Byzantium Express

By Alexander Rooksmoor

It is 1914 and war has just broken out in Europe. When a British agent disappears in Constantinople, new recruit Eugenia Cranston is sent to the capital of the Byzantine Empire to investigate his death. Soon she is drawn into plots and conspiracies, hunting a British traitor and working hard to prevent Europe?s oldest empire becoming part of this very modern war. Being constantly undercover and dealing with incompetence weighs heavily on Eugenia, but perhaps it will change her view of her role in life and especially of her fellow agent, Artur Xanthos. That is, if she can survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223850694

Book preview

A ‘What If?’ Spy Novel of the 20th Century Byzantine Empire

Alexander Rooksmoor © 2020

Foreword

This book arose from me considering different dynamics for the outbreak of the First World War. Thinking about how the Balkans may have been organised differently took me back to a piece of book art I produced back in 2007. I produced covers for books that had been lost or were never written; one of these was Patterns of Byzantine Industrialization: The Eighteenth Century by W.A. Lewis (1958; 4th edition 2002). It was a simple concept without any explanation, yet suggested so much. This then got me thinking about how the Byzantine Empire might have resisted its steady destruction by Seljuk and Ottoman forces over four centuries. It led me to the conclusion that to have the empire still alive in 1914 needed not just one but a number of points of divergence. I am aware that some feel multiple points of divergence should not be permitted in alternate history writing, yet support scenarios – such as a German victory in the Second World War, or a Confederate victory in the American Civil War – which would require multiple changes to the history that we know, even if they are not stated.

It is not too difficult to envisage a series of feasible outcomes that would have led to this situation: a Byzantine victory at the Battle of Manzikert in 1071 followed the Crusaders handing over the Byzantine cities they recaptured in 1098-99, just as they had sworn; something encouraged by the death of Bohemond of Taranto, which could easily have occurred at this point. Then the Fourth Crusade of 1202-04, rather than smashing up Constantinople and fragmenting the empire, drove the Seljuks back and built up castles for crusader lords to occupy on the empire’s eastern border. As it was, the Mongol invasions of west Asia in 1258 caused major problems for the Seljuks and their raids witnessed the sacking of the great city of Baghdad. In the 14th Century, Osman, the founder of the Ottomans, was one small beyrik to rise out of the debris of the Seljuk Sultanate of Rum; he could have been betrayed or been defeated and the beyriks remained weak and divided. Already these turns in history which could have come about, rather than establish an ailing Byzantium, set up one which, although perhaps never strong, can survive into the 20th Century, just as, in our world, the Ottoman Empire survived – and on a far larger scale than the Byzantine Empire ever reached.

Taking an alternative path across centuries has provided me with an opportunity that does not often come up in my books typically focusing on a time much closer to the points of divergence – that is, the creation of a culture which did not exist. With Byzantium, there are continuities from the empire we know, but it is interesting to see what might have changed and what stayed the same over the years if Byzantine culture, itself feeling connected to the Roman Empire and Greek city-states, had persisted. Inspired by Grey Wolf’s book How to Write Alternate History (2013) which focuses heavily on developing cultural aspects, I have really gone to town in envisaging the laws, government, clothing, art work, music, architecture, food and even manners of this modern Byzantium. I hope that this gives a richness to the book and interest that goes beyond simply looking for the divergences from our history. Importantly, though, as I set out to do from the start, it does ask how the outbreak of the First World War may have altered if some of the patterns were that little bit different. Thus, I hope that you enjoy this book, both for the thoughts it provokes but also for dropping you into a well-developed alternate culture.

Note: Links are included from the start of a section to the historical notes related to that section. Click on the number next to the phrase ‘Historical Notes’ beneath the title of each section to jump to the relevant notes. To return to the story, click on the number next to that section’s historical notes. Depending on the system you are using to read this book, in some cases the historical notes will simply appear next to the number at the start of the section instead. In either case, the notes can also be read at the end of the book.

