘Best.’
He groaned, reached to the silk at her shoulder. It was her hand that closed over his now, her delay. ‘Tell me … and I will know the truth …’ she breathed. ‘Am I the first you have had since Ragusa?’
He had no need to lie. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, his eyes in hers.
She saw her again, the aristocratic bitch he had followed in Constantinople. He loved her, she knew, she had seen, in his face then, in her dreams since. But he had not lain with her. Could not, perhaps. And that was good.
She cupped his face in one hand. ‘And I have had no one. Wanted no one. Want no one … but you.’
She released his hand. He tore the silken shift from her then, followed where she led him. She was swollen thick with her desire. But here, now, at last, he had no need to rush, and it took a time before he reached her limit, with her huge dark eyes a hand’s breadth away. Life is strange, he thought, before thought became impossible, just one more impossible thing.
The storm returned, or another one came, burst upon them, thunder rolling them up in its roar, rain clattering onto the hide roof so loud it drowned all their sounds. For this she was glad, for she never liked to restrain the joy she took in lovemaking, and giving vent to it in a war camp, even so close to the whores, would have drawn attention or worse. The storm was at its height for a long while, as long as they were joined, and only when it began to pass did their cries subside. Not fade entirely, for one bout of lovemaking bled into another, less wild, more like a dream. At the end she was above him, barely moving, staring down into eyes that stared into hers. Till he rose up, clasped her tightly, burying his last cry in her breasts as the rain finally ceased.
They lay there, naked in each other’s arms, as heartbeats slowly returned to normal. Gregoras would have been content to lie there for a day and a night, to sleep as he had not slept in weeks. He tried for a little while, let his eyes follow the shadow play of lamplight on the tent walls, where pinned parchment scraps bore zodiacal signs, Arabic script, that moved as if speaking. But he could not last long. Time pressed him, his city
called. And questions crowded.
He sat up, stared down. ‘How …?’ he said.
She was up in a moment too, a finger to his lips. ‘How is lost. It was written and it has come to pass. Ask, rather, why.’
He smiled. ‘Why?’
Instead of answering, she reached, pulled the silken shift over herself, then moved to a corner, returning with two beakers. He took one, sipped, and cool sherbet delighted his tongue. Draining it, he put the vessel down, looked at her again, asked again, ‘Why?’
It was time for truth, simple and direct. ‘Because I need you to get something for me. From Constantinople. When the city falls.’
‘If it falls.’
‘When. It is written. It is seen. It is destiny.’
He looked up, at the sigils on the walls. The strangeness of it all, of their reunion. It made him suddenly angry. ‘I do not believe in any destiny I do not see and write for myself,’ he said brusquely.
‘Then see this, Gregoras.’ She leaned closer. ‘Believe or not, a wise man prepares for what may be. Even you must think that the city may fall.’
He shrugged. ‘It is possible. Yes. So?’
‘So prepare for the possible.’ She took a breath. ‘There is a monastery, just within your crumbling walls. The monastery of Manuel.’
He frowned. Only that morning he had listened to its bells. It was not anything he’d expected her to say. ‘I … I know it.’
‘A library is part of it.’
‘It is a place of learning. For certain schools of study.’
‘Certain schools? One especially.’ She nodded. ‘The monks there study the alchemical arts, do they not?’ He did not respond, so she continued. ‘They have collected many manuscripts, books and documents. Unique. Beyond price. There is one especially, written by Jabir ibn Hayyan, whom the Latins call Geber. His works have been translated. But the original manuscript, in his own hand, with his notes in the margins, the monks of Manuel possess. It is, possibly, the most important book in the world.’