The sun was rising when he slipped over the wall into the inn yard. He heard a woman’s voice from the stable, and he smiled, and went into the kitchen, where shocked servants scurried to get out of his way.
An hour later – face and hands washed, in best clothing, neat, and dead tired – he stood in his armour in the atrium waiting for the rest of the embassy.
Alessandro came down with Giannis and Cesare.
Cesare embraced him, then held him at arm’s length. ‘You look like hell,’ he said.
Giannis shook his head. ‘You smell like . . .’ He made a face. ‘Perfume.’
‘Christ on the cross, he does.’ Alessandro laughed. ‘I thought you were going to bed, scapegrace.’
Swan forced a grin. ‘There was a bed involved,’ he said.
The three men roared.
They carried their helmets under their arms, rather than wear them, as Swan had hoped, and he carried his through the streets. He wondered why he’d bothered to wash. It was four miles to the palace of the Sultan, and even in the early morning, it was a walk intended to discomfort and annoy.
As they walked, Alessandro drifted back from the bishop. ‘I have taken some precautions,’ he said.
Swan could barely remain awake. ‘Yes?’
‘I think it possible that the Sultan could . . . decide – to dispense with us.’ He shrugged.
‘You mean, kill us,’ Swan said.
Cesare started.
‘Yes. If so, it won’t happen at the palace. It will be a street attack.’ Alessandro was watching the buildings. ‘So we will not return along these streets.’
‘The palace is too public?’ Swan asked.
‘I have to hope so. If he chooses to kill us in the palace . . .’ Alessandro glanced over his shoulder.
Swan followed his eye. He hadn’t seen Yellow Face in days, and there he was.
‘Why, though?’ Swan asked.
Alessandro shrugged. ‘As a message? Because the bishop will annoy him? Because he’s ready for war with Venice anyway?’ Alessandro shook his head. ‘Your Jew friend – Isaac – sent me a warning.’
Swan tried to imagine some higher order of plot where Isaac would send them a false warning. He shook his head – fatigue was not helping him think. ‘I would listen to Isaac,’ he said carefully.
‘Listen, sleepy-head! Damn you, you English pup, I need you, and you smell like a French whore and look like a three-day drunk! Now that I have your attention – how far north do the sewers come?’
‘Christ – sorry, Alessandro. I haven’t come this far north. And I haven’t been in – or out – north of the market by the Venetian quarter.’
Alessandro shook his head. ‘Damn it to hell.’
The Palace of Blacharnae was at the north-east corner of the city. It had suffered substantial damage during the siege, but its woods and fountains appealed to the Sultan and he had taken it for his residence, although rumour said he usually lived in a great palace of tents on the plain just beyond.
The entrance hall was grander in every way than any similar hall in England, even the Guildhall in London. The square of St Mark’s in Venice had something of the majesty, but the apparently infinite vista of mosaics stretching away from the viewer struck Swan with wonder. And it was old. Swan couldn’t tell how old, but he was awestruck. A thousand years old?
The only man who seemed unaffected was the bishop, who led them into the great hall without looking to the right or left, up or down. Neither the mosaic ceilings nor the marble floor seemed to interest him.
The hall was lined by armoured sipahis, who leaned indolently on their lances and did not speak. The great doors at the far end of the hall were closed.
Swan stood still. There were six Christian men-at-arms, counting Cesare; and four more Venetian marines. They stood, five a side, flanking the embassy – the bishop, two interpreters, and four sailors with the gifts.
They stood. And stood.
So did the sipahis.
Sweat ran down Swan’s neck, gathered momentum in the middle of his back, and rolled all the way down to the top of his buttocks under his arming coat. The arming coat began to grow alarmingly heavy and wet. The weight of his harness seemed to grow. He could even feel – feel viscerally – the weight of the sword at his hip.
He flexed his knees.
He had too much time to think. Time to consider the troupe in the cisterns; time to consider the flaws in his plans.
Time to consider Khatun Bengul. Time to think about the risk he’d run. And why.
The joke was on him. He couldn’t get her out of his head, and he had gone to lie with her to revenge himself on her father. A petty, wicked sin.
‘I’m too fucking old for this,’ muttered Cesare, immediately behind him.
Alessandro was a statue of steel.
The bishop began to complain. At first, his complaints were aimed at members of his own staff. Then he walked over to one of the silent sipahis.
‘I demand to see the Sultan!’ he shouted, spittle flying.
The man ignored him.
‘Immediately!’ shrieked the outraged prelate. ‘I have waited nineteen days to deliver a letter and some presents!’
The sipahi might have been carved of leather. His aged face had vertical lines etched by sun and weather, and the man might have been a hundred years old, yet he stood in chain and plate, his pointed helmet a magnificent display of blue and gold, his scimitar hilt made of jade.
Swan looked him over and thought,
‘I demand to see the Sultan immediately!’ shouted the bishop.
Very softly, Cesare said, ‘If we kill him ourselves, do you think the Sultan will let us go?’
And the great doors opened.
The bishop, caught a hundred feet from his entourage, scurried back, his heavy garments making the noise of a woman’s skirts as he crossed the marble floor.
No one watched him, because Sultan Mehmet II entered – led by fifty Royal Sipahis, followed by his personal bodyguard, surrounded by his advisers and friends. Every man was dressed in silk; every soldier’s armour was engraved with verses of the Holy Koran, inlaid in gold, blued like the sky. The courtiers had jewels in their turbans the size of bird’s eggs. Their robes were woven in complex patterns, and yet the whole made one pattern around the central figure of the Sultan as if a single intelligence had chosen all their clothes.
Swan bet that someone had.
Omar Reis was standing at the Sultan’s right hand.
The Sultan settled on to his throne, and Omar Reis was allowed a stool at his feet. The other courtiers bowed – some actually lay flat on their face before the sultan.
Alessandro said – quietly – ‘Kneel.’
All of the men-at-arms sank to one knee.
The bishop hissed, ‘On your feet! We do not kneel to some infidel warlord!’
None of the men-at-arms moved until the Turks began to move at the word of a chamberlain, who thumped the floor with his baton.
The bishop looked close to apoplexy.
The chamberlain began to speak. He spoke in Turkish, and another chamberlain spoke in Persian. One of the embassy’s interpreters began to speak.
‘It is a recitation of the Sultan’s titles and names. Allah’s servant, flower of felicity, lord of Rum and Antioch . . .’ The titles went on and on – some religious, some military, some tribal.
Swan went back to thinking about Khatun Bengul. Her hair – the scent of her. The scent was with him yet. He smiled.
‘Conquerer of Constantinople, Lord of Greece. He bids us welcome.’
Mehmet was young – of middle height, and quite handsome, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years of age.
