The Walls of Byzantium (24 page)

Luke considered this as he stumbled through the shallows. Rufio might worry that he’d tell the Genoans what he’d seen and from them it would reach the Emperor Manuel. But then again, what had he actually seen? As far as Rufio knew, Luke had no idea of the cargo in the hold.

Luke decided to strike inland. Crawling up the hill, he found what looked like a sheep-path in the moonlight and set off in the direction of the hills. Every now and then he stopped and stood in silence to listen for any sound of pursuit. Nothing. The Venetians had either given up or were quieter than ghosts.

The path was gentle to begin with and then began to climb steeply, the stream beside it losing itself in a gully that turned into a ravine. There were stepped terraces either side in which stood strange, twisted trees, planted in rows, that Luke had never seen before. They were smaller than olive trees and their smooth trunks shone dimly in the light of the moon. Whatever they were, they were giving off a scent very different from the Turkish galley. It was sweet and aromatic and Luke wondered if the trees had some medicinal use.

The going now was easy and Luke hurried on, determined to put as much distance as possible between him and the Venetians and hoping to come across some village where he could persuade the Greek inhabitants to take him to their Genoese
masters. But the landscape was deserted except for row upon row of these strange trees.

At last, towards dawn, he crested the hill and looked out over a broad valley of groves and orchards to what looked like a cluster of houses at its end. There were no lights to be seen amongst the buildings, which Luke thought strange. It was nearly daybreak and most farmworkers would be preparing to leave for the fields by now. He wiped his brow on his sleeve and strained to hear any sounds of animals.

Luke broke into a slow run, breathing evenly against the pain of the wound rubbing against the rough fabric of his tunic. As he reached the plain, he lengthened his stride and saw that he’d misjudged the distance to the village and that the first houses were already taking shape. He heard a dog bark and then another. Dogs usually meant people.

The village was indeed inhabited but not by anyone who wanted to meet him. As he walked up the dirt track between the houses, the low moon casting his shadow long across the ground, he heard the sound of a slammed shutter and the growl of a dog behind a door. He held his sword in one hand and his eyes raked every shadow for movement, his senses alert and his body tensed.

He stopped and cleared his throat.

‘I am a friend,’ he shouted. ‘I’m a Greek, like you, and I flee the Turks. You have no need for fear.’

Silence. Another dog growled.

‘I need to speak to someone.’

More silence, and then the sound of a bolt released from its lock and the squeak of protesting hinges as a door was inched open. ‘
Here!
’ hissed a man’s voice to his left. ‘Here, where I can see you!’

Luke lowered his sword and walked slowly towards the voice, keeping his head turned in the direction of the moon and hoping that his fair hair was clearly visible in its light. He stopped in front of the door and waited.

‘Where are the Turks?’ whispered the man. He was old and bent and the moon made the thin strands of white hair on his wrinkled head shine like gossamer. Luke heard a low growl beside him and glanced down to see a large dog leashed by his side, its teeth locked in a snarl.

‘They’ll be at sea by now,’ answered Luke. ‘I left them some hours ago in a small bay beyond those hills.’ He turned and pointed in the direction he’d come. ‘They were collecting some cargo from a Venetian round ship.’

‘They were at Fana Bay,’ said the man. ‘What was the cargo?’

‘Cannon,’ said Luke. ‘For the Turks.’

The man spat into the earth at Luke’s feet. ‘Venetian pigs,’ he mumbled. ‘They’d sell their own mothers.’

Luke very slowly laid his sword on the ground in front of him. Both man and dog watched his every move. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, his heart racing. Backing away from him was a younger man, with a single, dented cuirass strapped to his chest. A sword was slung at his side and he was holding his hands in the air. He bent down to pick up Luke’s sword and offered it to him, nodding slowly as he did so.

‘The Turkish galleys are too fast for the Genoans to catch them,’ said the man. ‘But I can give you my horse and you can go and tell them what you’ve seen. You should go to the big castle at Chora and ask for Marchese Longo. He is the leader of the Genoese.’ The man paused and looked up and down the
little street. ‘I am Dimitri. We’ve been raided many times by Turkish pirates, and children have been taken into slavery.’

‘Give me your horse, Dimitri,’ Luke said.

By midday, Luke was standing in the entrance hall of the Giustiniani Palace inside the great castle of Chora.

Chora was more a fortified town than a castle since there were as many houses and churches inside the walls as out. Most of the island’s Greek nobles lived there while their Genoan overlords lived on their estates outside the city in the rich plain of the Kambos to the south. The castle had been built by the Byzantines two hundred years before and was enormous. It had strong walls, one overlooking the sea and three land walls surrounded by a wide moat.

It had taken Luke three hours to ride there from the village on a thin, asthmatic horse that preferred the grass of the verge to the thrill of the open road. He’d passed through a rich, hilly country in the south with steep valleys latticed by terraces of olive groves and row upon row of the strange shrunken trees. He had ridden through villages with fields of cattle and pigs at their edges and vegetable plots beyond. This was a prosperous land that seemed blessed with good soil and plentiful water and yet the people were reserved and fearful, watching him with suspicion as he urged his wretched horse towards their capital.

