Siege (3 page)

Longo’s men came up behind him, joining him on the river-bank. He had taken over one hundred men from Italy to the fields of Kossova, and just over fifty remained. Their armour was battered and dented. Many were wounded and some might not survive the sea voyage back to Genoa. Most were long-standing veterans of Longo’s campaigns; a few, like Tristo, had fought alongside him since they were boys. Longo had led the survivors safely out of the Turkish lands, but he knew that would be little comfort to the wives and children of the men who had died. They would blame him, and he did not begrudge them their anger. He blamed himself as well.

Tristo interrupted Longo’s sombre thoughts. ‘It’s good to see the old city again, eh friend?’ he said. A notorious joke-teller and wit even in the midst of battle, Tristo could always be counted on to brighten Longo’s mood. ‘We’ll finally have some easy living after all these months of war,’ Tristo continued with a grin. ‘No more stale bread and dried meat.’

Longo eyed Tristo critically. He was a huge bear of a man – a good two hands taller than Longo and almost twice his weight, and Longo was not small. ‘Easy living is the last thing you need,’ Longo told him. ‘I should put you on half rations.’

‘Nonsense,’ Tristo replied. ‘I need to keep up my strength. I have a duty to the women of Constantinople.’

‘I thought you had a duty to your wife.’

‘I do, indeed. That’s why I need the practice: to make sure I get the rust off before we return to Genoa.’

‘We’d best hurry then,’ Longo said with a grin. ‘I’m sure you’re very rusty.’

‘I am indeed,’ Tristo said and spurred his horse down the hill and towards Constantinople. Longo shook his head and galloped after him.

William woke with a start to find the day already bright and the street before him bustling with life. Outside his cell, a stooped Greek in a dirty linen caftan had begun loudly hawking a collection of clay pots.

William stood gingerly, stretched his stiff legs, and peered out of the cell. To his left, other merchants lined the street, peddling their wares to passers-by. Far to his right, the street opened into a small square, where a large crowd had gathered around a raised platform. A portly Turk wearing a blue silk caftan and a towering turban stood on the platform, and as William watched, he hauled up a dazed, naked young boy to stand beside him. Immediately, men in the crowd began pointing and shouting. It was a slave auction, William realized. The boy sold quickly to a Greek and was dragged off. William turned away and sat down. If he did not want to share that boy’s fate, then he would have to be ready when Hasim came.

William took the rope that had bound his wrists and wrapped it around both arms so that it appeared as if he were still bound. Last night, he had made a noose of the long rope that Hasim left behind, and now he placed the noose in his lap, hiding it from view under his hands. He did not have to wait long before Hasim arrived, accompanied by the portly man from the auction and a large, well-muscled Turkish guard. Hasim and the slave-trader were arguing loudly. Hasim smiled and pointed repeatedly at
William, and each time he did so, the slave-trader frowned and shook his head. William’s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay still. Finally, an agreement was reached. The slave-trader produced a pouch and carefully counted out a dozen coins.

Hasim pocketed the coins, then unlocked and opened the cell door. As he turned his back, William sprang up, dropped the noose around his neck and pulled it tight. As Hasim clawed at the rope that was strangling him, William took the dagger from Hasim’s belt and cut his throat. Hasim slumped to the ground, blood pouring from him. The slave-trader, white with shock, had recovered from his initial surprise and drawn his sword. He swung for William’s head. William ducked the blow and slashed out with Hasim’s dagger, opening a long cut along the slave-trader’s cheek. Grabbing his face, the trader staggered back as his burly guard surged forward. William threw his dagger, catching him in the throat and dropping him. Then he turned and ran, dodging between people and around pedlars’ carts. He could hear the shrill voice of the slave-trader calling for someone to stop him. A Greek merchant tripped him, and William went sprawling. But when the merchant tried to grab him, William slipped away and dashed to his right down a wide avenue. There were fewer people here, and he sprinted unimpeded. He ran until he reached a large square, where he paused, bending over to catch his breath. Looking back, he saw the slave-trader some fifty yards back, now accompanied by two more guards. William straightened and ran on.

Past the square, he left the main avenue, turning off into a maze of narrow alleyways. His pursuers’ footsteps echoed between the tall buildings so that they seemed to be everywhere at once. William ran hard, turning frequently until he was completely disoriented. He kept running even as the guards’ footsteps faded and his lungs began to burn. Finally, he turned a corner and found himself facing a dead end. He slumped against the wall and then sank to the ground, breathing heavily. He listened intently, straining to hear approaching footsteps over the drumming of blood in his ears, but all was silent. William offered up a prayer
of thanks to Saint William of Bury, his patron saint. He had escaped.

