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Authors: Alan Gordon

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“We take this tower,” said Viadro dreamily. “And use it to take the next. And the one after that, then a gate between them, which we will open, and so we shall take the city. No army has ever conquered Byzantium from without. Until now.”
“You're the Silk Man,” I said.
“I am,” he said. “The only one in all the Venetian quarter capable of this. The others were too cautious, too greedy. Too old.”
“Why didn't you kill me at the cistern?” I asked.
“Ranieri wanted me to kill you,” he said. “I knew that wouldn't prevent your colleagues from finding out about his petty smuggling. I went along with him to see if he would be loyal enough to Venice to keep my identity secret. But he was more interested in protecting his business. I knew he would give me up. So, I killed him.” He held up an axe. “These work quite well, once you have a little practice with them.”
“And Bastiani?” I said. “Why did you kill him? How did you kill him, for that matter?”
He frowned. “I didn't kill him. I still have no idea how it happened. I was wondering if you could explain it to me.”
I motioned with my crossbow.
“Drop the axe,” I said.
“I don't think so,” he said, smiling again.
There was a roar from behind me. I whirled, trying to bring the crossbow into line. Cnut charged past me, his axe high over his head. Viadro started to bring his up, but the Dane had the momentum. He brought his weapon down in a fearsome blow and split the Venetian from his head down to the middle of his chest.
Cnut wrenched his axe free, then stared out at the approaching ship.
“Come on, lad,” I said, pulling at his arm.
“Get help,” he said. “I'll hold them off as long as I can.”
“Don't be an idiot,” I urged him. “You can't take them on by yourself.”
“This is what we do,” he said calmly. “Will you fight by my side?”
“I don't think so,” I said.
“Then you're of no use here. Leave. Pass me those crossbows if you aren't planning on using them further.”
I handed them to him. He raised one, timed the rising and falling of the bowsprit, and calmly picked off the knight at its tip.
“Go, Feste,” he said. “Give my love to your wife.”
It may have been the reminder that I had promised her I would try and live through this that sent me flying down the steps. It may have been the absolute futility of trying to hold the tower with only a wounded Varangian and a fool. Or maybe it was the arrival of the first bolt shot from the oncoming ship that did it.
I burst out of the tower calling for help, but the other towers were already engaged, the guards launching every conceivable missile at the Venetians. The ones on the ground were busy carrying more stones to the mangonels on the walls. Every officer I could find shook me off and continued barking orders at his own men. Then I heard shouts in
a different language. The end of the bowsprit was lashed to the top of the tower, and the Venetians were swarming across the narrow flying bridge and into the heart of the Byzantine defenses.
Well, the defenders could see the situation for themselves now. No reason for me to hang around anymore. I ran from the walls as fast as I possibly could.
I turned when I reached the Mese and jumped onto a rain barrel and then onto a nearby roof. From there, I watched throughout the day as the battle raged across the seawall. One tower after another fell to the Venetian assault, just as Viadro had predicted. The Petrion Gate was taken and opened, and the invaders fanned out through the neighborhood, occupying the recently abandoned buildings. The bulk of the Greek forces were at the land walls, I found out later, dealing with the Crusader army, leaving mostly Varangians, Pisans, and Genoese to combat the Venetians here. The appearance of the invaders actually inside the city took much of the fight out of the defenders. So disheartened were they that by noon the fight was taking on the appearance of a rout. The Venetians occupied fully a quarter of the seawall by the Golden Horn, and Blachernae would soon be within their reach.
Then, without warning or explanation, they withdrew. I watched, astonished, as one by one the hard-won positions were abandoned and the Venetians streamed through the Petrion Gate back to their ships. Cheers erupted from the remaining defenders and the few citizens foolhardy enough to stay and watch.
But the fleet struck one more devastating blow as they fell back. Flames suddenly shot from the buildings nearest the gate. The same winds that had propelled the fleet across the Golden Horn whipped the flames across the city like a rider urging on his horse on the home stretch, and the same men who had been holding back the invaders with steel fled before this new onslaught.
