The Walls of Byzantium (6 page)

The sunlight was blinding her and she shielded her eyes. There was nothing there.

The crack of a branch and a mocking laugh told her that the danger was now on her right. Another arrow hit the tree behind her as she tried to wheel Pallas to see her assailant.

‘Who are you?’ she called, angry at the fear in her voice. ‘I’m not alone. There are soldiers behind me!’

Again came the laugh and a third arrow thudded into the ground beside her, causing the pony to rear. Anna was thrown from his back and landed heavily on the ground, hitting her head hard. All went black.

A moment later, she came to and heard the rustle of mail as someone dismounted very close to where she was lying. She opened her eyes but they had dust in them and she couldn’t see properly. She wiped it away with her hand and looked up at the figure bent over her.

Two yellow eyes stared into hers.

In the square in front of the palace, the Despot and his Protostator sat on the wall and looked out over the plain.

The sun was at its zenith and, although a breeze had arisen, both felt uncomfortably hot in their armour. They had taken the precaution of sitting in the shade of one of the fruit trees which lined the square and, in better times, might have provided the headrest for some sleeping philosopher. Simon Laskaris could feel the sweat coursing down his back. He wasn’t used to wearing armour.

The Ottoman army had at last deployed, in one expert movement of dust and silence, into a vast crescent behind the siege engines. In the centre stood the massed ranks of the
bashibozouk
irregulars, who would rush forward to die in their thousands against the city walls, the cry of ‘
Allahu Akhbar
’ on their lips and a vision of black-eyed houris before their eyes. Behind them, in perfect order, stood the ranks of the janissary regiments, each with its standard and its aura of invincibility. On either wing of the crescent stood the
sipahi
cavalry dressed in their
skins with their bows resting on their saddles, great quivers of arrows slung by their sides.

The only sounds that came from this army of fifty thousand were the snap of banner and the jangle of harness.

Simon Laskaris mopped his forehead. The cloth smelt of his wife and he breathed in its fragrance. He wondered where his daughter had disappeared to. He moved his gaze to the soldiers on the battlements. Would they really die for a city that wasn’t even theirs? Probably not.

Theodore seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Will they fight?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘With you amongst them, lord, they’ll fight.’

The Despot sighed. ‘And when I retire to the citadel, Simon? Will they fight then, do you think?’

The Protostator leant forward. ‘We’ve discussed this many times, lord. Your duty to your people is to survive to rebuild this city once the Turks have gone. This is probably just a raid. They’ll ransack the lower town and then leave.’

‘Where are your family?’ asked the Despot. ‘Are they safe in the citadel?’

‘I hope so, lord. Except Alexis. That’s him now.’

Running up the steps to the square came his son. He was dressed in full armour but his head was bare.

How young he looks
.

The boy dropped to one knee. ‘Majesty, I have news from the Turks,’ he said between pants.

Theodore lifted him to his feet. ‘Nothing that won’t wait for you to recover your breath, Alexis. Sit down and drink some water.’

Alexis sat on the wall and drained the water brought to him in one gulp. He ran his hands through his hair and flicked away the sweat. ‘Thank you, Majesty. It’s a steep climb.’

‘Yes, Alexis. Steep for us, steep for the Turk. Now, what do they say?’

Alexis pointed up at the flag that flew from the palace tower. ‘Their message is this, lord. If, by lowering our standard, you signify the surrender of Mistra and your vassalage to the Sultan Bayezid, then the city will be spared.’

‘And if we choose not to?’ asked the Despot.

‘Then the city will be taken and all will be put to the sword.’

Theodore was silent for a long time, stroking his beard.

‘How old are you, Alexis?’ he asked at last.

‘Eighteen, lord. Nearly nineteen.’

The Despot smiled and considered the person who came closest in the world to being his own son. God had not granted him and the Despoena the blessing of children.

‘And how would you feel if you knew that those eighteen … no, nineteen years were the last of this thousand-year empire?’

Alexis glanced at his father, who was standing next to them listening. Then he looked straight into the eyes of his ruler. ‘We must fight, Majesty. We have our walls, we have our valour and, above all, we have our God. We can win.’

‘And our citadel, Alexis,’ added Theodore. ‘Don’t forget the citadel,’

‘Indeed, lord. And it cannot be taken. The ground is too steep for their engines. Even if they succeed in taking the lower town, we will attack them from above.’

Theodore templed his hands and brought them to his mouth. ‘Who commands their army?’ he asked.

‘We’re not sure, sire. Some say it is Suleyman, eldest son to the Sultan. But no one has seen him.’

The Despot pondered this. ‘Tell the heralds to say this to
Prince Suleyman, if indeed it is he: that Christian Mistra will remain Christian. Tell him that Mistra will stand.’

Alexis sprang to his feet, delight creased into every corner of his face.

‘Oh, and another thing, Alexis,’ said the Despot. ‘I want you to carry the message yourself. You will be herald.’

‘But, Majesty, you know that the herald does not fight. I—’

Simon Laskaris had stepped forward. ‘You will do as the Despot has ordered, Alexis,’ he said quietly.

The boy looked from one to the other of them, opening and closing his mouth. Then he frowned, picked up his helmet and saluted. He began to turn but stopped in front of his father.

‘Goodbye, Father,’ he said simply, embracing Simon Laskaris with all the strength he possessed.

Then he was gone.

