Skiouros rose from the cushions and scurried over to the window as the old man refreshed the sahlep in each glass upon the table. Worryingly, another jug of that corrosive and very dangerous wine sat atop the same table, though thankfully no one had yet suggested opening it. Listening to the clinks and tinkles of the glasses, the Greek peered out through the gap in the curtains. It was late afternoon and the sun was already little more than a glow which threw the sixth hill into silhouette. Atop the crest he could see the palace of Constantine Porphyrogenitus – the most intact remnant of this ancient palace district – and the sight soured his mood. In the Turkish tongue, the structure was known as Tekfur Sarayi and now that Skiouros knew it to be the current residence of Şehzade Selim, it seemed to brood with potential unpleasantness. But that was not what had caused him to rise and check the window.
That action had been born of the inescapable feeling that they were being observed, which had first tickled his spine as he and Dragi had emerged from the Yedikule and crossed the road to rejoin Parmenio and Diego. Three times as the small group had wound their way through the impoverished streets across the hills, along the line of the walls and back to the house he now knew to belong to one Mustafa, a Romani elder, he had been certain they were being followed. Once, he had seen a cloaked figure in an alleyway – a figure who had ducked into a doorway as Skiouros turned – and he had been sure that the man’s cloak stood out at his waist, indicating the presence of a belted sword. Two streets further on a young man had been playing with a hoop, and Skiouros had harboured the sneaking suspicion – unprovable, of course – that the boy was that same urchin from Saint Saviour’s churchyard. Then, as they had approached the area of Saint Saviour’s Church, he had felt that familiar prickle of the skin again and had just caught sight of two hulking men disappearing round a corner, both of whom appeared to be watching them. He had then led the other three, using some feeble excuse, through the sunken vegetable gardens in the ancient ruined Aetios Cistern in order to try and discourage pursuit. But then, as they had neared the ramshackle Romani house, he had spotted a cloaked figure on the city wall above the neighbourhood and, though the man had disappeared in a moment, he was sure it had been the same one from the other side of the city.
So they seemed to be being watched, and now, almost certainly, those watchers knew where the four of them were staying. He’d not mentioned his suspicions to the others. Somehow he felt sure that Dragi would already know and that any raising of the subject would just add more infuriating mysteries to the pile. Still, it added an extra sense of uncertainty and worry to the whole situation.
‘Come away from the window,’ Parmenio rolled his eyes. ‘What’s got you so jumpy?’
Skiouros turned an irritable look on his friend. ‘Would you like a list?’
‘We’re safe here.’
‘We’re safe nowhere, Parmenio. Least of all, I fear, here.’
His friend gave him an odd look through narrowed eyes, but simply gestured to the empty seat. With a last fruitless scan of the surroundings, Skiouros returned to the table and the refreshing glass of spiced orchid-root flour, rose water and warmed milk, testing it for temperature and feeling its soothing taste working on his frayed nerves almost instantly. Sinking with a sigh into the cushioned seat, he looked at his companions around the table. Dragi. Of course, Dragi – ever-present Dragi. The old man with the few teeth, who Skiouros now knew to be Mustafa – the house’s owner and most senior of the community; the leader in all but name. A woman of middle years named Lela, with kohl-rimmed eyes and a beguiling scent who, while clearly twice Skiouros’ age, did something to his nethers with which he was not entirely comfortable merely by her presence. A strange-looking gangly eastern Romani named Yayan Dimo of about Skiouros’ age with a hare-lip, mismatched eyes and muscles like a cart horse. And, of course, good old Diego and Parmenio.
Dragi waited for a moment until everyone was settled and then cleared his throat.
‘I am sure, Skiouros – Kral yapımcı – that your companions here are more than just close friends, and they feel their bond of fellowship with you as keenly as you feel it for them. However, the next week will be a very difficult and dangerous time. We are prepared for it. We know what must be done. And you have no choice in this matter. This is your… destiny, if you will. But your friends? Need they be at risk?’
‘Listen,’ Parmenio snapped, leaning forwards even as Skiouros’ mouth opened in reply, ‘I have no intention of backing out now. You have no idea what we’ve been through.’
