The Towers of Samarcand (35 page)

‘They are keeping our heads down in the castle while they burn down the town around us,’ said Dimitri. ‘We don’t have long.’

Longo nodded. With half of the garrison in Italy, they were outnumbered twenty to one. They had no cannon beyond the little ribaudekin given by the Duke of Milan and all the Greek fire had been used up in Constantinople. It would be over quickly.

Longo looked up to the sky. His fingers eased the top of his cuirass, which was digging into his neck. The sun was hidden by the smoke and the air smelt of burning. From the town he could hear the shouts of panicked men and animals. Somewhere a donkey was braying without cease.

He thought of Giovanni. Would he become part of the
Devshirme?
Would he be sent away to become a janissary as they’d meant to do to Luke? He’d heard that Greek families on the mainland were now offering their children for the levy with bribes.

Not Giovanni. Not while I am alive to prevent it
.

His son was in the new port of Limenas. He was in the care of a fisherman and his wife who’d been given money to take him
to Mistra where he would be reunited with his mother. He’d agreed the plan with Fiorenza before she’d left. They would leave as soon as the messenger told them that Chora had fallen.

Longo looked back at the janissaries. They were almost at the castle walls now and scaling ladders were being brought forward. The huge gates of the castle had shut behind the last of the fleeing men. Everything in the town was being set alight and plumes of black, acrid smoke rose from the houses.

It won’t be long now
.

A horn sounded. It did not come from the town but from the ships. Longo walked to the walls overlooking the harbour. The Turkish cannon had fallen silent and the flagship had hoisted a new pennant. The galleys were turning, their oars digging deep to bring them around.

The engineer arrived beside him. ‘What are they doing?’

Longo shrugged. ‘Perhaps they don’t want to hit their own men now that they’re at our walls.’

Barbi shook his head. ‘Their aim is certainly wanting, but you’d think that this would be the time to increase their firing. Look.’ He was pointing back down the coastline to the place where the Turks had first landed. The boats that had brought them from the ships were working their way along the shoreline towards the town.

Dimitri had joined them. ‘Do they mean to come off and attack from some other direction, do you think?’

The others remained silent. It seemed inexplicable. Longo led them back across to the walls above the town. The Genoese archers on the ramparts were shouting into the smoke below.

‘They’re calling them cowards,’ said Barbi as they approached. ‘Is that wise?’

They came up to the archers and saw what they saw. Through
the smoke billowing up from the houses were janissaries in retreat. Maintaining their impeccable discipline, the men were marching back through the streets of Chora in the direction of the boats that were coming to get them.

Longo heard footsteps behind him. Members of the signore were approaching, Gabriele Adorno at their head, Zacco Banca beside him.

‘What is this, Longo? Do they come at us another way now?’ Adorno’s white beard brushed his black armour as he spoke. ‘Where are they going?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ replied Longo. He glanced up at the sun, fierce now without the dust. He put his hand to his brow and looked out to sea. ‘There’s a boat coming towards us.’

A pinnace had detached itself from the flagship. It was more a
barche
with a tassled awning at the stern. It had an ornate ribaudekin set into its prow and a turbaned man stood astride the muzzle. The sea was still choppy and its scalloped waves rocked the boat from side to side and Longo wondered whether the man would make it to the shore.

He did. Ten minutes later the men of the campagna and Benedo Barbi were assembled at the top of the harbour steps watching the man straighten his turban as he stepped from the boat. On dry land, he was impressive. Everything about him was large, from his turban to the curl of his moustache; from his sash to the sword it held to his waist. In one hand was an enamelled mace, in the other a scroll.

He reached the top of the steps and bowed. ‘I am the Yeniçeri Ağasi. I command the janissaries. Which of you is the Lord Longo?’ The man spoke Greek as if he was native to the tongue.

Marchese Longo exchanged glances with Gabriele Adorno. ‘I am Longo.’

‘I have a message from the Prince Suleyman,’ said the Aga, lifting the scroll. ‘There is to be a truce for a week. We need someone with the skill to heal snake poison, snake poison from this island. Do you know of such?’

Zacco Banco stepped forward. He was shaking his head. ‘Are we to understand that you intend delaying your attack so that we can
help
you?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘What will you do at the end of the week?’

The janissary turned to him. ‘We will return the person and renew the attack.’