Coming out of the hills, he had ridden on to the plain of the Kambos, which was a place of even greater bounty, with orchards of orange, lime and tangerine next to fields of wheat and vineyards heavy with purple grapes. Here there was an earth so rich that its dark ochre colour seemed to overwhelm its produce. The land was crisscrossed with canals and narrow,
high-walled lanes whose verges rippled with wild tulips. Every now and again a gated arch would announce another estate and he’d see the tops of mansions and tall cypress trees to shield them from the fierce meltemi winds of summer.

Luke was overwhelmed by the prosperity of the place, a prosperity even greater than that he’d seen on the Goulas of Monemvasia. He was fascinated by the churches with their square, pillared bell towers; by the gaudy, puffed doublets and feathered hats of the men he passed on horseback. This was indeed a place to prosper in.

But the wheezing of his horse soon jolted him back to reality and before long he was riding under the emblazoned arch of the Porta Maggiore and handing his reins to a servant at the base of a steep flight of steps that led up to the entrance to the Giustiniani Palace.

If Marchese Longo was surprised at the tall, fair figure in filthy rags and bandages that required his extraction from his meeting, he was far too well bred to show it. Dressed in a black doublet of marbled silk and a shouldered cloak cut in the French style, he strode into the entrance hall with two black hunting hounds in tow. His clothes and hounds seemed designed to complement the white squares of the floor so that the three of them might have been part of a game of chess.

‘Signor Magoris, I am so sorry for keeping you waiting,’ said Longo in almost accentless Greek, his hand stretched out in greeting. ‘The twelve of us in the Mahona meet only once a month and, as you will imagine, there is much to discuss.’

Luke had no idea who the twelve might be or what the Mahona was. He held out his hand and felt this dark man’s gaze settle upon him as his many-ringed hand made contact
with his own. Longo was of middle years and middle height, with streaks of grey in his beard, but there was a tautness in his bearing that suggested energy.

Longo turned from Luke and issued a low whistle and the two dogs came instantly to his side and sat each on a white square, looking up at him with tongues adrift and true love in their eyes.

‘I am told that you have news of importance,’ said Longo, smiling and feeling the velvet of an ear between thumb and forefinger. ‘You have seen Turks in the south of our island? Would it be convenient for you to take wine in my office and tell me about it?’

Luke was about to answer when a rumble came from beneath his shirt.

‘And food!’ said Longo. ‘Of course. You cannot have eaten for hours. May I ask my cook to prepare something for you? Some cold chicken?’

Luke felt faint with hunger and gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

Longo and his dogs led him through into a sumptuous dining room of rosewood-panelled walls hung with Flemish tapestries and a long oak table stretching the length of the room. He clapped his hands and issued instructions. He held a chair back for Luke to sit on and went to a side table where a pitcher of wine and goblets stood.

‘I should add some water to it,’ said Longo, handing him the cup. ‘Chian wine is strong and yours is an empty stomach. Not a good combination for the telling of a tale.’

Luke was adding water to his wine when the food arrived. There was cold chicken and quail, bread, cheese, figs and olive paste and Luke ate as slowly as his hunger allowed. Longo watched him, making no attempt to hurry him into his story.
At last, as Luke was washing the grease from his fingers, he spoke.

‘How have you found yourself in Chios, Signor Magoris?’ he asked. ‘I would say from your clothes that you did not expect to come here; indeed I would say that you’ve been recently engaged in some fighting, probably on board a ship, and escaped by swimming to the shore. What I’d like to know, though, is what this has to do with the Turkish galley that has been seen in our waters these past few days?’

Luke gathered his thoughts. He had rehearsed a version of events but now found himself telling this man much, much more.

Longo only interrupted twice; once to scowl and mutter something when told of the cannon at Geraki, and once when Luke described his encounter with Plethon. Then Longo smiled, his eyes filling with delight.

‘Plethon!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have not seen him in years. Now that had been a rare treat if he’d come with you to our island!’

Luke said, ‘I believe he saved my life. If he hadn’t appeared when he did, I’m sure the captain would have killed me.’

‘Signore,’ laughed Longo, ‘talking and dressing up have never been hardships to Plethon. And however lunatic his pronouncements, each one is a gem. He rarely comes to Chios, but when he does, I will follow him as my dogs do me, not wasting a moment of that mind!’

Longo became serious again. ‘But you’ll want to know how we can stop the Turks. Sadly, we could not possibly intercept the galley even if we wanted to. It is a fast ship and we in Chios are not minded to declare war on the Sultan just yet.’

Luke listened to this, knowing that he’d discharged his duty in reporting the cannon and that events were now beyond his
control. Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion broke over his body so that he nearly swooned under its weight. He stifled a yawn.

‘You must be very tired,’ said Longo. ‘We can talk more about this tomorrow.’