A Place Called Armageddon by C. C. Humphreys Read Free Book Online

Then, as he raised his hand a third time, shutters above were pushed out a crack.
    ‘Who’s there?’ a man’s voice called in accented Italian.
    Hamza recognised the accent. ‘A friend,’ he replied softly, in his own tongue, ‘seeking shelter.’
    Theon stiffened. This had to be the man he’d been about to go and meet. The plan had changed – or the Turk sought some advantage in this surprise, for Turks were cunning as snakes. He sucked at his lip, considered – but there was little he could do. The man could not be left on the street. ‘A moment,’ he called, before turning back and hissing, ‘Sofia! Tidy this room. Swiftly.’
    As his wife poured the dregs of tripe stew into one bowl, adding the date pits and crusts of bread, Theon slipped his embroidered surplice over his tunic, then opened the chest and put away the copy of the agreement he had signed with the Genoese, his notes in the margins. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He suspected his visitor would know most of the details already.
    The little they had was soon tidied away. The room looked like what it was: cheap accommodation for an envoy whose country could afford nothing more. It was why he had been happy that they were meeting at the inn. Yet at least his clothes, under Sofia’s care, were immaculate. ‘Go,’ he said, and Sofia went into the bedroom, pushing the door closed behind her. Taking a breath, Theon descended the stairs.
    Bolts were shot, the door opened. ‘Peace be with you, friend,’ Hamza said, making the obeisance of forehead, mouth and heart.
    ‘And with you, friend. You honour my house with your visit. Will you enter and rest?’
    ‘I will, and I thank you.’ Bowing, Hamza stepped over the threshold. Abdul-Matin immediately squatted in the doorway, pulling his cloak around him.
    As he followed his host up the stairs, Hamza was pleased. On the neutral ground of a tavern they might have wrestled for tongue. Here, as host, Theon was obliged to speak that of his guest.
    At the entrance of the room was a woven mat. ‘There are slippers for your use.’ Theon gestured.
    ‘Thank you. I have my own.’ Hamza reached into his satchel, pulled out a pair lined in sheepskin, struggled out of his heavy boots. ‘I can never get used to these,’ he said, placing them by the door. ‘Italians do not understand the necessity of good footwear. Unlike us.’
    ‘Us?’
    ‘We of the East.’
    Theon considered. The sought kinship was a small enough point to concede. ‘They do not. But they need thick boots to kick their wives and walk down the sewers they call their streets.’
    Hamza laughed. ‘Do they not?’ He stepped into the room, glanced around, his face revealing nothing. ‘I am sorry for the surprise of my visit. But those filthy streets are filled with young men seeking mischief this night. And they begin their search in taverns. One of my hue …’ he gestured to his face, ‘is a provocation to them.’ He turned back to Theon, still at the door. ‘You have heard why they celebrate?’
    ‘Some saint’s birthday? Or two? They have more saints than days here.’
    Hamza tipped his head. ‘Ah, my friend, I think you know. Because I think you are, how shall we say, the host of the celebration?’
    ‘Host?’
    ‘Its cause. The accord you have concluded with the Doge and the Council.’ Theon’s face did not change, so Hamza continued, ‘The force that will go to defend your city?’
    ‘Ah. Is that what they celebrate?’
    ‘Indeed. A new … crusade against the Turk.’ Hamza laid his open palm against his chest.
    ‘Hardly a crusade. I heard that Genoa itself does nothing. But it will not stop certain … concerned citizens going to Christendom’s aid. A few thousand men perhaps.’
    ‘Ah, there our reports vary. I heard a few hundred. And though perhaps they will not trumpet this, all paid for by Genoese gold.’ Hamza nodded. ‘Still, you have succeeded in your embassy, have you not? Even so few men. When I was