A Place Called Armageddon (47 page)

Gregoras knew all this. He had scooped, filled, levered, stacked. And yet seeing it now from the enemy’s viewpoint, it looked so fragile, a toy built by a child for play. He could not understand how the vast forces arrayed against it and concentrated in this spot did not just walk up to it and, with one soft breath, blow it away.

The rain was a deluge now, the stockade shifting before his eyes, vanishing as he expected it to vanish. He turned from it. He had a full reckoning of his country’s weakness. Now he had to do his job and gauge its enemy’s strength.

Yet it was near impossible to see, let alone make any sort of tally. Hard too to keep his feet, in tracks transformed to mud streams in moments. A lightning bolt snatched his vision, forking down onto one of the few trees left standing on the plain. Fire shot from it, flaming branches tumbled onto shapes that screamed, leapt from the little shelter it had provided. And in a heartbeat, less, before the light was gone from the searing of his eyeballs, thunder came to assault his ears, right above him, Gregoras now the centre of the storm, dropping to his knees with the force of it.

He could not stay there, in the open. He knew that atop the hill facing the St Romanus gate, Mehmet had pitched his pavilion at the centre of the fight and a canvas city had grown up around him, and spread far behind. Somewhere, surely, in those winding alleys, there was someone who would give him shelter?

Head bent, he drove himself against the rain and up the slick slopes. Gaining the summit at last, at the same time he felt a slight lessening of the water’s force, heard the thunder peal behind him, realised that the main body of the storm was moving past to engulf the city. He could see ahead now, Mehmet’s tug to his right, its horsetails lying lank and sodden beneath bells too waterlogged to chime. He moved away from that, from the guards who would challenge any who got close, heading instead into a narrow path that nonetheless ran straight between the tents, one of many conduits in his camps that the Turk scrupulously left clear to speed his messengers. Men crowded beneath every eave, water cascading before them, others already shoving ahead of him to be admitted. Gregoras walked on, seeking a sign, some gap he could squeeze into.

He came to a crossroads of sorts, hesitated. To the right, to the north-east, were the European levies, more Christians amongst them. Perhaps they would give one of their faith, howsoever lapsed, some charity? But then he remembered who these men were, who they fought for, who against, and stepped forward.

Another crossroads, another choice. He looked to the left, and saw it. Before a small tent, a pole. At its apex, a scroll of vellum, sodden now, ink running from its folds like black blood. It was peculiar, and so he went to it, poked in a finger, peeled back the parchment enough to see the remains of a zodiac, his own symbol of the Gemini, just where his finger touched, dissolving as he did.

‘A magus,’ he muttered. The sign was an invitation to consult. He had three gold
hyperpyra
in his purse. They were meant to be used as bribes, if he needed them. One was far too much for even the most gifted of seers. Yet for shelter, a chance to get out of this rain?

He bent to the flap. ‘Are you there?’ he called. ‘May I come in?’

It took a while for the reply. When it came, it was a woman who answered, her words clear. ‘I have been expecting you.’

As Gregoras pulled open the flap, he was smiling. What sorceress worth a gold
hyperpyron
wouldn’t have seen that I was coming? he thought.

He stepped inside … and his smile vanished.

Sitting on a carpet, in the centre of the tent, was Leilah.

–
THIRTY
–
Signs and Portents

Three horoscopes, inked on large vellum sheets, lay before her. Her own and those of her two men of destiny. Twins, in a way, for Gemini ruled the heavens now and both Mehmet and Gregoras.

Leilah stared down. There was a day five days hence, one of such power that she had never seen its like before. Mercury and the Sun were in conjunction, so huge achievements were possible. But Mars, god of war, was almost touching Uranus. So the risks that must be taken for such achievements were enormous.

It was a day when one world could end and another begin. When one man’s triumph was another’s disaster. With her between them, needing them both for her own triumph.

Yet the stars, as ever, spoke of opportunities, not certainties. They impelled. They did not compel. And for all her calculations, Gregoras’s part was still dark to her; she could not bring him into the light. She could not simply trust to fate, not with so much strife in the heavens.

She needed to see him. She needed to compel him. Perhaps she needed to go and seek him, before the world exploded.