Dragi nodded his understanding as Diego also leaned in and spoke in low tones, a sour note inflecting his Spanish-accented Greek. ‘I believe my debts to have been paid back on Crete, when I was sacrificed to the Ducal guard in order to retrieve a piece of dead flesh. But on a purely practical level, both Parmenio and I have been seen in the company of Skiouros and yourself now for days. We have been attacked by an unknown group which seems to be linked to a crusading order. There is, as they say, safety in numbers, and I fear for my own welfare if I now leave the fold in a city I hardly know, tarred with the same brush as the rest of you. No. Prudence requires my continued involvement. Whatever this is, common sense now demands that we see it through to the bitter end.’
Again, Dragi nodded, and Skiouros echoed the motion. ‘Eight more days,’ the Romani sailor said, ‘and this will be over. Whether we are face-down, mouldering in an unmarked grave, or free of troubles and able to enjoy an open life, we must now ride it out, as Diego says.’
Dragi looked at the other Romani at the table, each of whom nodded in turn.
‘Very well. There is much to tell, Skiouros, so please listen to what we say and save your questions for afterwards.’
Skiouros nodded.
‘Good.’ Dragi stretched and reached for a bowl of the hemp that he had burned on board the kadirga, lighting the end from a candle and bathing his face in the heady, wisping blue smoke.
‘There has, for some time, been a division among our people. You must be aware that Islam is every bit as riven with fractures and differences as your Christian faiths? Well, in this particular case, our focus falls on the Alevi sect. Not for their beliefs as such, but because of a vision that tore our community apart more than a decade ago. A Sayyid – a self-professed holy man who claims descent from Muhammed and holds temporal power among the Alevi Romani in Anatolia – returned from a sojourn in the wilds with an old woman he believed to speak with the voice of the prophet.’
‘Slow down,’ Diego said, his brow creasing. ‘Remember that some of us know very little of your faith, and it’s hard to see where this is going. I have enough trouble trying to work my mind around Skiouros’ church.’
Dragi inclined his head. ‘Apologies. I shall attempt to elucidate. Islam is split primarily into the Sunni and the Shi’a. Think of this as similar to your Orthodox and Catholic rift for ease. Sometimes relations between the two are good. More often they are taut or even downright hostile. We of our community here are mostly Sunni, as are the majority of the Ottoman, especially in this city. The Alevi sect that holds a small but tight minority in central Anatolia are Shi’a. Currently, the great sultan Bayezid is unusually accommodating of their sect, accepting them as equal citizens of the empire, but there are many in the court who would persuade him otherwise and it would not take much to bring about persecution of the Alevi.’
He took a deep breath. ‘It is somewhat simplifying matters, but it will ease your understanding if, in current terms, you think of the Alevi as our opposition.’
Nods all round.
‘Very well. The old woman in the desert had suffered a series of visions. One of these visions had involved a lion, a wolf and a double-headed eagle.’
Skiouros’ eyebrows rose, and Dragi nodded. ‘Precisely. In the woman’s vision, she saw the eagle atop a spur of rock, watching a titanic battle between the others. Finally, after hours of fighting, the lion tore out the throat of the wolf. And then, while the victor was too tired from his struggle to feed, the eagle killed the lion and fed from both corpses.’
Skiouros held up a finger. ‘I know you don’t want us to interrupt, but I’m seeing a parallel with the tale of the king-maker and the king-breaker there, and Diego doesn’t know that story.’
‘I will enlighten him later,’ Dragi replied. ‘The wolf is the symbol of Ottoman heredity – it is the wolf that led the first Turks to Anatolia and therefore facilitated the birth of the empire. But the wolf is also symbolic of Selim of Trabzon, and Prince Selim, while he is no overt oppressor of sects, is no lover of the Alevi and their Shi’a beliefs. He is known to have spoken against them to his father. He is hard and unyielding, as you have learned, and a future under him could be troublesome for the Alevi.’
Dragi leaned back and inhaled his smoke once more before continuing. ‘And to the Alevi, the double-headed eagle, who is Prince Korkut, is even more undesirable. His two heads – that learned poet and musician and the rabid Sunni zealot, while so disparate, are very much the same person. The Alevi sect would enter an era of hitherto unseen pain and terror under the rule of Korkut. You can, I’m sure, remember the Prince and see the truth of this?’
The four foreigners nodded their clear understanding of the matter.
‘But to them,’ Dragi went on, ‘the lion, who is clearly Prince Ahmed, governor of Amasya, is the future. The lion is also a Shi’a symbol, going back to the early days of Persia in this region. And while Ahmed has no connection to the Alevi, he is known to have counselled his father to continued lenience. So they see Ahmed as the great hope of the Alevi sect.’