A mangy dog entered the alley where William sat and sniffed cautiously at him from a distance. William thought of the carcass he had seen yesterday being torn apart by wild dogs. A night spent alone on these streets, and he too might end up prey to the dogs. He would have to find some place to sleep and food, too. He thought of the monastery he had seen upon entering the city. They might take him in, if only for the night.

He rose and made his way through the warren of small streets to a broad avenue, pausing in the shadows of an alleyway until he was certain that there was no sign of the slave-trader or his brawny Turkish guards. Then he set out in what he hoped was the direction of the monastery. He had only walked for a few minutes when he came to the square with the towering column that he remembered from the day before. Fortune was with him. He quickened his pace, but just then, on the far side of the square, he spied the slave-trader on horseback. William froze, but it was too late. Turning to flee, he ran straight into one of the Turkish guards.

The guard grabbed William’s right arm and twisted it behind his back, while with his other hand he held a knife to William’s throat. William struggled briefly, but the knife dug in, drawing blood, and he stopped. As a crowd of onlookers gathered, William watched the slave-trader canter up to them and dismount. He said something to the guard, who twisted William’s arm further back, forcing his head down. William looked up to see the slave-trader standing above him, a dagger in his hand. William spat at the trader, who slapped him and then put the dagger to William’s nose.

‘
Serbest birakmak onu
!’ someone shouted at the trader in Turkish, and he pulled the dagger away. William twisted around to see a lean, square-shouldered man striding through the market towards them. The man wore dark chainmail, and at his side swung a sword that, judging from his strong hands and thickly muscled
forearms, he knew how to use. He was strong-jawed and handsome, although the deep creases on his forehead told of a life that had been far from easy. His hair was a sandy colour, surprising for the East, and his eyes were a piercing blue. The slave-trader looked at him for a moment, then spat and put his dagger back to William’s nose.

Longo looked from the well-dressed Turk to the bone-thin boy with fair skin, reddish-brown hair and not the first hint of a man’s beard. He looked no older than fifteen, and he was certainly not from the East. Whoever he was, Longo was not about to let this fat Turk torture and kill him in public.

‘Please, sir. Help me!’ the boy pleaded in English.

‘I said, release him,’ Longo said again in Turkish and drew his sword.

‘The boy is a slave, bought and paid for,’ the fat Turk replied. ‘I will do with him as I wish.’

‘Then I will buy him from you.’ Longo took a pouch from his belt and tossed it so that it landed heavily at the Turk’s feet. A few gold coins flashed in the sun as they rolled free from the bag. ‘I trust that will be more than sufficient.’

The Turk lowered his dagger as he glanced at the pouch – easily four times what the boy was worth. He touched the long gash that William had opened on his cheek. ‘The boy has drawn my blood. He has killed one of my men. His life is forfeit.’ He raised his dagger, preparing to strike.

‘My name is Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, and if you kill that boy, then you will have a quarrel with me.’

The blood drained from the Turk’s darkly tanned face, leaving it a sickly yellow colour. He stared from the sword to Longo’s worn chainmail and then to Longo’s hard face. ‘
Katil Türkin
,’ he whispered. He lowered his dagger and shoved the boy roughly towards Longo. ‘The boy is yours,
effendi
. Take him!’ The Turk scooped up the pouch, not even bothering to collect the loose coins, and hurried off down the street, followed by his guard.

Longo looked at the boy. ‘Well boy, what did you do to make him so angry?’ he asked in English.

The boy spat after the retreating figure of the slave-trader and then turned to face Longo. ‘He wished to sell me as a slave. I did not wish to be sold.’ He looked at Longo suspiciously. ‘What did you say to him that made him leave? What does
Katil Türkin
mean?’

‘It means “Scourge of the Turks”. It is what I am known as amongst their kind.’

‘What are you going to do with me?’ the boy asked.

‘I have no need for slaves,’ Longo told him. ‘You are free to go.’

The boy did not move. ‘I have nowhere to go. I have no money, no food. At least give me a weapon so that I can defend myself.’

Longo looked hard at the boy. Something about him, perhaps the flash in his eyes or his belief that with a weapon in hand he could make his way in the world, reminded Longo of himself at that age. ‘What is your name, boy?’

‘William, sir.’

