to get it. Martin cupped some in his hands for the child, who now became somewhat quieter. All we needed after this was some place of safety, preferably inside the Palace, or in some place from where we could get to the Palace.
I looked around me. It was a poor district. Yet the mean, crumbling buildings were also well-secured. A few old women and children were darting glances from upstairs windows. But the streets were empty, and there was no chance, it was soon made clear to us, of being let in anywhere.
‘Which way do you suppose to the Palace district?’ I asked. Even if we couldn’t get all the way, there were some churches where Martin might be recognised.
‘I think that way is east,’ he said with an uncertain wave back the way we’d come. He listened closely. ‘But surely there’s a main street not far off,’ he said.
I also could hear the faint commotion. It was an annoyance, showing, as it did, that the rioting wasn’t confined around the Church of the Apostles. But it wasn’t surprising. Every poor district borders eventually on to somewhere richer, and we knew that we were only in the first few streets. This particular mob might be a few hundred yards away as it went about some mischief that, given luck, would keep it from any place we wanted to be.
‘Did you bring any money with you?’ I asked, pulling him back to the matter in hand.
Martin shook his head.
Nor had I. The golden slide for my hair hadn’t survived the climb to the church roof. Beyond that, I’d deliberately not put on any jewellery. The knife was valuable – but much more at present for its blade of Damascus steel than for the weight of its hilt. I didn’t suppose anyone here would accept a promise to pay. For food and for shelter, then, we might have been beggars in the city that I helped rule.
‘Do you think it’s getting closer?’ Martin asked anxiously.
I would have told him to shut up. But I listened again. I looked at Martin. He looked at me. The baby was beginning to cry piteously.
Chapter 45
‘They are coming closer,’ Martin said.
I nodded. There was no point in denying the obvious. The street around us was as still and quiet as in one of the abandoned suburbs of Constantinople. But the distant noise of rioting was growing louder. It wasn’t the rushing about and screaming of the mob back outside the church. That sort of rioting soon burns itself out. This was the tramp of perhaps hundreds of feet, and that rhythmical – and, in my view, that increasingly tiresome – chant about the Tears of Alexander. Add to this the regular thumping of cudgels against wood when people are marching past close-packed properties and checking to see which, if any, are not locked and barred.
It was Egyptians. And they weren’t marching by this poor district, on their way to rob and murder more Greeks of quality. They were inside the poor district. And they were getting closer.
‘It’s fair to assume they’re after us,’ I said flatly. ‘They were waiting for us and hoping to cut us off as we approached the Palace district. Who wants us and why, and what’s to be done with us – search me. If only we could find somewhere to hide…’
But where to hide? As I said, every place worth entering was already secured. The streets, though filthy as any pigsty, had no shelter. Unless we could find an open door, the best we could hope for was to keep out of sight, and wait for the mob to give up whatever search had brought it our way, or for the Greek residents to come back from their own rioting to deal with these invaders. Yes, with all this noise, there must soon be a Greek mob on the scene. That would complicate matters nicely.
With a muffled crying, much heavy breathing and the scrape of my staff on the dried mud of the street, we started off again. Even as we covered the distance to the corner of the street, the chanting grew louder.
‘But where is it coming from?’ Martin asked.
Good question. The sound was bouncing from every wall. It was impossible to tell what was original and what its echo. How Martin was avoiding one of his fits of the vapours was another mystery of the day. To be sure, I was increasingly rattled by this hunt with us as the quarry. For all the usual reasons of nationality, there was no chance of cooperation between invading mob and those residents here not of rioting age. What we most likely had was a methodical search of one slum by dwellers of another who knew the ways of all. But it seemed to me, as I hobbled painfully on, as if someone were watching us from the sky and somehow advertising our position to the mob. It didn’t matter which way we moved. We could hurry as best we could along the full length of a street. We could make turns at random and double back on ourselves. No matter what we did, the joyous chanting grew steadily louder.
Or it grew louder while it continued. Every so often, it would fall silent. Then it would be the soft tramp of many feet. Or it would be total silence. Then it would start all over with a burst of sound. It was the silences that were most unnerving. Why, if they were hunting us, these people advertised their presence at all was beyond me. Why the silences was equally so. Whether we tried to get away from the chanting, or worried we’d come face to face with the silent hunters, we pressed on deeper into the labyrinthine slum.
‘They’re coming from down that way,’ I said, pointing along one of the wider and less winding streets. And they were. I turned back and began to stump heavily towards one of the smaller turnings. I wanted to stop and rest. I should have taken the armour off while we were resting. It had started as a minor inconvenience. It was now dragging me down. Martin put his free arm round my back and began pulling me forward. It got us moving faster. But where were we going? There was no point complaining we were lost. That was a problem to be sorted out later. For the moment, it was enough that we couldn’t find a scrap of cover. There wasn’t so much as a doorway for squeezing into. It didn’t help that I’d come out dressed as brightly as a songbird.
There was an alley leading into a courtyard. I saw the dark opening as Martin hurried us past. I managed to stop him and push him towards it. We threw ourselves into it. I stood leaning against a wall, wheezing and gasping as I tried to catch my breath. No one had come yet round any of the corners. If we could get ourselves into the courtyard, and stay there, the mob could look to its own affairs.
‘Get out of here!’ It was a man in late middle age. A stained leather apron covered his belly. One of his massive hands was wrapped round a hammer. In the other was what looked like a sharpened iron pole.
‘In the name of God,’ I cried softly, ‘give us shelter. There are wogs in this quarter, killing every Greek of whatever condition. Ask what you will of me. But give us shelter.’
Martin held up the twitching bag, as if the muffled crying from within wasn’t enough. I thought of offering my knife with the golden hilt. Another man, equally big, appeared. This one had the sort of metal saw you normally see two slaves working. He raised it threateningly.
‘Get out,’ the first man repeated. He jabbed the metal spike in our direction.
I’d have had trouble taking on the pair of them in the best circumstances. These weren’t anything like the best circumstances. Even the sword I’d picked up was a cheap thing I’d not have trusted to stay in one piece for a serious fight. I pointed at the bag.
‘Then at least take the child,’ I begged. All else aside, the poor thing was slowing us down.
‘Get out or I’ll kill you both,’ he replied. He jabbed viciously forward, and caught me in the stomach. The armour stopped the blow from doing any actual harm. Even so, I was knocked to the ground, and I was sure the spike had forced a small gap in the chainmail. I groaned and clutched at the probable if minor stab wound. As I pulled myself back up, the man’s friend lashed out with the saw and got Martin in the face with one of its wooden handles. Martin dropped the bag and pointed to it as we retreated backwards from the alley. I looked behind. The chanting had started again, and was loud and close But the street was clear. We could still make a run for it.
‘Take it with you,’ the man snarled. ‘Take it up – or I’ll cut it in pieces and throw it after you down the street.’ He stabbed at the bag, pinning one of its hems to the packed earth.
‘Bring him with us,’ I said to Martin. Leaning heavily on my staff, I followed Martin towards the light of the open street.
Once in Constantinople, I saw some lunatic jump on to the Circus racetrack. I think his idea was to hold up the race while he addressed us on its sinfulness. I saw him stand and hold up his arms for attention. I saw him take in breath. Then he was simply gone. He’d been struck by one of the racing chariots that had been going too fast to