‘This is all fascinating, but it doesn’t illuminate much,’ Diego interrupted, earning a hard glance from the Romani across the table. ‘If this was all over a decade ago, what is its relevance now?’
‘Can you not guess?’ the largely-toothless old Mustafa interjected in thickly-accented and somewhat troubled Greek, motioning to Skiouros, who frowned in bafflement. ‘Think on your own past,’ the old man added.
Skiouros ran through his remembered workings from that unpleasant few minutes at the Yedikule earlier and frowned. ‘The visions? The old woman in the desert? Are you suggesting that the old woman I met in the city five years ago is that same one?’
The beguiling Lela nodded. ‘The dede Babik. Heretical seeress of the Alevi in the city. She is, in fact, the only one of our opposition that we know by both sight and name. If the Alevi holy man is their mind, Babik is their heart.’
‘You see,’ Dragi took up his tale once more, ‘a little over five years ago, our opposition contrived to scatter those of Mustafa’s people who were in useful positions to the four winds – I ended up on Crete after a run-in they arranged with a janissary officer. Somehow, with most of us out of the way, the opposition arranged to have Şehzade Ahmed mere hours from the city at Bursa, despite the fact that he should have been in Amasya, much further away. By some means they had become aware of a plot between disgruntled janissaries and foreign dignitaries to assassinate the sultan. Though they were not involved in the plot directly, they recognised that if the sultan died, the first heir to reach the palace would almost certainly ascend the throne. And so they made sure that Ahmed was there, ready. They could not afford to have one of his Alevi-hating brothers step up, you see.’
Dragi breathed in more of the hemp smoke and tipped the last of his sahlep past his lips.
‘And then you hove into view, shattering the best-laid plans of conspirators and diplomats. The king-breaker had stepped onto the scene at last. You see, while to us you are the king-maker, to them you are the king-breaker, for you destroyed their hope of putting Ahmed on the throne. The Alevi mystic who leads our opposition almost exploded with rage, from what I hear, and his people did whatever they could to keep the plot together. The old seer-woman Babik tried to turn you from your path, but you held fast to your destiny and stopped the assassination. I wish I had seen her face. She must have been livid!’
Skiouros shook his head in wonder. ‘Five years I have carried questions about that woman and what happened back there. And you have been there lurking in the shadows for much of that. You could have warned me.’
‘You were not ready,’ Dragi replied. ‘In some small measure, dede Babik succeeded in her secondary task. While the plot itself failed, her influence drove you from the city and into five years of wandering. And while you were gone, another claimed the credit for your deeds. Had you been in the city, we would have guided you, walked you through things in just the same manner as our opposition has guided your opposite number.’
Skiouros slumped back into the chair, a look of sheer disbelief plastered across his face. As Dragi continued, he leaned forward and, despite his best intentions, opened the jug of strong wine, tipping its glutinous, oily contents into a fresh cup and sinking two mouthfuls in quick succession.
‘You see, Skiouros of Hadrianople, you were always part of this. It is not a matter of me drawing you into the affair. You have always been bound to it. I just had to reel you back in inch by inch. And now, at last, after five years, you are where you need to be, and at the time you need to be there. For the opposition are moving again.’
Skiouros favoured them with a sour look and the young hare-lipped easterner leaned in. ‘You may not appreciate being thrust into this matter, but you are not alone, king-maker. There are many among us who would love nothing more than to take matters into our own hands, guide the future of the Ottoman sultanate, and not rely upon two semi-legendary figures from an ancient fable. But the fact remains that while neither Dragi nor I – nor many others for that matter – want to weigh everything on your shoulders, it is not our decision to make. That decision was made by God and we must live with it. While you are busy feeling sorry for yourself, your opposition is busily at work, and you are finally where you need to be at the right time.’
Skiouros threw down another gulp of the unpleasant wine and winced. ‘Because your opposition are about to try a coup and put Ahmed on the throne?’
‘Precisely. He is the only future they can see that ends well for the Alevi.’
‘And you hate these Alevi so much that you will do anything to stop them?’
Dragi looked genuinely taken aback, but the intoxicating Lela leaned forward instead, her voice like velvet, with a shiver-drawing huskiness. Skiouros quickly began to worry that he might drool.