‘And how old are you, William?’

‘Sixteen,’ William replied. Longo eyed him sceptically. ‘Fifteen, sir. Fifteen next month.’

‘You are very far from home, William. How is it that you came to be in Constantinople?’

‘We sailed looking for spices, but our ship was captured by Turks. I was brought here to be sold as a slave.’

‘I see. Can you fight?’

William nodded. ‘I can hold my own with a dagger.’

‘Can you, now?’ Longo pulled a dagger from his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it deftly.

‘The life of my men is not an easy one, William,’ Longo warned him. ‘We fight many battles, and we are often on the move. I will not lie to you: you are not likely to live to an old age. But if you do live, then there is glory to be won in battle against the Turks. What do you say?’

‘I hate the Turks. They killed my uncle and my shipmates. They beat and sold me. I will fight them gladly.’

‘Very well.’ Longo took William’s arm and clasped him by the elbow. ‘You are my man.’ Longo turned to shout to Tristo, who was standing some twenty feet away, his arm around a rather buxom woman selling bread. ‘Tristo! Come here.’

Tristo kissed the woman he was holding on the cheek, while his hand slipped from her waist to her bottom. ‘Sorry, love,’ he told her. He gave her bottom a squeeze, and then ducked away before she could slap him. He approached Longo with a grin on his face. ‘What is it? She was just about to ask me home.’

‘Tristo, this is William, a new recruit.’

‘Glad to have you with us, boy,’ Tristo said, and he slapped William on the back so hard that the boy stumbled and almost fell.

‘Tristo will take care of you, William,’ Longo said. ‘And your task is to keep Tristo out of trouble. He’s a little too fond of women and dice. Can I rely on you?’ William nodded, and Longo turned back to Tristo. ‘Take him to the ship and prepare to sail. We leave tonight.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘At the royal palace. I should pay my respects to the empress-mother. With the emperor dead, she may have need of our services.’

Sofia stood at the window of her bedroom within the women’s quarters of the Blachernae Palace and looked out at the market square beyond the palace courtyard. The view – normal people going about their lives – had always comforted her, but it could not do so now. Many of the people she saw were dressed in black, returning her thoughts to the grim events of the past few days. It was less than a week since the funeral of Emperor John VIII, and her future and the future of the empire were both uncertain. Constantine, the eldest of John’s brothers, was far away in Mistra, at the heart of the Peloponnesian peninsula. The second brother, Thomas, was rumoured to be closer. As for Demetrius, the youngest and most ambitious of the three, nobody knew where he was.

The sound of a horse’s hooves interrupted Sofia’s thoughts, and she looked out to see a man approaching the palace. He was tall and rode with a warrior’s ease, a sword swinging at his side. His hair was light and even from a distance Sofia could see that he was not Greek. He was a Latin, perhaps northern Italian, Sofia guessed as the man drew nearer. He was strikingly handsome, but hard, too. There was something about his face, the grim set of his lips … her uncle’s face had been like that.

Who was he? she wondered. The Italian ambassadors had already been to the palace, expressing their grief at the death of the emperor and making empty promises of assistance. This Italian would not be coming on behalf of Genoa or Venice. Why, then? Sofia watched him enter the palace courtyard and dismount. She prayed that he was not bringing more bad news.

The Italian looked up suddenly, and his gaze landed on Sofia in her tower room. Their eyes met, and he did not look away. Sofia stepped back from the window and drew the curtain shut. When she looked out again, the Italian had gone.

‘Count Giovanni Giustiniani Longo of Genoa and Chios.’

Longo followed the herald’s voice into the great octagonal hall of the palace. Its bright interior was ringed with high windows and the walls were lined with Varangian soldiers – the royal family’s private guard. Before him, the Empress-Mother Helena sat upon an ornate throne, the back styled as a lion’s head, the arms its clawed feet. Over seventy, white-haired and wrinkled, Helena nevertheless held her head high and sat straight, conveying an air of command. To her left and right stood members of the royal court. Longo recognized the Patriarch of the Orthodox Church by his tall conical hat, and the captain of the Varangian guard, a stern, square-built man bearing the insignia of the emperor’s personal bodyguard. Near the empress-mother stood the woman that Longo had seen in the tower as he arrived. She was slim and carried herself with a dancer’s grace. Her olive skin was flawless, and she had wavy chestnut brown hair, and bewitching
eyes of light brown shot through with flecks of gold and green. Longo realized that he was staring at her and turned his attention back to the empress-mother.