‘Eminent arseholes, Zoran. Where have you been? I have had messengers out for you for months now. I thought we were going to have to set forth without our talisman of ill-fortune. Rather have it beside me than levelling his crossbow at me, eh?’
Gregoras rose from his bow. Giovanni Giustiniani Longo had changed little in the year since they’d last fought together. A little greyer, a little stouter perhaps, but still the tall and vigorous figure he had followed over ship’s gunwales and through breaches, dressed as ever in his blue-black armour, the large medallion of San Pietro ever at his throat. Like most killing men, the great mercenary leader was deeply religious. Superstitious, too. Years before, in a galley fight off Crete, Gregoras had deflected a crossbow bolt that would have ripped out the Commander’s throat. The Genoan had considered him his lucky star ever since.
Gregoras extended his bow to Enzo the Sicilian and Amir the Renegade, Giustiniani’s most trusted lieutenants. The latter brought him a goblet of wine from around the table they all stood behind, muster rolls and maps scattered among the daggers and bow strings. ‘Welcome back. Allah’s blessing on you,’ he murmured.
‘And Christ’s on you,’ Gregoras replied in Arabic. He and Amir had a history of wine-fuelled religious debate all the more furious because neither of them cared much for the faiths they’d been raised in. It made him feel immediately at home, the only home he’d known since his exiling. Though if the money was good enough, perhaps that was about to change.
‘So where have you been, Zoran?’ Giustiniani repeated. ‘We wondered if you’d settled down with a whore, or been knifed in some Ragusan tavern by now.’ The lined brow contracted. ‘Or worse – that you’d taken a contract with those sodomite donkeys the Venetians.’
It had suited Gregoras to claim a name and a city that were not his. It was not entirely untrue either, for he had a home of sorts in the city some called Ragusa and others Dubrovnik and he was known as Zoran there. It made for fewer questions. For if they knew his real name, his birthplace …
A home, he thought. It was why he was there. Why he’d picked up his sword and his crossbow again and made the arduous journey to Genoa. His home was a hovel. But it had the best view in Ragusa, out over the Adriatic Sea. It was like the view from his childhood home, when his parents had been wealthy. He wanted to build a home just like it. But Istrian stone was expensive, as were its crafters. He needed one last campaign, for the wages and especially the booty it offered. Then he would hang his crossbow on the wall of his new home and stare at the view for ever, unmasked, unaccompanied, with no one there to pity him.
‘Venetians? Never. I care too much for my reputation – and my arse.’ The three men laughed, and he continued, ‘No, my lord, if I am going to get fucked, it may as well be by people I love. So I came to seek you out.’
‘Love? The Pope’s testicles, Zoran.’ Enzo smiled. ‘You heard we were paying double wages.’
‘Good.’ He hadn’t. Had heard nothing, because he’d stepped off a boat and come straight to the company’s tavern from the docks of Genoa; but it was excellent news. ‘Even though, as you know, I’d work for less than nothing for the pleasure of your honoured company.’ He rode over their guffaws. ‘So who do you want me to kill?’
All three replied. ‘Turks.’
‘Better. Storing up treasure in heaven with the slitting of infidel throats.’ He crossed himself, careful to do it the Roman way and not the Orthodox he’d been raised in, two fingers not three, right-left not left-right. Two of the men imitated him, one did not, and he looked at him. ‘No insult meant, Amir.’
‘None taken, uncircumcised dog.’
‘And when does this well-paid crusade begin?’
‘We sail within the week.’
Gregoras smiled. ‘Best,’ he said. ‘Then I will go fetch my gear from the whore I’ve been living with.’ It was not true, but it was what they wanted to hear. ‘I’ll sign the articles straightaway so you can pay for my wine. Till later, comrades.’ He turned to the door, then turned back. ‘Not that it matters much, your eminence, but where do we fight this time?’
‘Oh, some backwater.’ Giustiniani spun a map round. ‘See?’
There was a restrained excitement in the Commander’s eyes, in his tone, that made Gregoras, who truly did not care where he was going, who he was to kill, turn back, look down … and have his breath taken. Though he had tried to erase every aspect of the place from his mind and memory, the hound’s head of land thrusting into water was unmistakable. And it was as if a dog had come and snatched his last bite of food, for all his hopes were gone.