‘There are other prophecies and tales, king-maker. Many of them. Şehzade Ahmed might be the scion of choice for the Alevi, but he would be disaster in all other ways, handing over half the empire’s power to foreign nations simply for his own benefit. Korkut would be a catastrophe for all of us, and even the Alevi recognise that. But for the future, we must look ahead. We must look beyond Selim, whose reign might be a dark one, at the golden future that follows. He has a son, born this past winter to a princess of the line of the Khans. The boy is the empire’s future. It is not for Selim that we struggle, but for his heir, in accordance with what has been revealed to us.’
‘That is utterly ridiculous.’
‘Is it?’ Diego frowned, leaning across to Skiouros. ‘Study your histories, Skiouros. The greatest emperors of Rome did just that. Hadrianus adopted a successor – Antoninus – simply to hold the throne until young Marcus Aurelius came of age. Sometimes a golden future can only be built upon charred base stones.’
Skiouros sloshed wine back and forth in his mouth for a short while, and finally shook his head. ‘There are limits to what a person can ask of another. I said I would be your man until after the festival, Dragi, and I will do what you ask… within reason. But whatever you believe, I am no king-maker. I am not wise or pious enough to select an heir, any more than this mysterious opposition is. I will not push Selim to the top. It is not my place to do so.’
The younger, eastern Romani narrowed his eyes. ‘I said he would be hostile,’ he sniffed in his oddly-accented Greek, thick with taints of his homeland.
‘No. I am not hostile, and I appreciate all your efforts and your concern to bring about what you think it right. Every man should strive for what he believes to be right. But I propose a different path – a compromise. I have no desire to try and raise a man to the throne. I think that the man who deserves the throne currently occupies it anyway. Five years ago I killed a senior janissary officer to save Sultan Bayezid. I am not about to conspire against him now.’
This raised a surprised nod from several of the table’s occupants.
‘But just as I cannot realistically attempt to lift a man to the throne, I cannot in good conscience sit back and let anyone else do that either. I will not champion Selim, but I will do what I can to interrupt the designs of your opposition in any attempt to bring Ahmed to power through a coup. Let the three heirs reach for the throne when their father dies, just as the laws of succession intend. Let Bayezid live to be a happy old man, and the strongest of his progeny grasp power in your traditional manner. You see, you believe that the tale of the king-maker and the king-breaker is a parable urging to decisive action, and so you all scrabble around trying to promote your chosen prince and impede the others. The tale is not urging you to decision-making and urgent action. It is a warning against interference. And though I have no wish to meddle in this myself, you believe that my opposite number is already at work? Then it is our task to unpick the stitches in their tapestry of plots and plans.’
‘By remaining impartial, of course, you risk the rise of Ahmed or Korkut even without the aid of the opposition,’ Lela crooned.
‘And if either of them rises to the top on their own merit, then God meant it to be,’ Skiouros replied in an uncharacteristic fit of seeming piety. ‘What do we know of the opposition and their plans, then?’
‘As you know,’ Dragi continued, ‘we only know the dede Babik for certain. The opposition are living in Sulukule in an insular community, but we have no precise details – it is dangerous to go prying into that area if you are not one of their community. We know of this so-called ‘holy-man’ who came to the city with her, but his identity is a mystery. We know the king-breaker is at work but not who he is. You see, we are very much in the dark as yet. They seem to be in league with Hadim Ali Paşa, and in support of Ahmed, and beyond that they likely have their talons into other groups. They have had five years of building towards this, after all, waiting for a time when all three heirs and their father would be together at the same time and in the same place. I think we can be sure that the Knights Hospitaller are involved with them – they stand to gain a great hold in the empire if the malleable Ahmed ascends to the throne with their aid. Hadim Ali Paşa mentioned to his master that other groups, including an ancient enemy, were already with them. He must have arranged a deputation from the knights at Rhodos some time ago. And the opposition almost certainly already have people in place across the city in positions of power and influence.’
‘Why have they not done away with the other two princes already, then?’ Parmenio asked, pouring some of the wine for himself.
‘To kill one prince would put the other on his guard and make him almost impossible to get to. They will have to remove both at once, and even then only when they are ready to spring their coup. Only Ahmed is in a position to deal with his father – no matter how well-placed our opposition are, they will not be able to touch the sultan. We know that Ahmed has something planned for the day of the festival – on the 29th of the month – and the opposition will not risk interfering with that by removing the two brothers too long before then. Thus I believe we have until at least the 28th before any action is taken. One week to prevent the deaths of two princes and the instigation of a coup against the sultan.’
