A Place Called Armageddon (64 page)

Hamza had lost Mehmet then, first to prayers of thanksgiving, then to crowds of acclaimers. He had himself gone straightaway to fulfil his sultan’s orders. As
kapudan pasha
, the navy was his responsibility, and sailors were as much engaged in the sack as anyone else. It was midnight before exhaustion made him stop, and by then perhaps half his charges were back aboard. He would have to go out with more squads in the morning. He had not had any sleep for two days. He would have given half his considerable share of the city’s plunder for an hour of it.

Yet it was to be denied him still. A
solak
came to summon him, and brought him to the long-abandoned palace of the old emperors, the Bucoleon. The archer left him at an entranceway where two other guards stood, its doors long since rotted away. Hamza stared into the darkness until flame drew his eyes, and a voice softly called, ‘Come.’

The Conqueror was standing in the small pool of light his lantern cast. Beyond it, Hamza was aware of a vast hall. ‘Can you feel their presence?’ Mehmet murmured when he drew near.

‘Who, lord?’

‘The emperors.’ The sultan lifted the lamp, causing the spill to shift. ‘The great Constantine began this palace when he founded the city. Justinian stood here and planned the Hagia Sophia. Basil went forth with his armies from here to shatter the Bulgars. And where are they now, those great men?’ He swept his foot across the floor. ‘They are still here. But they are dust.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Do you remember what that witch said, in Edirne, a year ago?’

‘She said many things.’

‘And all have come to pass, have they not? But the first was that my sandals would stir up the dust in the old palace. And here I am, doing it.’ He passed his foot across the floor again. ‘And what became of her, my sorceress?’

Hamza shrugged. ‘The captain of the
peyk
you assigned to her said she disappeared. She ran ahead of them and vanished. He returned to the church, secured it, as was his order.’

‘Vanished, eh? That seems … appropriate. Well, I have no doubt she will appear again. Look!’ Mehmet raised the lamp a little higher, moving away. ‘Do you see the cobwebs? Do you remember what the Persian poet said?’ His voice dropped as he softly spoke the lines.

‘The spider has turned watchman in the palace of the Caesars,

And has woven his curtain before the door.

The owl makes the royal tombs of Efrasib

Echo with his mournful song.’

‘It is a beautiful verse, lord,’ Hamza murmured.

‘Beautiful, yes. But what of their beauty? The women and the men these emperors loved.’ He stirred the ground again. ‘Dust, too.’ He turned. ‘As we shall be. Before very long. Only dust.’

‘It is true, master. Our bodies shall be. But our souls …’ He smiled. ‘They will be in paradise. For Allah, most beloved, will be pleased with us.’

Mehmet stared at him. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I am certain, Fatih. After this night’s work? The Prophet’s promise fulfilled? The holiest church in Christendom turned to a mosque? How could we not have earned our place there?’

‘I hope you are right, my friend. An eternity in paradise.’ The Conqueror nodded. ‘But here? Such a short time before we join these Caesars in the dust.’ He moved a few paces away, sweeping the ground before he turned. ‘So what shall we do with our brief span before that, Hamza Pasha?’

Bey
no longer, thought Hamza. A pasha. My father the tanner would be … pleased. He took a step nearer, used a title too. ‘What would
you
do, Sultan of Rum?’

It was one many sultans had claimed. But only he who stood before him now had the right to own it.

‘Sultan of Rum? I have taken the Rome of the East, it is true. The Hagia Sophia is the Aya Sophia
cami
now, a holy place for the true faithful to worship within.’ A smile transformed Mehmet’s sadness, a gleam came into the eyes that Hamza recognised. ‘But why stop there? What say you that we turn St Peter’s into a mosque as well? What say you if now we go and conquer the Rome of the West?’

Hamza smiled too. ‘Of course, lord. I am your servant, as ever. A warrior for you and Allah most merciful. Let us go and conquer Rome.’ Then a great yawn came that he could not help, so he added, ‘But can we not do it in the morning?’

Laughter rang out then through the palace of the Caesars, and as they left, the two men’s feet raised the dust of emperors, and broke the spider’s curtain at the door.