Banco snorted. ‘Why would we help our enemy?’ he asked. ‘It is unnatural.’

The Aga turned back to Longo and held out the scroll. ‘It is to be read by you, Lord Longo. It has the seal of my master and has not been opened.’

Longo took the scroll, broke the seal and opened the parchment. He read the contents twice, then rolled it up and tucked it into his belt. He turned to Benedo Barbi. ‘Go and find Dimitri. And tell him to bring Lara.’

*

Two days later, Bayezid was in the throne room at Edirne, with his son Mehmed, and was in a dark mood. One of his fillings had fallen out. The doctors had prescribed the same opiates given to Angelina but they’d only delivered nightmares. To make it worse, he’d just had to endure a dirge from the janissary
mehter
band for two hours and the beat of the
davul
was still thumping in his temples.

‘Thank Allah we’re not widows,’ he said to his second son, his eyes closed and a finger to each temple. ‘The Koran dictates
four months and ten days for them. We’ll only have to mourn her for three days.’

Bayezid had returned from Wallachia immediately on hearing of the death of his mother. He’d left his army there to persuade the Voivode Mircea not to repeat the mistake of Nicopolis. Now he was pacing up and down, speaking through lips that hardly moved, his hand nursing his jaw. In middle age, the Sultan had lost all the dash of his youth. He was bloated, puffy of face, and his breath was a mix of new wine and old food. Yildirim was long dead.

Mehmed was wearing a simple tunic without adornment or jewellery of any kind, the Koran being specific on the matter of what to wear in mourning. At sixteen, he was well made and had the darkness of his mother Devlet Hatun, wife to Bayezid and sister to Yakub Bey. He was a gazi to his fingertips. ‘Are my brothers here yet?’ he asked.

Bayezid shook his head, fingers still attached. ‘Musa is here somewhere with that Bedreddin creature, the one who talks in riddles. Suleyman? He’s here somewhere but I suspect avoiding me.’ He came over to Mehmed, sat and looked at his son. ‘What was she like?’

Bayezid was speaking of Mehmed’s future bride, Emine, daughter to Nasireddin Bey who ruled the beylik of Dulkadir, from where he’d come.

‘She’s twelve, Father. We didn’t talk.’

Bayezid opened his eyes, laughed, then winced. ‘You are fortunate.’

They were sitting on a wide divan covered by thick carpet. Mehmed ran his palm over its surface. ‘There was news of Tamerlane,’ he said quietly. ‘I got it from the Portuguese ambassador. He was visiting Nasireddin Bey on his way back
from Samarcand where he’d seen the Chinese envoys treated with contempt at Temur’s court. He believes Temur will invade China.’

Bayezid nodded. More pain. ‘We know that he hasn’t left Samarcand yet.’ He paused, putting his hand on his son’s. ‘You think we should go east?’

Mehmed nodded. ‘As do you, really. Why else am I marrying the Dulkadir Princess?’

Mehmed led the court faction that wanted to strengthen the eastern borders of the Empire. Dulkadir was on the frontier with Qara Yusuf’s Black Sheep Ilkhanate, was still independent and a more reliable ally than the Karamanids.

In fact, Bayezid had thought that if Tamerlane was on his way to certain defeat in China, he might look at alternatives for his son. But he was still smarting from the snub delivered from Cyprus: Mary of Lusignan was to be wed elsewhere. After that, he’d resolved to avoid further humiliation in the west. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The marriage is important.’

They heard the sound of steps in the hall beyond the throne room. They looked up to see the curtain part and Suleyman enter. He was dressed in armour spattered with dust, suggesting a hard ride from the siege. He looked at his father and brother in turn, then at their joined hands. Bayezid rose. He stared at his heir but said nothing.

Suleyman broke the silence. ‘It was to get the cannon, Father. Venice would not have provided them otherwise.’

Bayezid walked slowly over to a table on which stood a cup and a bowl of sugar. He drained one and set his eye on the other. His tongue sought out the hole in his tooth. ‘You disobeyed me.’

Suleyman shook his head. ‘Father, what is more important, Constantinople or Chios?’

‘That’s not the point.’ Bayezid was shouting now. ‘You disobeyed me. I told you not to touch Chios and you invaded it.’