The Fifth Hill caught the brunt of the fire at first. I jumped down
from my observation point and grabbed a wheelbarrow. Together with a Varangian who had come on the scene, I manhandled the rain barrel onto the wheelbarrow, then we trundled it up the Mese toward the flames.
The fire was already climbing the lower reaches of the hill, leaping from roof to roof with the ease of an acrobat. We spilled the contents of the barrel from a small promontory onto a burning rooftop below us. There were cries from the top of the hill, and we turned to see the monks of the Monastery of the Pammakaristos beckoning to us.
“There's a cistern there!” shouted the Varangian.
We pushed the wheelbarrow up to the top of the hill. The monks were swarming around it. I thought of an anthill that had been roused by malicious children with flaming twigs. The monks were organized, thank Christ, and had seemingly every bucket on the hill either filled or waiting to be filled. We filled the barrel and wheeled it back down the hill until we met up with the fire once again. We upended the barrel, then went back up again.
We repeated the process over a hundred times, working well into the night. It was backbreaking work. I have heard soldiers after a battle, boasting of how they held some hill against an enemy onslaught. Well, we held the Fifth Hill against the fire, fellow fools. The line of houses below the promontory burned down, leaving a band of scorched ground between us and the rest of the flames. The fire spread to the valley between the Fifth Hill and Blachernae but met up with the Blachernae wall at one end and a crowd armed with buckets from another cistern at the other end. Finally, having nothing more to consume, it died out.
I realized, as I sank to the ground in utter exhaustion, that I had lost all track of time, not to mention what was happening in the rest of the world. And that bothered me, because somewhere in the middle of the fire's path was our home.
[T]he emperor of Constantinople, Alexios, sallied forth from the city …
——ROBERT DE CLARI,
THE CONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE
 
 
I
watched out the window as Feste left for his meeting with Choniates. I wanted desperately to go with him and see my theory validated, but Niketas was his contact, not mine. He looked tired as he trudged into the early morning gloom, and it was more than the unnatural hour. He had set his cap and bells at an immense task when he came up with the plan to forestall the war, and the thoughts of failure and the ensuing slaughter weighed him down more than any length of chain could have done.
I turned my hands to baking bread, just to see how it would go. It had been a long time since I had performed this simple task, and the resulting dough was a bit lumpy, but it felt good to knead while the city slept around me.
I set the loaves aside to rise, then took the remaining flour and mixed it with some chalk that I had pounded to a fine white powder. My bag of whiteface was running low. I had stocked up on kohl and rouge before the siege, fortunately. They were hard to find at the moment, among other useful things. I scrubbed my face clean, then applied my makeup. I had just finished the green diamonds under my eyes when I heard the first crash and the shouts from the seawall.
Plossus and Rico sprang from their cushions, weapons drawn, blinking
uncertainly. We dashed up to the roof, Plossus carrying his stilts. He gave Rico a boost up to his shoulders, then jumped up to the footrests.
“What's going on?” I called.
“The fleet's coming across,” said Rico. “I expect the army is doing the same.”
“Let's go,” I said.
We ran back down through our rooms. I glanced at the rising dough with regret, but there was no time. Maybe I could bake it later.
Plossus took off to find Father Esaias while I roused Rico's donkeys. Rico brought his cart around. We hitched the sleepy beasts up quickly, and with a flick of the dwarf's whip, we were riding to Blachernae.
People were already gathering at the inner walls, shouting for information, demanding action. The Imperial Guards were out, shoving the crowd back and clearing the entryways. They allowed us to pass through, the gates closing behind us, muffling the shouting.
Normally, I would go straight to Euphy's chambers, but I wanted to know the situation with the Emperor first. So did Euphy, as it turned out. She was already up and in full regalia, regaling her regal husband with one unwanted opinion after another until he finally stood and shouted for his guards to remove her bodily from the room. Two came up and looked at her uncertainly as her hand went to her waist. She raised a small dagger in the air.
“This arm for Byzantium!” she cried. “If you will not be man enough to face the enemy, then I shall step forward—”
At a furious signal from Alexios, the guards caught her from behind, wrested away the dagger, and dragged her off, still screaming.