‘It’s always hard to tell beneath that mask,’ Giustiniani was saying. ‘And if it is true, it is as rare as a nun’s virginity. But do you know, my boys, I think we have finally shocked the Ragusan.’
Gregoras sought a quip, failed. He could not summon breath, let alone words. The home he had envisaged crumbled in his mind. The journey that had exhausted the last of his funds had been wasted.
The silence lengthened. ‘It’s Constantinople,’ Enzo said, helpfully.
‘I know what it is.’
‘And you know the Muhammadan is planning to take it.’
‘As he has for eight hundred years,’ Gregoras murmured.
‘But this time he means it.’ The Commander rested his knuckles on the table. ‘Their new sultan, Mehmet? A kid, full of piss and wind. But he fancies himself the next Alexander. Another Caesar. It’s said he’s assembling the biggest army the Turks have ever raised. And he’s already begun to take the city. Did you hear that he built a fortress here?’ Giustiniani jabbed his finger down on the map and, reluctantly, Gregoras looked. ‘See? It’s right on the water, opposite their older fort. He calls the new one “the Throat Cutter”. You can see why.’
Gregoras could. As a young man, he had often ridden on that stretch of cliff, standing in Europe and staring at Asia across the narrow sea channel the Turks called Bogaz, ‘the Throat’, and the rest of the world knew as the Bosphorus. If the Turk now had a fortress either side, he commanded one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. He could sink any ship trying to bring grain from the Black Sea into the city. He hadn’t so much cut Constantinople’s throat as closed it, preventing it from feeding.
Giustiniani spoke as if to his thoughts. ‘A Venetian captain, name of Rizzi, tried to run the gauntlet. Wouldn’t heave to when ordered. The Turks sank him with one fat ball, fished him from the waters – then shoved a stake up his arse.’ He winced. ‘Still, being Venetian, it probably wasn’t much of a hardship.’
The three men laughed. Gregoras didn’t. Looking at the place of his birth, the source of his disgrace, hearing tales of it, his mind was numbed as it never was under cannon fire or swung swords. One thing came through, and he voiced it. ‘Why … why would you go and fight for them? Who would pay you? They have no money.’
‘This very city, son,’ Giustiniani said, straightening. ‘It has been decided in the last few days.’
Gregoras raised a hand to scratch a sudden itch on his nose, dropped it fast, when he remembered there was no nose to scratch. ‘But why? Does not Genoa still have a treaty with the Turks?’
‘Aye. And we will not break it either. Even though I am a nobleman from one of the foremost families of this city, yet I will go as a leader of a rabble of Genoese mercenaries – and the odd renegade Musselman.’ He threw a punch at Amir, connected with his shoulder, the Syrian trying to smile away a painful blow.
‘The sultan will not believe that …’
‘The sultan will turn a blind eye, because it suits him to do so. If he takes Constantinople, he will still want to trade with us afterwards. If he does not – he will still want to trade with us afterwards!’ Giustiniani stabbed the map again, on the point of land opposite the city. ‘And remember, we fight for our land there too, our colony of Galata. If the Greek city falls, Galata will too.’ He grinned. ‘No, on balance, we’d rather have those cheating sodomite Greeks in Constantinople. A
s you’ve said, they have no money any more, no power. Less serious rivals for our trade, eh? The Turks drive too hard a bargain. Bad as Jews!’ He grinned. ‘And the Pope is now calling it a crusade, since those blaspheming Greeks have agreed to full union of their Orthodox and our true Roman Church again.’ He crossed himself once more. ‘So we serve God and our city both. Profit on earth and in heaven.’
This was news to Gregoras – and there was a time when it would have mattered, deeply, this abject surrender of his people’s ancient faith in exchange for begrudged aid in the fight all knew was coming.
It did not matter to him now. Nothing to do with that cursed city had, since the moment the knife had cut down and Constantinople had taken his everything: his love, for Sofia was lost to him; his name, for he was Gregoras Lascaris no more. And the final loss, the one that marked him as exile, as traitor, gave him the new title he would for ever be known by there: Rhinometus – the Noseless One.
He looked up, seeing the face before him as if through a mist. The Genoan was raising his goblet. ‘So what do you say, lad? Will you toast with me to Byzantine gold, Christ’s glory and Musselman blood on the stones?’