She’d thought all this – and then there he was. Standing in her tent, eyes so wide above his mask that she could only laugh. Laughter of joy, of doubts banished, of hope and prophecy both fulfilled in a moment. ‘What …?’ he was saying. ‘How …?’

Delight bore her up, flowing from the ground, to stand before him, look up into those wide eyes, as green as she remembered them. Her tent was hot, for she kept a brazier ever alight to burn her incense upon, to heat liquids, to turn to smoke certain words she wrote down. She could see wisps of steam already rising from his soaked cloak. ‘Come, Gregoras,’ she said, as calmly as she could, reaching up to the clasp at his neck. ‘Surely you will be more comfortable if you are not wet?’

His hand folded over hers. He was shocked, he who did not shock easily, and for a long moment he could not think beyond the surprise, could only hold her hand, feel the heat in it, in the tent, in her eyes. Then something in them shifted something in him. He could not remember the last time he’d laughed. With her, probably. So it seemed right to laugh with her again.

He did, letting go of her hand. ‘What kind of sorcery is this?’ he said.

‘My kind,’ she replied, flicking the clasp at his neck now, heaving the sodden wool off his shoulders. She reached with her fingers, pushing them up into his sweat-damp hair.

‘Leilah,’ he murmured. She was dressed for the heat and for privacy, dressed in little, a silken shift, held in straps from her shoulders. The brazier-light flickered from below, casting shadows, showing a deeper darkness at the tip of her breasts, at the joining of her legs. ‘Leilah,’ he said again, more thickly.

‘Talk, talk,’ she replied, slipping her hand around the back of his head.

They kissed, her mouth opening, tongues meeting, she sucking hard upon his as if to draw him down, her weight adding to the tug. He fell to his knees, her before him, and she swung onto hers so she could grab the buttons on his doublet, open them one by one. When the last one popped, he shrugged out of the garment, then out of the
shalvari
that swathed his legs. ‘Better.’ She reached again, pulling his mask aside. ‘Best.’

He groaned, reached to the silk at her shoulder. It was her hand that closed over his now, her delay. ‘Tell me … and I will know the truth …’ she breathed. ‘Am I the first you have had since Ragusa?’

He had no need to lie. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, his eyes in hers.

She saw her again, the aristocratic bitch he had followed in Constantinople. He loved her, she knew, she had seen, in his face then, in her dreams since. But he had not lain with her. Could not, perhaps. And that was good.

She cupped his face in one hand. ‘And I have had no one. Wanted no one. Want no one … but you.’

She released his hand. He tore the silken shift from her then, followed where she led him. She was swollen thick with her desire. But here, now, at last, he had no need to rush, and it took a time before he reached her limit, with her huge dark eyes a hand’s breadth away. Life is strange, he thought, before thought became impossible, just one more impossible thing.

The storm returned, or another one came, burst upon them, thunder rolling them up in its roar, rain clattering onto the hide roof so loud it drowned all their sounds. For this she was glad, for she never liked to restrain the joy she took in lovemaking, and giving vent to it in a war camp, even so close to the whores, would have drawn attention or worse. The storm was at its height for a long while, as long as they were joined, and only when it began to pass did their cries subside. Not fade entirely, for one bout of lovemaking bled into another, less wild, more like a dream. At the end she was above him, barely moving, staring down into eyes that stared into hers. Till he rose up, clasped her tightly, burying his last cry in her breasts as the rain finally ceased.

They lay there, naked in each other’s arms, as heartbeats slowly returned to normal. Gregoras would have been content to lie there for a day and a night, to sleep as he had not slept in weeks. He tried for a little while, let his eyes follow the shadow play of lamplight on the tent walls, where pinned parchment scraps bore zodiacal signs, Arabic script, that moved as if speaking. But he could not last long. Time pressed him, his city called. And questions crowded.

He sat up, stared down. ‘How …?’ he said.

She was up in a moment too, a finger to his lips. ‘How is lost. It was written and it has come to pass. Ask, rather, why.’

He smiled. ‘Why?’

Instead of answering, she reached, pulled the silken shift over herself, then moved to a corner, returning with two beakers. He took one, sipped, and cool sherbet delighted his tongue. Draining it, he put the vessel down, looked at her again, asked again, ‘Why?’

It was time for truth, simple and direct. ‘Because I need you to get something for me. From Constantinople. When the city falls.’