Skiouros sighed. ‘From what you’ve said, and from what we heard from him, it seems unlikely that Şehzade Ahmed will risk the coup unless he is in an unassailable position. If we keep Korkut and Selim in the running, he has no reason to continue with a coup, and the sultan will likely remain safe.’ He mused, tapping his chin. ‘Though if we can identify a key figure in their scheme, we might be able to undo that likelihood, too. Do you think this nebulous enemy will already have people in place to remove the princes when the time comes?’
‘Almost certainly.’
Skiouros nodded and rubbed his hands together. ‘Then that must be the priority. Identify and remove those who have infiltrated the courts of Korkut and Selim, thereby saving both from being killed and foiling your opposition’s plot. Ahmed is clearly in no danger from them, and I will have nothing to do with removing him from position, so we can ignore him for now. Where are the other princes staying prior to the festival?’
The woman Lela cleared her throat again, drawing all eyes at the table.
‘Selim is in Tekfur Sarayi – the Porphyrogenitus palace atop this hill. It is a walled compound with solid defences, and he has a small army with him and trusts only his own people. Getting into that place will be almost impossible. They do say that old tunnels in the ruins lead to the palace, but we have never been able to verify the reality of this. Korkut is less paranoid, though equally well defended. He is residing at Eski Sarayi – the old palace – near the janissary barracks at the heart of the city. Proximity to that last structure might create its own problems, of course.’
‘Korkut sounds like the easier of the two propositions, regardless of the janissaries.’
Dragi shook his head. ‘Selim must be our priority.’
‘I said I would prevent interference, Dragi, not concentrate on your favourite candidate. If Korkut is the easier to get to, then we deal with him first, with the added benefit that we might unravel more of what we do not yet understand in the process. Can you get someone into the old palace with a legitimate reason for an indefinite period?’
The young easterner nodded his head. ‘I believe so. It will be you?’
Skiouros sighed. ‘I suspect it will. I cannot see Diego or Parmenio blending in well and any number of lesser posts somewhere like that will be filled with servants who were taken from Greek regions in the Devsirme. I can blend in at court like no one else here. The other, entirely separate, problem we have is that we appear to know very little about the enemy. You believe that someone moves with them – my opposite number?’
‘The king-breaker, yes.’
‘Do we know anything about him?’
‘No, but be sure that he is already at work, guided by the hand of the Khoraxané dede Babik and by other Alevi conspirators.’
Skiouros chewed his lip. ‘And even if we assume that they have managed to place only one of their number among the princes’ courts, what is to stop them doing so again, if we foil their plans?’
Dragi nodded seriously and Skiouros cleared his throat and straightened. ‘We need to find a new place from which to work. I believe we were being observed by at least three different people on our way back to the house from Yedikule.’
‘Seven, in fact,’ interjected Don Diego, cleaning a fingernail with the point of his knife. ‘I rather suspect they watch this place even now.’
Old Mustafa and his council showed no surprise or concern over this, though Dragi seemed a little taken aback. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘I know Phanar and Balat well, even after all these years. There are streets and alleyways in Phanar that few of us have ever trod, and I have friends in Balat who will help us.’ He hoped to God that was true. The last time he had seen David Ben Judah and his family had been in the aftermath of his father’s murder, for which Skiouros had been at least indirectly responsible. Hopefully, the old man he’d met that time would remember him and David had forgiven him. One thing of which he could be sure was that the house of Ben Isaac would be safe from the eyes and ears of this mysterious Romani opposition. The Jews of Balat were as suspicious of the Romani as were those in the Greek enclave, if not more so. ‘David Ben Judah and his family will find us shelter, I’m sure. Just the four of us, though, I think. And we will have to pay them for their aid.’
‘Of course.’
Parmenio drummed his fingers on his cup. ‘Are you seriously talking about sneaking into an Ottoman palace and hunting an assassin on your own?’
Skiouros gave a bleak chuckle. ‘You might recall that this isn’t my first time sneaking into a palace on nefarious business.’
‘Still, it’s stupid to even think of doing it on your own. We’re not talking about some foreign lunatic hiding out in a disused house in the city. We’re talking about a well-placed, well-prepared killer in one of the most secure and monitored locations in the entire empire. For the love of the blessed Virgin, you’re talking about infiltrating an imperial palace.’