Gregoras shook his head. ‘I will not. I will not fight for that … place. In that place.’
The goblet paused before the mouth. ‘Eh?’ Giustiniani managed, his eyes widening.
‘I will not fight there.’ He forestalled the question. ‘And I have no need to tell you why.’ He shrugged. ‘Have you not some other deal?’
‘Deal! You … dare … dare …’ The Commander’s fury was ever instant, all-consuming. Gregoras had often seen it, directed at enemies and any failings in his own men. Never at him – until now. ‘Do you think I am some fucking … broker?’ he roared. ‘I am a prince of Genoa and commander of its armies and I do not … deal!’ He smashed the goblet down on the table, slopping out wine, which flowed, like a bloodied crimson river, over the dog’s-head outline of Constantinople. ‘So you will follow me into whatever hellish hole I order you, kill whomever I command you to kill – or you will return like the noseless cur you are back to the shithole you’ve just slithered from.’
Gregoras would take mockery about his maiming. Insult was another thing. Enzo and Amir had both seen what happened when one came, and both stepped slightly closer to their raging, oblivious leader, hands clasping hilts.
The eyes above the mask narrowed. Then they closed and Gregoras breathed deeply. Breath gave him pause … and memory. In a strange way, he loved the man before him, and would do him no harm, even if he was able – no means certain with hard men like these at his side. So instead he stepped forward, placed his half-filled cup on the table. ‘Good fortune attend you all,’ he said softly, as he turned to the door.
‘Wait!’ It was Amir who spoke, and turning back, Gregoras saw him stand on his toes – for Giustiniani was huge – and whisper in his ear. The Genoan’s eyes had narrowed in his storm, and for a while they darted about as if seeking a target for his rage. Then, suddenly, Gregoras saw the storm pass and light return. Instantly, as ever with him.
‘Well,’ Giustiniani said, chuckling, ‘wouldn’t that just serve him right?’ He turned to Gregoras. ‘Listen, you insubordinate dog. I do have an offer to make you, and it’s one that is quite likely to end with your throat being cut, which would be only right after your insolence. If you refuse it, you will live for ever in the shadow of my displeasure and I shall seek no more delight than stringing you up by your balls. Is that understood?’
The words were harsh, the tone less so and belied by the obvious amusement in his commander’s eyes. Gregoras breathed a little easier, then nodded. ‘You know I obey your every command, eminence.’
Giustiniani nodded, ignoring the obvious. ‘Then obey this, Zoran. There is a man who is said to have recovered the secret of a weapon thought lost. It is one dear to Greek hearts and it bears their name: Greek Fire.’
Gregoras frowned. Greek Fire had saved Constantinople from its enemies many times. Eight hundred years before, this fire sprayed from brass siphons had destroyed a besieging Arab fleet. But the exact formula was a mystery and few if any had been able to replicate it for a hundred years or more.
The big Genoan continued. ‘The man in question is said to be a German. Name of Johannes Grant, which seems an odd sort of name even for that nation of shit-wallowers. We would like him on our side. The trouble is, the Turks would like him too. Preferably in hell.’
‘Good,’ said Gregoras. ‘And you would like me to find him for you?’
‘Oh, we know where he is.’ A smile was coming to the Italian’s thick lips, one that Gregoras did not like. ‘He’s in Korcula.’
Better. Korcula was an island in the Adriatic Sea, not far from his hovel in Ragusa. He could fetch the fellow and visit his home at the same time. With an advance of Genoese gold – for special contracts like this paid special wages – he could even get the builders to break ground. ‘Then I will collect him for you. A German in Korcula should be easy to find.’ A frown came. ‘But where do you want him? More importantly, where will I be paid? I will not bring him to …’ He gestured at the wine-stained map.
‘You will not have to.’ Giustiniani was smiling broadly now. He shuffled through some papers, brought out a different map. ‘I have men to collect in Chios. Given good winds, I will be there sometime late December. You can meet us there.’
He would need the same good winds. But he would not be travelling with an army, so it was possible. Tight, but possible. ‘Good. Then that’s where I will meet you. We will celebrate our Lord’s birth together there.’