‘
If
it falls.’

‘When. It is written. It is seen. It is destiny.’

He looked up, at the sigils on the walls. The strangeness of it all, of their reunion. It made him suddenly angry. ‘I do not believe in any destiny I do not see and write for myself,’ he said brusquely.

‘Then see this, Gregoras.’ She leaned closer. ‘Believe or not, a wise man prepares for what may be. Even you must think that the city may fall.’

He shrugged. ‘It is possible. Yes. So?’

‘So prepare for the possible.’ She took a breath. ‘There is a monastery, just within your crumbling walls. The monastery of Manuel.’

He frowned. Only that morning he had listened to its bells. It was not anything he’d expected her to say. ‘I … I know it.’

‘A library is part of it.’

‘It is a place of learning. For certain schools of study.’

‘Certain schools? One especially.’ She nodded. ‘The monks there study the alchemical arts, do they not?’ He did not respond, so she continued. ‘They have collected many manuscripts, books and documents. Unique. Beyond price. There is one especially, written by Jabir ibn Hayyan, whom the Latins call Geber. His works have been translated. But the original manuscript, in his own hand, with
his
notes in the margins, the monks of Manuel possess. It is, possibly, the most important book in the world.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Another how. Another unimportant how. Again, only the why matters.’ She reached, took his hand. ‘I need you to steal it for me.’ Gregoras gave a little gasp, tried to withdraw his hand. She held him tight, leaned still closer. ‘When the forces of Allah storm in, the monastery will be one of the first places they sack, for it is close to the walls. They will steal what they can and burn what they cannot carry away. I will come, with a troop of soldiers that the sultan will give me, and secure the place. But if I come too late …’ She sighed. ‘So you must go there, steal it, protect it, till I come …’

‘And why would I do that?’ He smiled faintly. ‘It would be hard – but you notice I do not ask you how.’

She smiled back. ‘From the moment I met you, when you rescued me from those thugs in Ragusa, I knew you were the chosen one, the man of destiny who would do what I needed done. And as for why?’

She lifted his hand, licked the length of one finger, teeth closing briefly over its tip. ‘Will you not do it for love, my lover? For the rewards I can offer?’

He freed his hand, ran the finger down her face, withdrew it, turned away. ‘I cannot. Not … not just for love. There are people in the city …’ he hesitated, ‘people I … care for. If it does fall, I must protect them. And if you have some way of doing that, then …’ he shrugged, turned back, ‘then we may have a deal.’

Care for? she thought. He was going to say ‘love’. A flash of the aristocratic beauty’s face flung red into Leilah’s eyes but she swallowed the jealousy down. ‘The troops that Mehmet gives me I can lead anywhere. To a house, perhaps? They will protect any inside it if I order them to.’

Gregoras shook his head. ‘And how do you have such power over a sultan?’

‘He owes me a boon.’

‘For what?’

She did not answer straightaway. Instead she stood, reached to the tent’s ceiling, plucked a parchment from it. Then she bent to the brazier, held the papyrus above it. Immediately it began to crisp, then burn. Holding it till flames seemed to swallow her fingers, when the paper was ash, she dropped it into a copper tray. ‘For his victory,’ she whispered, not looking at him.

Gregoras stood too, turning away from her, needing to bend under the roof as she did not. He was suddenly chilled, despite the warmth in the tent, and he began to hastily pull on his clothes. He was a soldier, an educated man. He did not set much store by the seeing of witches. And yet …? This reunion. The way they were bound together. And there he was – about to do a witch’s bidding.

He knew he would do it, though there was a part of him that burned to even contemplate his city’s fall. Yet she was right – a wise man prepared for the possible. A soldier scouted a line of retreat. A thought came, and quadrupled. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said, turning, starting on the buttons of his doublet. ‘A better place than a house.’

‘Name it.’

‘It is a church, a small one: St Maria of the Mongols. It is half a league from the Blachernae palace, less. About the same distance from the monastery. It does not look much like a church from the outside, and a high wall surrounds it. A few determined men could hold it for a short time … until protection arrives.’ He hesitated. ‘I may not be one of those men. I may be delayed – or dead upon the walls. If so …’ he leaned closer to her, ‘in exchange for this text, all within the walls must be protected. All.’