‘For the
c
annon …’

‘Which you’ve already managed to see destroyed.’ Bayezid looked at his eldest son with contempt. ‘And there’s worse, isn’t there? Your red-haired concubine used your seal without you knowing. She has humiliated you.’

This was the awful truth that Suleyman had heard on his arrival. Anna had used his seal to bring Lara from Chios. She’d committed something close to treason. ‘Father …’

‘This is the girl you were proposing to marry,’ Bayezid continued, walking over to a window and looking out. ‘Well, you must sweep from your mind any notion of that now. She must be punished. How will you punish her for what she has done to you?’

Suleyman thought quickly. Was his father finding reason to kill Anna? He said: ‘She is the daughter of the Protostrator of Mistra. If we kill her, she will be another martyr to their cause. Another relic. If we banish her, it will be what she wants. I will imprison her.’

Bayezid considered this. Gülçiçek had wanted Anna dead but he saw no merit in creating martyrs. He nodded. ‘Temur will winter in the Qarabagh where he always does. You will take half the army and march east to keep watch on him.’

Suleyman recoiled. ‘But, Father, you have tasked me to take Constantinople.’

‘And you have failed.’ Bayezid glanced behind him. ‘We will see if your brother Mehmed fares better.’

Suleyman closed his eyes. A memory: he was in a tent and speaking to Zoe.

If we go east, it will be because Constantinople hasn’t fallen. Mehmed will inherit this empire and I will go to the bowstring.

*

Much later, Anna went to sit alone in the place where she knew Suleyman would find her. It was the place where she’d watched the jornufa and heard of Luke’s execution. It was the place where Suleyman had kissed her. It was a place of memories, sweet and less so.

The evening was heavy with the scent of flowers newly arrived to the world, breathing deep after the daily exertion of growth. The air was as still as death but Anna felt alive, giddy with the success of her plan. Lara had been brought from Chios, bringing with her the pharmacy she’d created with Fiorenza. Within it had been found the antidotes for Angelina’s poison, the fine balance of kill and cure that would fight the toxin on equal terms. The effect had been immediately encouraging. Angelina would live.

Now she had to face Suleyman, the man she’d betrayed completely. She saw a shadow approach amongst the geometry of lawn and hedge and knew that it was he.

Then he was there, mounting the steps of the chiosk as if each was a mountain. He fell on to a bench. Anna looked at him and was shocked. His face had lost its structure, the fine cheekbones collapsed, the chin sunk deep into his chest as if attached by the thin chain of his beard. He looked angry and broken.

She felt a surge of pity. She came and sat beside him. The cicadas chattered of the cycle of day and night and the space in between that belonged to them, unchallenged in their chorus since the caged birds had been set free.

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could think of to say.

There was no movement beside her. The man was either deep in thought or too angry to speak. She hoped for the latter: a sentence of sorts. She wondered, without urgency, if her life was now forfeit.

‘Am I to die?’

Suleyman stirred. He lifted his chin and exhaled through pursed lips. He rubbed his eyelids between thumb and forefinger, bringing them together at the bridge of his nose. He spoke, his eyes closed. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘To save a life.’

‘And lose another.’

‘Yours or mine?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Mine, of course.’ He turned to her. ‘I’m to leave the siege and go east to watch Tamerlane. When I return, there’ll be a new heir.’

‘Am I to go with you?’

Suleyman shook his head. ‘You are to be imprisoned but released from marriage to me.’

Anna frowned. ‘And if I don’t want to be released?’

Suleyman glanced at her. ‘What you want is immaterial. My father forbids the marriage.’ He looked at his hands. ‘And you still love another.’

‘He is married. I am annulled.’

‘Yes, he is married. A Spaniard arrived from Tamerlane. He told us that Tamerlane’s mood had not been improved by the refusal of a woman to marry him because she was already married to another: a Varangian. It seems he is still alive but has chosen someone other than you.’

Suleyman looked away. The garden was losing substance, its content merging into different shades of black. Anna rose and walked to the balcony on which she had draped her shawl. She
put it over her shoulders and held it to her front with one hand, the other resting on the stone. She’d been shocked by this latest proof of Luke’s desertion and needed time to compose herself. She studied the bowed head of the man before her, broken by his love for her. She had dared to hope that news of Luke’s marriage was false. Now she knew it to be true.