‘Oh, that will be pleasant.’ Giustiniani’s eyes were almost afire now, so brightly did they shine. ‘Enzo here will give you some gold. Shall we say, a quarter in advance?’
‘I’d prefer a third.’
‘I am sure you would. But even a quarter might be enough to turn your head.’ He nodded, and Enzo went to a large chest in the corner of the room and pulled out a bag that clinked. ‘Count him out one hundred ducats.’
One hundred. Three hundred more on delivery. He could build a small castle in Ragusa for that, let alone a house. Gregoras kept his whistle within his mask and watched carefully as the coins were being counted. He could not count them again without insult. ‘Is he worth so much?’ he murmured.
‘The Turks would pay you double to kill him.’ Giustiniani nodded. ‘But I know you, Rhinometus. You never like to change sides in the midst of a fight. Most un-mercenary-like.’ He smiled. ‘A deal is a deal with you, is it not?’
‘It is.’ Gregoras’s tally matched Enzo’s. He watched until the coins were safely in a leather purse, took it, cinched it, tucked it under his cloak. ‘Then with God’s good winds in all our sails, I will see you in Chios.’
He bowed, as did they. As he rose, he saw the amusement yet lingering in the man’s eyes. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there, my general?’
‘There is.’ The Genoan glanced at the men either side of him. Enzo shared his amusement. Amir less so. ‘The German,’ he continued, ‘is not in Korcula willingly. He is a prisoner.’
‘Of whom?’
‘The pirates of Omis.’ Giustiniani’s smile grew as he saw the expression in Gregoras’s eyes. ‘So you better make your peace with God, Zoran, however you worship him. Because you are going to need all the help you can get.’
– FOUR –
Beloved of Muhammad
It was the drunken gang swaggering past – praising Christ, cursing Allah, lauding the Doge – that changed Hamza’s mind. The man he’d come to see had brokered the deal they celebrated. Though the soldiers to be sent were few enough indeed, they would bring hope with them to Constantinople in a few months’ time – and profit to Genoa’s taverns tonight. It was never a good tactic to deride a man’s most recent accomplishment. Churlish, at the least; while the plan to emphasise the disparity between attacker and defender was always going to be a blunt club. Both men knew it already. Knew too that i
n the end, the choice to fight or not to fight would not come down to the odds.
Hamza shrugged. He possessed subtler weapons. Full of hope, not despair – why back a man into a corner when you can bring him into the light? – while the subtlest was personal to the man he was about to coerce.
Lascaris. There had been emperors of Constantinople of that name, centuries before. No doubt this one could trace his family further back, perhaps to the city’s very founding. Hamza smiled. He could trace his family back to his grandfather, the goatherd.
Lascaris. Also the name of a traitor. This man’s brother. Does more than noble blood run in this family? Hamza wondered, as the danger passed in shouts down the street and he tapped his bodyguard on the shoulder.
They stepped from the doorway they’d sheltered in, lifting their cloaks over the muck that flowed down the lane’s centre. Abdul-Matin struck the door opposite three times with the butt end of his dagger. They waited. He rapped again. Then, as he raised his hand a third time, shutters above were pushed out a crack.
‘Who’s there?’ a man’s voice called in accented Italian.
Hamza recognised the accent. ‘A friend,’ he replied softly, in his own tongue, ‘seeking shelter.’
Theon stiffened. This had to be the man he’d been about to go and meet. The plan had changed – or the Turk sought some advantage in this surprise, for Turks were cunning as snakes. He sucked at his lip, considered – but there was little he could do. The man could not be left on the street. ‘A moment,’ he called, before turning back and hissing, ‘Sofia! Tidy this room. Swiftly.’
As his wife poured the dregs of tripe stew into one bowl, adding the date pits and crusts of bread, Theon slipped his embroidered surplice over his tunic, then opened the chest and put away the copy of the agreement he had signed with the Genoese, his notes in the margins. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He suspected his visitor would know most of the details already.
The little they had was soon tidied away. The room looked like what it was: cheap accommodation for an envoy whose country could afford nothing more. It was why he had been happy that they were meeting at the inn. Yet at least his clothes, under Sofia’s care, were immaculate. ‘Go,’ he said, and Sofia went into the bedroom, pushing the door closed behind her. Taking a breath, Theon descended the stairs.