Characters in this novel express racist, sexist and social discriminatory attitudes that, while keeping with common behaviour of the time, are not acceptable today in our world and are attitudes not held by the author.

Alexander Rooksmoor, May 2020

Chapter Αʹ

Historical Notes [1]

Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

June 1914

Christopher’s attention was caught by the beam from the front of his train, cutting through the suburban landscape to reach this platform. He had come out to the Ring Station, the most westerly of Constantinople’s railway stations, the last stop in the city for the Tesseris Thalasses Sleeper. It had originated at the far end of the empire, at Trebizond, and, with its carriages brought across the Bosporus on a special ferry, had a couple of stops around the capital before it plunged on into Thrace and headed towards Salonika. In fact, it would take Christopher all the way to Anchiasmos, which, despite the efforts of the Albanian rebels, was still in Imperial hands. The last of the four seas of the service’s name was the Ionian Sea, in his mind really just a subsection of the Adriatic. From there, Christopher had no doubt he could easily find a ship to Italy. He remained uncertain, though, if once there it would be best to try to return via Spain or head into France.

While eleventh-hour efforts were being made to avoid a war, it was apparent that it would come, probably within days. There was a chance, not a strong one, that it would be confined to the Balkans. Seeing the Germans as Britain’s prime rivals, especially now the Russians had been muzzled, Christopher certainly respected their military. If the Kaiser took his country to war with France, he could imagine the Channel ports, if not Bordeaux or Brest, would be at risk of being quickly overrun. Of course, the dunderheads in London might retain Britain’s neutrality, but Christopher felt there was little chance they would pull that off. His confidence in his father’s friends to bring about the war that was needed, sooner or later, was little diminished.

Glancing at his pocket watch in the stark electric light cast by the Siemens-Halske bulbs reminded Christopher how pervasive German influence was here. He did not know whose project it had been, whether it had been a hobbyhorse of the Kaiser himself, but in the past three decades German businesses, and especially the German military, had made friends among the Byzantine elites, even at the Imperial court. Of course, many he knew had never anticipated Britain being at war with Germany; perhaps with less forthright policies emerging from Berlin, they would have avoided that outcome. That, however, was not Christopher’s attitude; not for the last ten years at least.

Christopher’s father had introduced him to George Fiddes, a rising star of the Colonial Office and a member of the so-called ‘Milner’s Kindergarten’. Like these men, Christopher had come to believe not only in the importance of a federal empire but also in opposing Germany as Britain’s prime rival, not simply in Europe but in Africa and the Pacific too. There was further competition between the two nations in those independent states whose political weakness allowed penetration by one of the Powers. The Chinese Empire, the states of Latin America, perhaps the Seljuk Beyriks and certainly the Byzantine Empire were on this list.

Christoffer.

For an instant, the call startled him. Appropriate garb for an August night in Byzantium left little capacity for concealing weapons. Instinctively, Christopher reached to pull his satchel round to his front. It held his Colt Hammerless; the heavier Webley was in his suitcase and he guessed he would not have time to retrieve it now.

Moments passed, however, with no shot, no apparent threat. Dimly, Christopher wondered if there was another Briton here who recognised him. Perhaps he was a businessman summoned home from the Byzantine Empire, now that the predicted European-wide war seemed likely, if not certain. Then, however, Christopher’s tired brain reminded him of how the name had been pronounced; that German way, with a nod to the Danish identity he had half-heartedly affected while in Constantinople.

The man finally stepping clear of the shadows proved Christopher’s assumptions correct. Gustav Keil worked as a clerk at the German Embassy. While his role was not significant, numerous titbits of information passed across his desk. Of course, Christopher had never pressed him for information; he just let the young man, who was far from home and overworked by those above him, talk, complain and moan about all that he had to do.

You found me.

Gustav gave a sharp laugh. You were not at the apartment... anywhere we have been, Keil continued in German; Christopher did not even know if he knew English. And yet, in Constantinople a man with fair hair and skin the sun burns... not too hard to follow your trail here, Gustav outlined, in a way which showed he had no pride in that success. You’re not even a Dane, are you?

