Emperor's Winding Sheet by Jill Paton Walsh Page A

made to last for a thousand years—as though the land it stood on were already the Sultan’s land, and would remain so for ages to come.
    And remembering the talk among the soldiers about the shot range of guns, Vrethiki eyed the water between one shore and another, on which, oars idle, they were so peacefully now afloat. This was the narrowest point of the strange channel that divided continents; with a castle on either shore, there was no doubt the Sultan could reach any ship, could stop anything passing if he wanted to.
    â€œYes,” said the Emperor. “I see.”
    Turning the galley, glad to escape seemingly unnoticed from the shore, they rowed away down the channel again, back to the City. The water was choppy now, swaying and sparkling with wind and current, and deepening to ultramarine under a blue morning sky.
    Riding back through the City they crossed the path of a procession of people who were clambering a steep-stepped path up a rocky hill, toward a cluster of rust-pink domes just visible on the crest against the sky.
    â€œWhere’s that?” asked Vrethiki, pointing.
    â€œThe Monastery of Christ Pantocrator,” one of the soldiers told him.
    â€œI lock Scholarios away, and the people beat a path to his door,” said the Emperor grimly.
    When they reached the palace, he strode through the gardens and ran up the steps to his door. He cast off the black cloak that had covered him from Turkish eyes, and threw it on the marble floor before a servant could advance to take it from him. He sat upon his throne, and beat his fists on the lectern in front of him, shouting for his councilors. His dark eyes flashed, and his voice shook. Whatever it was he was ordering, thought Vrethiki, wide-eyed, his advisers liked it very little. They argued, pleaded, talked, looked sideways their dismay at one another. Phrantzes began to write, to theEmperor’s dictation, but every so often he raised his head, and disputed over some phrase. The Emperor insisted. The letter was written. The councilors departed.
    â€œWhat has he done?” whispered Vrethiki to Stephanos. They were standing side by side at one end of the throne room; the Emperor paced up and down below the windows, still agitated and angry.
    â€œHe has sent to the Sultan”—Stephanos broke off as the Emperor approached them, and resumed as he turned his back and paced away again—“to ask for his guarantee that he will not use the new castle to attack the City.”
    â€œWhat good will that do?” asked Vrethiki.
    â€œNone,” said Stephanos, choosing his moment to reply. “None. Tomorrow he will see that. Today he is angry at the insolent outrage committed on his lands. Who can blame him?”
    But when the Sultan replied the Emperor blamed him self.
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    THAT WAS THE DAY THAT DON FRANCISCO DE TOLEDO ARRIVED. he had brought with him a small party of Spaniards willing to fight the Turk. He came to see the Emperor. When the Emperor received him he did not bow low, but strutting forward seized the Emperor by the shoulders, and kissed him on one cheek and then the other, and then, standing, began upon a long farrago of names, all to prove that he was the Emperor’s distant relative—some sort of cousin. An outraged murmur rose from the assembled company at this unheard-of familiarity. Lukas Notaras cried out to the upstart to bow down, to know his place. The Emperor was clearly very surprised at his guest’s behavior. He stared fixedly at the Spaniard. He was a little man, all hung about with festoonsof lace, and jewels, and silken fringes, and carrying a hat with a huge curled feather in it. His beard and mustache were tricked into an elaborate array of points. He seemed not at all abashed by the uproar he was causing but stood pertly before the throne of the Emperor as though he really were simply calling upon a cousin of his in some far barbarian country.
    In the long pause the