It was dark again, but this time he knew where to look and, through the thin slices of light coming through the closed shutters, he saw Father Charles on his knees in front of his chair. Praying. Bad manners to interrupt someone while they are praying. He started to back out.
Then Father Charles spoke, lifting his head, but not turning round. Greek, by the sound of it. Too fast for him, though.
Argyll stood there, wondering what to do next, then Father Charles turned and gestured for him to come in, repeating the phrase. Argyll was relieved; not only did the old man seem sufficiently aware to realize he was there, his face had little of the madness Argyll had expected. Total serenity and calmness, in fact, his eyes half closed, his gestures slow and almost languid. He looked at Argyll, held out his hand and waited.
Argyll walked over and took it, but the slight frown that crossed Father Charles’s face indicated something else was expected from him. He didn’t want it shaken, didn’t want to be helped up …
With a burst of inspiration, and not a little audacity, he bent over and kissed it. Bingo. Father Charles nodded and allowed himself to be helped into his chair. He gestured for Argyll to sit down on the floor, at his feet. Argyll obeyed and watched carefully for a new clue.
More Greek; Argyll nodded as though he understood. Then what sounded like Latin, then a language which was way outside his range. What had the man specialized in? Sanskrit? Assyrian? Hebrew? Could be any of those. Father Charles looked concerned when he realized he wasn’t getting through, and tried again. He swept through German and what sounded like Bulgarian before coming up with a sentence in French. Good enough. Argyll nodded furiously, and replied.
“It is your duty and privilege to remain quiet,” Father Charles said with a tone of regret in his voice at having to issue the reprimand. “I may have fallen far and been forsaken, but you will give me the honours that are mine. So much was I promised.”
“Sorry. Sir.”
“And you will address me in the appropriate manner.”
“Forgive me,” Argyll said contritely. “But what is that?”
“Your most Holy Majesty.”
“You’re a monk,” Argyll said. “Wouldn’t “Father” be more appropriate?”
Father Charles paused, and peered at Argyll closely. “I see my disguise works. Who are you, young man? I recognize you. I have seen you before. And you don’t know?”
Not much to say to that. Argyll shook his head.
“Yes, I am a monk, so it is said. I dress in these clothes and pretend. But that is for the world; not for me. You come from his Holiness, Callixtus?”
Argyll smiled. He didn’t know much about religion, but he knew who the pope was. And Callixtus he wasn’t.
“And he never said,” Father Charles continued, sounding almost amused. “Not even to you. How very like him. If you are to be my emissary, though, you must know. Otherwise you may make an error and ruin everything. But you must swear a vow of silence, that you will never reveal anything beyond this room, not even in the direst necessity. Do you so swear?”
What the hell? Completely potty, but strangely touching. At least he had a considerable amount of grandeur in his madness. Argyll swore away.
Father Charles nodded. “Know then the truth as I reveal it to your ears. I am Constantinos XI Paleologos Dragases, Emperor of Byzantium, Noblest soul, God’s vicegerent on earth, heir to Augustus and Constantine.”
Pretty grand. Argyll gaped at him in astonishment. The Emperor Constantine smiled condescendingly. “I know. You thought me dead, yet here I sit. But how I am lost, ruler of half the earth, hiding and disguised in this place, pretending to be a monk and having to celebrate in secret, in a little back room so that no one will know of my continued life. Only two or three people know it, and now you are one of them. You must keep this secret, lest all be ruined. The Emperor died on the walls of Constantinople, falling to the infidel. So the world believes, and must continue to believe until all is ready. Then he will return, sweeping down under the protection of her likeness, to restore the faith. But surprise is of the essence. A little trick, but justifiable, in the circumstances, don’t you think?”
Argyll nodded.
“It will take time, of course,” the old man said thoughtfully, but with a glint of battle in his eye as he plotted in his mind. “But our situation is not as hopeless as it seems. The Venetians and Genoese will help; will have to help because of their commercial interests. George of Serbia will do the same, because he knows he is next. The knights of St John on Malta can be relied on, I think. And there is also the Morea.
“But,” he said, leaning forward intently, “it must be done correctly, this time. Our forces are few, and we can make no mistakes. If I am to regain my throne, everyone must know what to do and when to do it. I figure a three-pronged attack. The knights land in Anatolia and pin down the forces there. George sweeps across the Balkans to the straits, and meets up with a seaborne fleet of Venetians and Genoese.”
“And yourself, your majesty?” Argyll said, almost forgetting this was simple madness and half seeing the pennants on the ships ready to sail. “You must lead them.”
Father Charles smiled, nursing his secret. “Of course. Of course. Now, I shall tell you a secret. The greatest of them all. And show you God’s goodness. Out of this disaster, this most bitter lesson, goodness shall come. Byzantium fell for a reason. It was His displeasure at our divisions. East and west, spending more time fighting each other than our common enemy.”
He stopped, and cocked his head to one side. “Check the door, sir. I fear being overheard.”
Argyll dutifully got up from his sitting position, joints cracking from the strain of being so uncomfortable, and peered round the door. “No one there,” he said quietly. “We’re not being overheard.”
He came back, and Father Charles, face suffused with excitement, leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“For the past six months, I have been negotiating the reunification of Christianity. East and west will come together again and act as one. It is a miracle; Christendom will be stronger and more powerful than ever before. I had a sign that day, in the Church of Holy Wisdom, before the walls fell. It was too late then, our contrition, but I knew my task, and I am close to completing it. Callixtus and I, we have reached agreement; he will put his whole weight behind the enterprise. And the first the infidel know of this will be when I appear once more before the walls of Constantinople, at the head of an army of French and German and even English knights. They will be overpowered and swept away.”
“And until everything is ready, you will hide here, pretending to be Brother Angelus? Is that the idea?”
He nodded slyly. “Good, eh? With only my servant Gratian, who would suspect I would live in such reduced circum stances? Lull them into a false sense of security. And all the while my secret emissaries and those of his Holiness cross Europe, weaving a net to catch the infidel in so tightly he will never escape until he is exterminated utterly. So, now you see the need for the utmost secrecy. Do you see?”
“Of course. But such a secret cannot last forever.”
“It won’t have to. There is little time. His Holiness is behind the plan wholeheartedly, but he is old and sick. And a faction at his court is opposed, and want to exploit my weakness. Another reason for secrecy. We must strike fast and hard.”
Argyll nodded. Made sense to him. “But isn’t there a bit of a problem here?”
“What problem?”
“You’re dead, right? I mean, you’re pretending to be dead. Killed on the walls, and all that. If you are suddenly resurrected, who’s going to believe it? Won’t everyone say you’re just an impostor? And refuse to follow you? Following the Emperor is one thing; following a fake is another.”