‘There’s no other way we can do it. And I’m no novice. Remember the Palazzo Orsini in Rome?’
Diego nodded. ‘He’s right, Parmenio. But we can still be useful. If we all move location without pursuit, then you and I can turn the tables, start checking up on them, see what we can find out. Watch the watchers, so to speak.’
‘Good,’ Skiouros smiled, gesturing to the old man. ‘We will leave for Phanar and Balat as soon as it gets dark, and I’ll lead Dragi, Diego and Parmenio through some of the lesser byways. I don’t care how clever or observant our watchers are, I can lose them there. And hopefully, when they realise that we four are no longer here, they will leave Mustafa’s house alone. Otherwise, I fear, there is a good chance that this place will be attacked. Be prepared in any event. Arm yourselves and watch your surroundings carefully. If you need to speak to us after we leave, have someone scratch a message into the wall of the Bloody Church of Saint Mary. We will do the same.’
The Romani elder sucked his teeth fretfully but nodded his agreement.
‘In the morning one of ours will attend the Yedikule record office and work out how to get you into the old palace. We will send you a message as soon as that is done.’
‘Good.’ Skiouros sat back and pushed the wine cup away. ‘Clear head for the next few hours, then, I’d say.’
‘Are they still with us?’
‘Two men a few hundred yards back, lurking in the doorway of a tavern. No sign of the other two, but be sure they’re there somewhere.’
Skiouros nodded to himself at Diego’s answer. The four of them had left the Romani house under cover of darkness not in an attempt to disappear unnoticed – he was well aware that they would never manage to exit the place unobserved. But the benefit of the late hour would become clear in another minute or so, now that they were in Phanar and in streets he knew well.
‘You’re sure things won’t have changed here?’ Parmenio asked. ‘It’s been five years, after all.’
‘The Greeks of the city stick together, my friend. Just watch.’
With just a low whistle of warning, Skiouros suddenly jinked left into a small side street, leaving the more major road. Whereas the main street had been occupied by sporadic scattered groups of locals – often drunk – this large alley was almost deserted, barring one tired whore taking the night air and a vagrant sitting on a step and hugging his knees.
‘I don’t like this,’ Diego murmured.
‘That’s because you don’t know the place.’
‘And because it’s filthy, disreputable, and an excellent place to lay an ambush.’
‘That’s precisely why I do like it, my good Don Diego.’
As the four of them reached the heart of this narrow way, Dragi, who was running at the back, his gaze repeatedly thrown over his shoulder, coughed ‘Here they come.’
Sure enough, as Skiouros glanced back he saw all four of the men who had been shadowing them menacingly since the Romani house turn into the alley with more haste than a careful pursuer should display. Amateurs! Well, they were dealing with a professional, even if he was rusty by five whole years…
‘What now?’ Parmenio asked as the four friends closed on the end of this narrow street.
‘Now, I’m home,’ Skiouros grinned and, cupping his hands around his mouth, bellowed ‘Avthentis Memeti!’
The others frowned as Skiouros suddenly burst into a jog. The Greek words echoed along the street, bouncing off house fronts and walls. Master Mehmet – a reference to the conqueror of the city and a phrase that carried deep-seated feelings of resentment in the heart of most Greeks in the city. More importantly: a trigger from the old days…
Glancing back once more, Skiouros saw the four pursuers break into a run at the sight of their quarry fleeing, but in seconds they were lost to sight as every door in the street opened and the population of Phanar emerged en masse into the narrow street – some of the whores still mostly naked, men in nightshirts yawning, drunks laughing and choking, children still carrying chicken legs from their evening meal. Utter chaos. In mere moments the alley had changed from a dark, deserted backstreet to one more crowded than a lunchtime market. Shouts of concern from the alley’s far end were almost drowned out by the population, but not before they took on a tone of desperate fury as the four hunters struggled to push through the milling crowd. One was even flattened by an answering punch from an angry drunk.
Skiouros grinned at his friends as they rounded the corner at the end of the alley and emerged into the market place where five years ago he had cut a purse and changed his life forever. Scurrying through the now-empty square, he ducked into a narrow gap between two dilapidated wooden houses and pounded along through the filth and waste, clambering over a low wall at the end. With a deep breath he dropped down into knee-deep undergrowth surrounding the moss-coated grey-green ruins of the bathhouse where he had hidden on that fateful day five years earlier. The other three followed him down and through the shattered structure, emerging at the far side into a dusty street, breathing hard.