Theodore glanced up at his oldest friend, still standing looking after his son. ‘Yes, Simon,’ he said quietly. ‘Mistra will stand. God help us.’

Soon afterwards, Alexis was cantering towards the Ottoman army. He delivered the message with as much flourish as he could muster and then wheeled his horse around and trotted back to the city walls. He felt the gaze of twenty thousand citizens on him as he rode. What would they say when they knew of their despot’s decision?

Alexis was angry to be left out of the fighting. Heralds were expected to sit out the battle so as to be there to acknowledge the victor. Now flies were buzzing around his horse’s head and the heat was searing. He hated this inaction. He hated the silence before the first rock was launched at the walls above
him, before the scream of ‘
Allahu Akbar
’ set the bashibozouks in motion. And, most of all, he hated the fact that he’d have to ride to one side and do nothing to stop them.

Then he heard something. Not a rock in flight but the sound of many men in voiceless movement. The bashibozouks to his front were opening their ranks to let someone through.

Alexis could see a spiral of dust far behind them moving towards the front of the army. There was a single rider approaching.

He strained his eyes to see better, leaning forward in his saddle and shielding them with his hand. He was nearly blinded with sweat.

The rider came closer, his mail catching the sun through gaps in the dust cloud and his harness clanking to the heavy rhythm of his hooves.

Now the bashibozouks were bowing as he passed through them and suddenly the rider had broken through their front rank and his ebony black mare was performing a practised rear. The dust settled around him and all was still again.

Alexis gasped. He could not believe what he was seeing. There, perhaps four hundred paces to his front, was the most magnificent warrior he had ever seen. He was clad from head to toe in shimmering gold mail. Even the tall, spiked dome of his helmet was gold. Whether or not he wore a breastplate, Alexis couldn’t see. For, seated in front of him on the horse, was his sister Anna.

She seemed to be dressed in his doublet, and his riding hat sat crookedly on her disordered hair. She was covered in dust and stared miserably at the ground. The warrior’s arm held her firmly to his front and his shoulders above were rising and falling. He was laughing.

Then, in fluent Greek, he addressed the city walls. ‘People of Mistra! I have here one of your prettier citizens!’

Anna struggled against his arm but he tightened his hold.

‘I found her outside the city walls, trying to get help from Monemvasia, I believe.’ He paused while his mare wheeled. The extra passenger was making it skittish. ‘I am Prince Suleyman,’ he continued, his voice rising. ‘Eldest son to Bayezid, whom some call Yildirim.’

The city held its breath.

‘I have an army of fifty thousand on this plain and siege engines which will demolish your city within minutes. Your despot says you will stand against us. But will you stand and watch this beautiful hostage die?’

The first sound, then, came from the city. It was a low murmur of anguish and fear that rippled across it like rain.

On the palace square, the Protostrator had fallen to his knees, his head in his hands. The Despot was no longer with him, having taken up a position on the city walls. Then Simon stood, helped to his feet by two of the Guard. If his daughter was to die, then he wanted one last look at her.

But Anna had no intention of dying.

With all her strength, she drove her heels into the flanks of the mare, which started just enough for Suleyman to release his grip. In one fluid movement, she threw her leg over the horse’s neck and vaulted to the ground.

Then she began to run as fast as she could towards the city walls.

At the same moment, her brother snapped out of his shock and spurred his horse towards her, urging it forward with every muscle in his body.

The city held its breath and watched as brother and sister
raced towards each other, the ground between them closing with unnatural slowness.

Suleyman had by now reined in his mare and, for a brief moment, looked in amazement at the scene taking place before his eyes. Then he dug his spurs into the sides of his horse and it sprang forward after the girl.

The two riders reached her almost simultaneously, both pulling their mounts to a stop in a cloud of dust either side of Anna.

‘Who are you?’ Suleyman demanded of Alexis, his hand resting on the jewelled pommel of his sword.

‘I am her brother,’ shouted Alexis over his sister. ‘And you’ll have to kill me first before you touch a hair on her head!’

Sipahi cavalry were closing in on the scene and Suleyman raised his hand to halt them.

‘I’m sure that can be arranged. Don’t you feel a touch outnumbered?’

Alexis shot him a furious glance. ‘And don’t you feel a touch ashamed, terrorising a girl of fifteen?’

Suleyman glanced down at Anna. ‘Fifteen? I had hoped for older. No matter, she will grow.’ He looked back at Alexis. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

Anna stepped forward. She had her brother’s cap in her hand. ‘Alexis,’ she said. ‘Alexis Laskaris and he is twice the man of you.’

Suleyman smiled. ‘Laskaris?’ he asked. ‘Laskaris, as in the Protostrator Laskaris?’

Sister and brother exchanged glances.

‘So,’ said Suleyman softly, ‘it seems I have two valuable hostages for the price of one. What good fortune!’ He turned to Alexis. ‘Can you tell me why your city is so stubborn, Alexis Laskaris? You know you can’t win.’

But it was Anna who answered again. She was standing with her legs apart and her hands on her hips. There was colour beneath the freckles of her face, colour to match her hair.

‘You are right. You can take our lower town,’ she said. ‘But you will never take the citadel. Look at it!’ She pointed above the city walls. ‘It’s impregnable! And it has cannon.’

‘Cannon—?’

But Anna hadn’t finished. ‘What would Yildirim say if you were to return with only half your army?’

Suleyman snorted. ‘I can lay waste your lower town and not bother with your citadel.’