EPILOGUS

‘A Surer Possession than Virtue’

Ragusa
September 1460: seven years after the fall

He finished reading, then let the paper curl back into its cone. He thought of placing it beside him on the wall where he sat, but there was a breeze blowing off the sea this morning, a small but welcome respite in the summer heat. Perhaps he would want to read it again later. Perhaps she would. So he let it drop to the tiled floor behind him where it could roll on the terrace, safe.

For a moment, Gregoras watched the swallows swoop, soar and drop, hearing their sharp cries, then closed his eyes to the sunlight, enjoyed its heat upon his face. If he sat there longer, he would have to change his silver nose for the old one made of ivory. He should not sit; there were things he should be doing this day. Yet the breeze felt so good and the city markets would be hot and crowded. No. He would move back into the shade and watch the vessels busying past. Later, when the worst of the day’s heat was done, he would slip down to the water and swim. He sighed, content with his decision.

‘Sad news?’ she said, coming as silently as ever, slipping her arms around him.

‘You can read, if you would like.’

‘I would prefer it if you tell me.’

‘So.’ He opened his eyes, squinted at the horizon, sails upon it. The breeze here was a wind out there, pushing the ships east. ‘Another
irade
has been issued. All who once lived there are again asked to return. To repopulate the city. Help it rise. This time Mehmet has promised a bounty – of money, tools for their trades, a home. And all are still free to worship as they please.’ He tipped his head to the paper, caught in an eddy of air, drifting toward the entrance of the house. ‘Though Thakos says that those who go to church or synagogue must pay an extra tax and that many are converting to Islam to avoid that. I think …’ he shrugged, ‘I think he is considering doing the same. He says he will rise higher, faster if he does. And he is ambitious, as most fifteen-year-olds are.’

‘And does he consider what his mother will say?’ She released him, moved away as she spoke, her tone light. Since he knew that often meant danger, he turned to look at her where she now leaned upon the wall.

‘I am sure he knows well,’ he said carefully. ‘Since she is the recently appointed abbess of the nunnery of Santa Maria.’

Leilah reached up, smoothed fingers along the white scar that ran half the length of her forehead. Another warning sign. ‘You could return,’ she said bluntly, less coolly, turning to him. ‘Take the sultan’s offer. Find a house with a view there.’

He looked her up and down. Made his look obvious. She was wearing only the light silken robe she’d put on when they’d risen a short time before, and her body pushed through it at certain points. He smiled. ‘A better view than here?’

She did not smile. ‘Abbesses renounce their orders. Sons convert to Islam to rise. You could finally tell him that you are his father. You could tell him what you and his mother … are.’

‘
Heya
,’ he said, moving closer, though Leilah folded her arms against him like a barricade. He stopped, his voice lowering. ‘What is the matter, my love?’

‘I … do not know.’ Her hand reached again, rubbing puckered skin. ‘Yes, I do.’ She pulled her arms beyond his grasping hands. ‘I had the dream again last night. Of Jabir ibn Hayyan’s book. It was in my hand at last. But I could not decode any of its symbols. I tried and they just blurred.’ She dropped her hand, jerked her head to the horizon. ‘Sometimes all this feels like the dream. I think I must wake up and it will end.’

‘
Heya
,’ he said again, gentling her with his voice, reaching slowly to uncross her arms and step between them. ‘I have no desire to return there. Not one. That city is steeped in blood and memory. It took many things from me … and yet it also gave me so much.’ He pulled her close, raising the chin that fell, looking into her dark eyes. ‘It gave me you.’

He kissed her, gently. It took a moment before she responded. But then she did, in the way she always did, completely. They turned, pressed close, to stare out at the Adriatic Sea. ‘I told you once what the old poet said,’ he continued. ‘Here, in the old shack when first we met. “A room with a good view is a surer possession than virtue.” And in the whole of Constantinople I cannot think of a better view than this. Nor better company.’ He heard a cry from within the dwelling, and smiled. ‘Nor no other son.’

She stared at him a moment, deep in his eyes, then squeezed his arms and went inside.

He turned back to the water, relieved he was free of her shooter’s gaze. For though the memories came as infrequently as her dreams, and lingered less when they did, still something could set them off. Some noblewoman’s surprisingly coarse laugh. The way brown hair fell across a stranger’s neck. A letter from a fallen, rising city.