‘They’ll not find us now,’ he announced in a whisper as the four of them passed from the strange, incongruous ruin and back into the streets of the city proper, though as he passed that place where he had first encountered the Romani ‘witch’ he half expected to see her again.
Ten minutes later, they were descending the wide street in the Jewish quarter of Balat, the moonlight gleaming on the low ripples of the Golden Horn ahead, beyond the walls. The streets here were deserted, though the shuttered and draped windows glowed with warm life. Chewing on his lip, Skiouros led his friends on toward the high stone building among the wooden ones which had once been the church of Saint Theodoros. The closer he came to the house of Ben Isaac, the less sure he now was that they would be welcome. It had seemed like such a good idea back in the comfort of the Romani elder’s house, especially knowing they were becoming increasingly unsafe there, but like most great spur-of-the-moment ideas, its greatness seemed to be decreasing with every step in the real world.
He found as they approached the door that he was holding his breath, and he released it slowly and deliberately. Reaching up, he grasped the bell cord, clanging it three times, then rapped on the wood, also three times, pausing and then repeating. The old code, if it was still remembered. The worrying silence that followed dragged out for several heartbeats and Skiouros found himself in equal amounts panicking that the family of Ben Isaac had packed up and moved on, leaving the house empty, and also strangely hoping that was the case.
Once upon a time this door was never shut, for Judah Ben Isaac’s business never closed.
Skiouros gave a start as the door suddenly jerked halfway open and a looming figure appeared in the gap. David looked more than five years older. His ringlets had greyed considerably and his frame seemed to have shrunk and withered, for all it was still large. He hunched as he leaned forwards, his eyes narrowing.
‘Yes?’
‘Shalom David. David Ben Judah? Do you remember me?’
The big man peered almost myopically at him, taking in the cut of his clothes, his sea-weathered bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair and the tips of the tattoos emerging from the collar of his shirt. No sign of recognition emerged until the man’s gaze reached his eyes and settled there. A strange mix of surprise and bitterness began to fill that expression as recollection dawned.
‘Skiouros of Phanar?’
‘In the flesh.’
‘Thought you were dead. People said you were. Looks like we weren’t so lucky.’
‘I’ve been away. Is your uncle home?’
‘Uncle Yeshua has been in the loving Shechinah of God for near two years now, peace be upon him.’
Skiouros felt his spirits sag. First old Judah, and then Yeshua. Who was in charge of the business now? David? Surely not. Judah’s son was no businessman. A good enforcer, but not much of a thinker. Perhaps the business had simply ended? One thing was sure: David would be unlikely to be kindly disposed towards him, since he had once suspected the Greek of being responsible in some way for the death of his father. Indeed, the big man’s expression darkened as he picked out the details of the motley trio that surrounded Skiouros in the gloom.
‘Shalom, David. We find ourselves in need of sanctuary and I felt that perhaps in remembrance of your father’s dealings with me, you might be willing to find us a safe place to stay, in the spirit of divine compassion… and for the appropriate recompense, of course.’
The big Jew’s expression faltered not a jot as he continued to glare at the four of them.
‘Get you gone, storm crow.’
Skiouros’ sagging spirits collapsed. This reception was exactly what he’d hoped not to find, and it made the perfect culmination of that despondency that had been building as he walked.
‘Please, I…’
The door was suddenly opened wider and a second figure appeared alongside David. The woman was clearly of advanced age – greater than either Judah or Yeshua’s had been. Perhaps she was David’s grandmother? Her long dress was midnight black, as were the kaffiyyah engulfing her head and the black rope wound around it. Her gnarled feet were bare in the hallway, and her face was lined as ancient parchment, the eyes a rheumy grey. But her face was a welcome sight after David’s for at least it smiled.
‘Invite them in, David.’
‘Ama, this man is trouble, and he brings a Turk and gentiles with him.’
‘Look closer, David. This is no Turk, but one of the zigyan. We have no quarrel with gentiles, and I told you the zigyan would come.’
David’s expression darkened, which impressed Skiouros, given the unpleasantness it already conveyed. ‘Ama, you should not speak of such matters. The Talmud forbids the sorcery of ov, and…’
‘Do not concern yourself with sacred teachings, David. Just find some of the mevushal wine and gather some of the pastries and sweetmeats left from the evening meal and arrange them in the communal room.’
