Free Imperial Fire by Robert Lyndon Page A

years ago. I have the letter in my study. Bring your wine and we’ll read it together.’
    Vallon took Hero to a small room furnished with a table overflowing with papers. Vallon waved at them in disgust. ‘I’m still struggling to complete my report on the last campaign.’ He rummaged in a casket that held his personal correspondence. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Wayland’s command of written Arabic is as weak as mine.’
    Hero smiled as he unravelled meaning from the letter. ‘He says that in addition to holding the position of senior falconer to the Sultan, he’s been honoured with the title of Master of the Hunt. I’m not surprised. Wayland can truly bewitch animals.’
    A jangling at the gate made Vallon cross to the window.
    Hero peered over his shoulder. ‘Could that be Caitlin?’
    ‘Most unlikely.’
    Wulfstan entered. ‘Letter for you, General. Delivered by imperial messenger. No answer required.’
    Vallon broke the seal and read the missive. His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘Another summons, ordering me to present myself at the Magnaura Palace in four days’ time to meet the imperial ambassador I’ll be escorting to China.’ He turned his snarl on Hero. ‘And guess what? The Logothete has learned of your arrival and requests most earnestly – in other words, demands – that you accompany me.’

V
     
    Watching the ferry carry Hero away, Lucas felt a stirring of shame at his boorish behaviour. He suspected that he’d misjudged the man. Seeing him board the ship at Naples, he’d assumed from his sober dress and quiet manner that he was a monk. Perhaps he was, though he wasn’t tonsured like the Roman priests or bearded like the eastern clerics. He wore his black hair long, brushed back from a high forehead. His protuberant eyes, quill-like nose and full, almost feminine mouth should have conveyed a comical effect, but in fact he projected a most dignified air. He was certainly a scholar with an uncanny command of languages. Lucas had heard him converse with his fellow passengers in Greek, French, Arabic, Italian and some unknown tongue that might have been English.
    One of the touts pestering him tugged his sleeve. Lucas rounded on him. ‘Take your hand off me.’
    The tout gauged the level of resistance, flicked his fingers in front of Lucas’s face and strode away muttering. Lucas drew a deep breath and walked through the port gate into a crowded street lined with tenements, picking his way past trundling carts and porters stooped under bales. The city assailed his senses. Tradesmen from a dozen lands shouted their wares. Spices and leather goods scented the air. Overhead, neighbours held bellowed conversations from adjoining balconies that nearly blocked off the sky, their voices almost drowned out by the din up ahead. A legless man scooted alongside on a trolley, begging for alms. Whores in dresses cut low to expose their breasts stuck out their hips and spread their lips in salacious O’s.
    The racket increased to a deafening pitch and Lucas found himself at the junction of a thoroughfare packed with a heaving mob – men, women and children all heading in one direction and chanting what sounded like battle cries. Some wore green or blue tabards and when the factions met, the faces of both parties contorted in fury and they stabbed fingers at each other and hurled abuse. Mounted soldiers brandished staves and whips to keep the rival groups apart.
    Someone shoved him from behind, propelling him into the mob. It bore him away. Unable to go against the flow, he struggled into a colonnaded walkway on one side of the thoroughfare. Merchants had set up booths and stalls under the arches. A man waved a token in his face.
    ‘I don’t understand. Where’s everyone going?’
    The man pushed him away and plucked another passer-by out of the stream. A shoe barked Lucas’s heel and he stumbled, almost falling. A hand pulled him upright and he turned to see a man carrying on his shoulders a