A Place Called Armageddon (6 page)

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 in 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.

Bolts were shot, the door opened. ‘Peace be with you, friend,’ Hamza said, making the obeisance of forehead, mouth and heart.

‘And with you, friend. You honour my house with your visit. Will you enter and rest?’

‘I will, and I thank you.’ Bowing, Hamza stepped over the threshold. Abdul-Matin immediately squatted in the doorway, pulling his cloak around him.

As he followed his host up the stairs, Hamza was pleased. On the neutral ground of a tavern they might have wrestled for tongue. Here, as host, Theon was obliged to speak that of his guest.

At the entrance of the room was a woven mat. ‘There are slippers for your use.’ Theon gestured.

‘Thank you. I have my own.’ Hamza reached into his satchel, pulled out a pair lined in sheepskin, struggled out of his heavy boots. ‘I can never get used to these,’ he said, placing them by the door. ‘Italians do not understand the necessity of good footwear. Unlike us.’

‘Us?’

‘We of the East.’

Theon considered. The sought kinship was a small enough point to concede. ‘They do not. But they need thick boots to kick their wives and walk down the sewers they call their streets.’

Hamza laughed. ‘Do they not?’ He stepped into the room, glanced around, his face revealing nothing. ‘I am sorry for the surprise of my visit. But those filthy streets are filled with young men seeking mischief this night. And they begin their search in taverns. One of my hue …’ he gestured to his face, ‘is a provocation to them.’ He turned back to Theon, still at the door. ‘You have heard why they celebrate?’

‘Some saint’s birthday? Or two? They have more saints than days here.’

Hamza tipped his head. ‘Ah, my friend, I think you know. Because I think you are, how shall we say, the host of the celebration?’

‘Host?’

‘Its cause. The accord you have concluded with the Doge and the Council.’ Theon’s face did not change, so Hamza continued, ‘The force that will go to defend your city?’

‘Ah. Is that what they celebrate?’

‘Indeed. A new … crusade against the Turk.’ Hamza laid his open palm against his chest.

‘Hardly a crusade. I heard that Genoa itself does nothing. But it will not stop certain … concerned citizens going to Christendom’s aid. A few thousand men perhaps.’

‘Ah, there our reports vary. I heard a few hundred. And though perhaps they will not trumpet this, all paid for by Genoese gold.’ Hamza nodded. ‘Still, you have succeeded in your embassy, have you not? Even so few men. When I was here, trying to persuade the Doge to send none.’

He sighed … and Theon suppressed a smile. Hamza had not truly entered the room and their duel was already in its third pass. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to two chairs before the fireplace where wood burned, ‘warm yourself,’ adding, as the Turk crossed the room, ‘Despite the danger, at least at a tavern I could offer you wine.’

Hamza stretched hands towards the flames. ‘I do not drink wine.’

‘A true believer?’ Theon stepped closer. ‘And yet not all of your faith are so … true. Did not your recent sultan, peace be with him, love the distillation of the grape?’

Hamza stared. If he knew something of the Greek, what was known in return? For the late sultan was Murad, the Great. Supreme warrior, diplomat, administrator, poet. Hamza had been his cupbearer, his confidant … his lover. It was Murad who had taken the handsome tanner’s son from Laz, educated him, trained him, loved him. Created him. Hamza had loved him in return, even for the weakness that had killed him. It was not only true belief that kept Hamza from wine. ‘He did. May Allah, most merciful, give him rest,’ he said.

‘And his son? Your new ruler? Does he share his father’s … tastes?’

Hamza looked at the Greek. There was an emphasis on ‘tastes’ he didn’t like. ‘Mehmet is a true believer too. But his passions lie elsewhere.’

‘In what?’

Hamza spoke the words softly. ‘In conquest.’

Interesting, thought Theon. Some weakness there, something to probe later, perhaps. The man turned away, shifted closer to the fire, and he was able to study his face for the first time. It was not as dark as he had claimed. Sun rather than race had given him his ‘hue’. The beard was almost fair. The eyes a pale blue. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should talk more of that. But first …’ he forestalled the Turk’s reply, ‘can I offer you anything else? Some dates and cheese perhaps? Some water? The water seller in this street is surprisingly cleanfingered.’