“At last, some peace and quiet,” muttered the Emperor. “Someone tell me what's going on out there.”
“The attack is on two fronts,” said an officer. “The army is trying to take the Blachernae wall with scaling ladders with little success.”
“I should think not,” said the Emperor. “And the other front?”
“The fleet is attacking near the Petrion Gate. We think they mean to try and take Blachernae from that direction.”
“A good plan,” pronounced the Emperor. “They'll try and proclaim my nephew from the palace. Well, how goes the defense?”
“Excellently,” asserted the officer. “In fact, we have already taken prisoners.”
“Have you?” exclaimed the Emperor in delight. “Are they here?”
Yes, sire.“
“Let me see them at once,” he declared.
A pair of Frenchmen, stripped of their armor, were led in. Despite many wounds and bruises, they stood proudly before the Emperor.
“Excellent deportment in defeat, I must say,” said the Emperor, inspecting them critically. “How are you, gentlemen?”
They looked at him and said nothing.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I forgot they don't speak Greek. Fetch the Imperial Interpreter, somebody. So, where were these fine fellows taken?”
“At the base of the tower below Petrion,” said the officer.
“Well done, well done,” said the Emperor. Then he frowned suddenly. “At the base of the tower, you said?”
“Yes, sire,” said the officer, a bit nervously.
“But the base of the tower—do you mean to tell me that the Venetians have gotten inside the seawalls?” shouted the Emperor.
The other officers in the room looked pointedly at the one who had been doing all the talking.
“Take this oaf out and get me someone who knows what's really going on!” shouted the Emperor. “Get reinforcements down to Petrion. Good God, I am surrounded by incompetents.”
“Hand-picked by yourself,” muttered Rico.
Twenty minutes later, a runner from the Varangians came in.
“Well?” said the Emperor heavily.
“My lord, the Venetians have taken the Petrion Gate,” he said. “They occupy four towers, and are working their way along the wall in both directions. We are trying to retake the towers, but they have crossbowmen everywhere and the height to their advantage. More knights are holding the gate itself, and they say that the Doge himself has come ashore.”
“And the Crusader army?” asked the Emperor quietly.
“Attacking Blachernae with scaling ladders and siege towers,” said an Imperial Guardsman. “We are holding them there for the moment. But if the Venetians work their way up the wall to Blachernae, they could join forces and take the palace.”
“And if they do that, they'll stick a crown on my nephew's head and proclaim him,” concluded the Emperor. “And they'll be able to defend it from the inside. Curse my royal ancestor for building it on a hill. All right, the immediate danger is from the Venetians. Do we have enough men to drive them off the walls?”
“Most of the troops are committed to the land walls, waiting to attack,” said a general. “If we pull them away, that weakens the defenses.”
“Sire, the people are calling for an attack,” said Philoxenites, who had been listening off to the side the whole time. “They are demanding leadership.”
“Leadership,” mused the Emperor. “They want their Emperor to act like one, is that it?”
Philoxenites bowed.
“You are their father,” he said. “They are your children. They need your protection. If you fail to provide it …”
“Then they'll find a father who can,” said Rico.
Alexios looked at the dwarf, startled. Rico returned his stare evenly, his arms folded in front of his chest.
“Have you turned against me, little Fool?” said the Emperor.
“You have turned against yourself, Great One,” said Rico. “Now, it is time for you to return to yourself.”
The Emperor placed his hands on the edge of his throne and forced himself to his feet, wincing.
“Fetch my armor,” he said. “Saddle my horse. The Emperor will ride to battle.”
“But, sire …” started a general.
“Nothing to fear,” said Alexios. “We have to attack the army. They're outnumbered, so they'll have to send for help. The Venetians will have no choice but to leave the walls and reinforce them. Then we can retake the gate and the towers. Let's go.”
He staggered off to his bedchamber as servants came running with his armor.
“You know, that's not a bad plan,” commented Rico.
I nudged him and pointed. The flutist was taking advantage of the commotion to slip out the side entrance.
