enemies and forced them to swear allegiance to him.
The doors to the hall swung open and the nobles began to file out. ‘You, impostor,’ Helena called to Demetrius. ‘Come withme.’ She led Demetrius through the small door behind the throne. At the door two guardsmen took his sword and then fell into step behind them. Demetrius followed Helena through twisting hallways to a tower, where they climbed the stairs to the highest room, a small chamber containing only a bed and a single chair. Once they were inside, the guardsmen closed the heavy door behind them. Helena motioned for Demetrius to sit. She remained standing.
‘If I were not your mother, you would already be dead.’
‘Mother, I …’
‘Silence,’ Helena snapped. ‘I do not wish to hear my son beg. Now, who aided you in this treason?’
‘No one, Mother.’
‘I know you, son. You did not plan this treachery; it is beyond you. Who then? Gennadius?’
‘No.’ Demetrius did not trust himself to say more. He swallowed. Helena was watching him closely, her face only inches from his own.
‘Notaras?’
‘No,’ Demetrius said again.
Helena turned away from him, her head nodding slowly. ‘They were wise to keep their distance,’ she said. She sighed, and her shoulders slumped, making her look suddenly old and tired. ‘Why must our best men be always pitted against us?’ Then, she straightened, and when she turned back to Demetrius, Helena was once more regal, in command. Her voice was like ice. ‘Swear upon your life that when your brother arrives, you will hail him as emperor.’
‘I swear it.’
‘Good. I will hold you to your oath. In the meantime, you will be confined to this room. If you attempt to escape, I will have your tongue and eyes removed, and you will spend the rest of your life locked away in a monastery. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Good.’ Helena stepped forward and took Demetrius’s head inher hands. She kissed him softly on the forehead. ‘Welcome home, my son.’
Helena moved to the door and knocked softly. It swung open and she left. The door closed behind her with a thud, and Demetrius heard a metallic rasp as the bolt slid to. He turned and stared out the window, watching the rain pool in the streets. His short reign was over.
JANUARY 1449: MISTRA
On 6 January, the eve of the Orthodox Christmas, Longo stood at the front of the Church of Saint Demetrius in Mistra, capital of the Morea, and waited for the entrance of the man who was to be crowned Constantine XI, Emperor of the Romans. A vast crowd of nobles and dignitaries had filled the church. Longo was on the first row, squeezed shoulder to shoulder between the emperor’s bodyguard, John Dalmata, and a short, portly Greek official who kept elbowing him in the ribs. The rich dress of the crowd – a profusion of silk dalmatics , belted robes with wide sleeves and collars embroidered with gold – was in sharp contrast to the rank odour that came from so many overheated men and women in close proximity. The smell was made even worse by the attempt of some to mask their stink with cloying perfumes. Longo breathed shallowly and reminded himself that it was a great honour to have been invited to the coronation.
A muffled roar, as of waves crashing on a nearby shore, came from outside the church as the crowd of commoners surrounding the building caught sight of Constantine. Longo turned with the rest of the crowd to face the church doors. He was curious to see this new emperor, the man who would be responsible for defending Constantinople against the Turks. Outside, the roar of the crowd grew louder and louder, and then the doors of the church swung inward. The sweet smell of incense filled the air as two rows of young men swinging silver censers on long chains passed through the doors. Constantine followed, wearing plainwhite garments, white shoes and white gloves. He was tall and thin, with tanned skin and a strong, handsome face. His hair and
The doors to the hall swung open and the nobles began to file out. ‘You, impostor,’ Helena called to Demetrius. ‘Come withme.’ She led Demetrius through the small door behind the throne. At the door two guardsmen took his sword and then fell into step behind them. Demetrius followed Helena through twisting hallways to a tower, where they climbed the stairs to the highest room, a small chamber containing only a bed and a single chair. Once they were inside, the guardsmen closed the heavy door behind them. Helena motioned for Demetrius to sit. She remained standing.
‘If I were not your mother, you would already be dead.’
‘Mother, I …’
‘Silence,’ Helena snapped. ‘I do not wish to hear my son beg. Now, who aided you in this treason?’
‘No one, Mother.’
‘I know you, son. You did not plan this treachery; it is beyond you. Who then? Gennadius?’
‘No.’ Demetrius did not trust himself to say more. He swallowed. Helena was watching him closely, her face only inches from his own.
‘Notaras?’
‘No,’ Demetrius said again.
Helena turned away from him, her head nodding slowly. ‘They were wise to keep their distance,’ she said. She sighed, and her shoulders slumped, making her look suddenly old and tired. ‘Why must our best men be always pitted against us?’ Then, she straightened, and when she turned back to Demetrius, Helena was once more regal, in command. Her voice was like ice. ‘Swear upon your life that when your brother arrives, you will hail him as emperor.’
‘I swear it.’
‘Good. I will hold you to your oath. In the meantime, you will be confined to this room. If you attempt to escape, I will have your tongue and eyes removed, and you will spend the rest of your life locked away in a monastery. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Good.’ Helena stepped forward and took Demetrius’s head inher hands. She kissed him softly on the forehead. ‘Welcome home, my son.’
Helena moved to the door and knocked softly. It swung open and she left. The door closed behind her with a thud, and Demetrius heard a metallic rasp as the bolt slid to. He turned and stared out the window, watching the rain pool in the streets. His short reign was over.
JANUARY 1449: MISTRA
On 6 January, the eve of the Orthodox Christmas, Longo stood at the front of the Church of Saint Demetrius in Mistra, capital of the Morea, and waited for the entrance of the man who was to be crowned Constantine XI, Emperor of the Romans. A vast crowd of nobles and dignitaries had filled the church. Longo was on the first row, squeezed shoulder to shoulder between the emperor’s bodyguard, John Dalmata, and a short, portly Greek official who kept elbowing him in the ribs. The rich dress of the crowd – a profusion of silk dalmatics , belted robes with wide sleeves and collars embroidered with gold – was in sharp contrast to the rank odour that came from so many overheated men and women in close proximity. The smell was made even worse by the attempt of some to mask their stink with cloying perfumes. Longo breathed shallowly and reminded himself that it was a great honour to have been invited to the coronation.
A muffled roar, as of waves crashing on a nearby shore, came from outside the church as the crowd of commoners surrounding the building caught sight of Constantine. Longo turned with the rest of the crowd to face the church doors. He was curious to see this new emperor, the man who would be responsible for defending Constantinople against the Turks. Outside, the roar of the crowd grew louder and louder, and then the doors of the church swung inward. The sweet smell of incense filled the air as two rows of young men swinging silver censers on long chains passed through the doors. Constantine followed, wearing plainwhite garments, white shoes and white gloves. He was tall and thin, with tanned skin and a strong, handsome face. His hair and
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