‘Ama, I…’
‘Just do it, David.’
With a disgruntled frown, the big man lumbered off along the passage.
‘Shalom, my lady,’ Skiouros said politely. ‘We did not intent to intrude so. I was hoping to find Master Yeshua and come to some arrangement of safe accommodation. I know that Master Judah once owned at least three or four properties in Balat that he would…’
‘Come in,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Be welcome in the house of Judah Ben Isaac.’ As she waved them in and the four entered the passageway, bowing their heads respectfully as they passed, the old woman gave a smile and then reached out for the door, tapping along the wall until she found it, and then closed it and turned an unshifting gaze back onto them. She is blind, Skiouros realised with a start, and tried not to think too hard on how she might have recognised with unseeing eyes that one of their group was zigyan – a Jewish term for the Romani.
‘I had a dream, you know?’ she said amiably as she hustled them down the corridor. ‘That zigyan would come. David disapproves because foretelling is forbidden in the 19th chapter of Leviticus, but to my mind, when it comes unbidden during sleep, it is the gift of the malakim – the angels. And if the malakim tell me to welcome the zigyan, then the zigyan will be welcome, and all who accompany them too.’
Skiouros felt himself heave a sigh of relief. The Romani opposition would be highly unlikely to track them here, and even if they did it would take long enough to buy them the time they needed. Thank you, grandmother! Now all Skiouros had to worry about was infiltrating an imperial Ottoman palace and wheedling out an assassin…
Skiouros was somehow aware that he was dreaming even within the dream. His lucid mind, trapped in the dreamscape of nightmare, railed against the inside of his skull, trying to wake him. But still the young Greek could see only the ruined room around him, with that impossible clarity that only dreams can have, for he could see well despite the fact that this sealed room with the three ancient, charred Byzantine columns was in absolute darkness, no apertures in the walls.
He was not alone. His reasoning mind told him not to react, since this was only a dream, but regardless, he felt the beginnings of panic as he looked upon the figure that shared the ancient ruined room. It was a monster – a demon. It was a devil in the old style, though its features seemed to shift constantly such that sometimes it had one horn, or two, or three, and sometimes, none. Its face was red, and sometimes black and oily, and sometimes sickly green. And it carried an aura of evil that chilled him to the bone. Skiouros tried to back away, even though his lucid mind knew he was really lying in a comfortable bed, but in the dreamland he could not move – he was trapped. And then the demon was closing on him, between two of the fractured columns. He stared in panic while his conscious mind battered against his skull, and the demon was almost on him. The thing reached out, and Skiouros suddenly found his hands able to react. In panic, he lunged and tried to push the thing away, but the face slipped under his fingers like a badly-secured silken garment, and came off in his hand where it evaporated like dust.
He stared in horror as the bones beneath the demon mask resolved into the shape of a knight with a scarred face, his sword at his side and his white surcoat so drenched in blood that only a small cross-shape remained pristine in the middle. But even as he felt relief at the sight, the knight opened his mouth in a roar and, within, the teeth were a wolf’s fangs, dripping with evil, the fires of hell glowing deep in the throat like hot coals.
Again automatically, his hand reached up and pulled away the silken face, which crumbled to dust leaving a grinning, leering priest in the robes of the Inquisition. He ripped at it again…
… and his blood ran cold as he stared into the mirror of his soul, for beneath all those masks was himself, though somehow sickly and corrupt, as though his flesh displayed everything he disliked about himself in the form of an open cancer.
His hand reached up…
… and finally his eyes snapped open to reveal the low ceiling of the small room he shared with the others. He was drenched with sweat and shaking, though three different pitches of snore greeted him, so at least he had not been crying out enough to wake the others.
He lay for long moments, still twitching at the memory of his dream-self, which made him want to leap up and check himself in a mirror, and yet also left him terrified to do so.
Above the snoring, he could hear the gentle hum of life in the building, and there was a strange smell. Rolling his eyes, he realised that what was choking his senses was the remnant of Dragi’s hemp, which the man had left smouldering as he went to sleep.
So that was what had been causing the dreams! He realised with relief that his previous awful, seemingly-prophetic nightmares had both been in rooms where Dragi had been inhaling his smouldering drug.
With relief, he lay back in his sweat-soaked bed. They were just dreams, after all.
And yet after an hour of trying to get back to sleep, still he could not jemmy the images from his mind.
That face…