We gave her a short lead, then cut through the soldiers and servants dashing about and went through the same doorway. She was nowhere to be seen.
“Split up?” suggested Rico.
“No. Let's stick together. She isn't likely to be leaving the palace just yet.”
From behind us, soldiers were shouting, “The Emperor rides! Make way for the Emperor! Victory to Alexios Angelos!”
“Think he'll pull it off?” I asked.
Rico shrugged. “Self-interest is a powerful motivator,” he said. “At least he's finally understanding the situation. Whether that means he'll take the bull by the horns or run for his life, I don't pretend to predict.”
“Let's go find the Egyptian,” I said.
We decided to search the section of the palace overlooking the
landwall, thinking that she would be looking for a window with a good view of the battle. The palace unfortunately had plenty of those, and it was some time before we spotted a door slightly ajar that led to a storage room on the uppermost floor. I pushed it open gently and saw her watching intently as wave after wave of Crusaders were driven back by rocks, arrows, and boiling oil.
“Mind if we join you?” I asked.
She jumped at the unexpected intrusion, then shrugged uncertainly. She pretended as usual to not understand much Greek. I stood next to and slightly behind her at the window while Rico closed the door and leaned casually against it.
From this vantage point, we could see the entire field of battle. The Crusaders were so intent on their immediate objective that they didn't notice the gates opening about a league to the west of us. It took the cheers of the onlookers in the city to alert them to the Greek army pouring onto the plain, and they pulled back from the walls and wheeled into battle formation with surprising speed.
“They are well trained,” I said. “I think they'll give us quite a battle even if the numbers favor us, don't you?”
She nodded in a agreement, then stiffened as she realized I was speaking in Arabic.
“You speak my language,” she said.
“A tutor from my youth,” I said. “He taught me his language and mathematics. I remember the mathematics, too. Would you like to hear me add something?”
“Salaam alekhem,
lady,” called Rico, grinning at her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“That depends on what happens out there,” I said. “Let's watch. Oh, please, don't leave yet. I must insist upon your company.”
I had my knife at the small of her back. I knew that I had the advantage of her. One of the problems with wearing as little as she did
was that it left her no means of concealing a weapon.
We could see the Emperor riding at the head of his army as the city cheered him on. The Crusaders had six divisions. The Greeks filled the plain.
As the Emperor and his troops rode forward, the Crusaders pulled back to the palisade they had constructed. Everyone from heavily armored knights down to the cooks' boys wearing pots tied across their chests for protection was ready to kill for Christ. Some horsemen peeled off toward the Golden Horn, and soon the Venetian fleet began appearing off to the right. The men on the ships came to shore and quickly joined their fellows on the Kosmidion.
All that stood between the two armies was the Lycos river. There were several bridges across it, and the rest was easily fordable. There was a hush as the city waited for the Emperor to lead the attack. I held my breath, knowing that one of two things would happen, and that if we had guessed wrong, then I would become a murderer before the day was out.
The Greek army inched forward, agonizingly slow. Another hundred paces and they would be in bowshot. Then fifty paces. Then thirty.
Then they stopped.
“What is he doing?” she whispered.
“Deciding,” I said.
Those of the Crusaders who were still mounted feinted toward the Lycos, then withdrew. The Greek army stood there. Suddenly, a single division of Frenchmen charged in an unwieldy bulge, closing the distance between the two armies.
And the Greeks pulled back. In orderly, purposeful fashion, they marched back to the military gate from which they had emerged, the Emperor at the lead.
The citizens watched from the rooftops in stunned silence. Then a single, strong voice burst through the stillness.
“The Emperor flees!” he shouted. “Coward! Down with Alexios!”
The cry was picked up and repeated up and down the walls, and reverberated across the Mese and through the city. It became a steady roar of rage and disappointment.
I recognized the first cry, of course. Plossus was in fine voice today, and all of his Guild training paid off. He had timed it perfectly and projected it well, and the rabble-rousers we had recruited from Father Esaias did their job fanning the flames. The resulting revolt might have happened anyway, but even the driest tinder needs a spark.
BOOK: A Death in the Venetian Quarter
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