Then she’d be there again, as he last saw her; he with her, drawing her out onto the terrace of the house he’d rented in Chios, with Genoan gold. For Giustiniani had not forgotten his comrade in the end, and had paid off Rhinometus’s contract in his will.

Chios

21 June 1453: seven years earlier: three weeks after the fall

‘Out here,’ Gregoras said, taking Sofia’s arm. ‘I do not want to wake her.’

He led her onto the terrace, glancing back once at Leilah on the bed. Her eyes were closed again under the bandage and she seemed to be breathing easier. Softly, he shut the door. Sofia had gone to the low wall, from which she could look down on to the harbour. She spoke over her shoulder as he came near.

‘Has the fever broken?’

‘I … I think so. The salve you brought helped.’

‘As did my prayers.’

Her voice sounded different. Calmer than it had been for a while. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘She’s less hot anyway and was able to eat a little more the last time she woke. She still sleeps near the whole clock round.’

‘I think that is good. It is what she needs to heal.’

Gregoras stared at Sofia’s neck. Her voice was still soft, its quality detached, as if she did not truly care. And yet she had cared, once Gregoras had told her … not all, but a little of what Leilah was to him. Brought broths and poultices. Spared a little time in her prayers. ‘Sofia,’ he murmured, reaching a hand towards her neck, half hidden in falls of dark hair.

She turned suddenly, took the hand he’d extended. When it came, her voice was no longer dreamy but filled with excitement. ‘Do you see in the harbour, Gregor? Do you see the difference?’

He looked. It seemed unchanged. The Genoans still readying to depart. Now Giovanni Giustiniani Longo was buried in his simple tomb upon the island there was no reason for the mercenaries to remain. They had offered their comrade a berth, and a contract for their next war. But Gregoras was done with killing. And he would not leave Leilah – nor the woman who was pointing so excitedly now.

‘There’s the difference,’ Sofia said. ‘There, next to the Commander’s carrack. That trireme? It arrived this morning.’

It was not unusual. Various vessels had straggled into the port in the weeks since the fall. ‘What news?’ he asked, everyone’s first question, though the answer was always the same – rumours of disaster, of slaughter, of desecration.

He was surprised – first by her smile, then by her words. ‘It is commanded by a Greek. Flatenelas.’ Gregoras was about to say he knew the man, but Sofia raced on. ‘But he does not escape from the city. He brings word, from my uncle amongst others. For he has been
sent
from it. By its new ruler. Mehmet has asked all Constantinople’s citizens to return.’

He snorted. ‘Has he not got enough slaves that he wants yet more?’

She frowned. ‘No, Gregoras. The sultan has issued an
irade
. It says he only ever wanted the city to be great again. He wants all its people to help him in that.’

‘Is that what he says?’ He sighed. ‘You know the Turk, Sofia. He will say anything to get what he desires.’

‘Which is what? More slaves? You already said he does not need them.’ Her voice was harder now. ‘And why would Flatenelas, a nobleman of the city, do the enemy’s bidding if he did not believe it? No …’ she raised a hand against interruption, ‘do not speak against it. For you obviously do not see what this means.’ She dropped the hand she still held and spread her arms wide. ‘It means I can go back. I can go back and look for my Minerva.’

‘Oh, Sofia.’ He paused, seeing the hope he thought she’d drowned in a thousand tears bright again in her eyes. In the escape from Constantinople, in the journey to Chios and their time there, he had held Sofia as she wept, gentled her as she raged, restrained her when she thought to steal a rowing boat and return. Finally convinced her of what he truly believed. For he
did
know the Turk. They did not take slaves as young as Minerva. They were too much trouble. So they killed them. And if by some miracle one took pity and enslaved her … then the child would already be in a house in some far-off city, being trained to wash floors, cook meals – and await her turn on the slave block when she came of age. It had happened to the woman who lay behind him now and fought with death. It would happen to Minerva – if, by that miracle, she lived.

He thought he’d convinced her. ‘Sofia,’ he said gently, reaching for her.

‘No!’ She stepped away, till her legs touched the low parapet. ‘Do not try … Do not say … what you have said before. I have seen Minerva in my dreams. I have held her in my prayers. I know she lives. And tomorrow, on Flatenelas’s ship, Thakos and I will go and find her.’ She lowered her arms, her voice. ‘Will you come with us?’