Christopher had let Gustav assume his surname was Thomsen rather than Thompson and his first name was Christoffer. Naturally, if the naïve German had bothered to check, he would have discovered the British versions in the hotel register and then on the short-term tenancy that Christopher had taken on the apartment close to the Triantafyllo Park. Christopher had little more than a few Danish phrases, but his German had proven sufficiently fluent that there had been no reason for Keil to check. Added to that, Christopher knew, the man had been blinded by the fact that he felt he had found that special kind of ‘friend’ he believed he needed. That was a sordid aspect of this whole mission and Christopher was grateful that decisions in Vienna, Berlin and London meant he had no reason to remain playing such a role any longer.

You have manipulated me for what... what I might reveal about work at the embassy?

That realisation sounded to have come hard to the clerk.

It was more about the Russians... Christopher responded.

In many ways, that was true – and a little frustrating. He guessed that, after years of open German involvement in the Byzantine Empire, whether in railway construction or providing military training, there was not much more to discover. Russian intentions here, especially as it was becoming apparent there was not just a single strategy in play, had proven far more fascinating for him. Given, though, that the Russian Empire was Britain’s ally, Christopher wondered how little attention would be given to what he had uncovered.

So why not seduce a clerk at the Russian Embassy?

"Seduce?" Christopher scoffed.

While he put up a brusque front, he shuddered at that accusation. Christopher had been cautious only to allow Gustav’s desires to go so far. However, it sounded now as if the poor man had imagined – perhaps expected – much more. There was evidence of that in the letters he had carefully retained in case orders from London had required him to exert greater pressure on the man. He had intended them ultimately to end up in the Marmara, but now guessed they would simply gather dust in the dingy apartment.

So, what are you? Not a Russian; French, then, or... British. Yes, I see. You must be one of those few – so unlike the majority of your people – who feel our countries must be at war with each other. Yes, as some warn us back home, there are German-haters at the highest levels in London, it seems and I guess you’re a son of one of those.

Christopher had been unsettled by this whole exchange, but now felt concerned at Gustav displaying so much more acuity than he ever believed he had possessed. The jibe against his father simply added to his discontent. He glanced to see if the train’s light was closing. Unclear what time had passed since the appearance of the German, Christopher tried to estimate how much remained. If he needed rid of this man, it would have to be before the train arrived, bringing potential witnesses with it.

And I am the puppet to provide this information?

It was clear that Gustav was bitter, but his tone suggested the pain came most from him feeling he had failed in allowing himself to be misused. In contrast, knowing what he did about the German, Christopher could only feel contempt for him, indeed some gladness that he was inflicting pain on this pathetic, sordid creature. For a moment, he thought of simply pulling out the Colt and ending the man. However, he reminded himself that he was overlooking those already around him: the ticket office attendant; no doubt others, like the station master or his night-time deputy; perhaps even passengers – foolishly, Christopher saw now, he had failed to check the waiting rooms.

You will not even answer me. Gustav almost spat the words.

Looking between the dimly-lit buildings and then back down the track, Christopher was barely aware that Gustav was now closing on him. As the shadow fell across his face, he was alerted. Instinctively, he jammed his hand into the satchel trying to grab for the pistol. Caught up by the leather, he was not able to react fully as Gustav swept him from the platform, crashing his limbs painfully against the rails. The German, coming down on top of him, added further to Thompson’s injuries. Desperately, Christopher struggled to get free, batting off the messages of pain coming insistently to his brain. Aware now of the greater light and the sound of the train, he tried to roll free of Gustav, not clear if the man was unconscious or actively holding him in place. The train was slowing, but still its mass swept up the two men stretched across the track, not killing them instantly, but ensuring they would be dead before dawn.

Chapter Βʹ

Historical Notes [2]

Constantinople

July 1914

Constantinople, twenty-three-minutes past eight, 23rd July!

Eugeneia jerked awake. Her eyes took some moments to adjust; then she realised that, instead of the Thracian countryside she had seen through her window since lunchtime, now she was among suburbs. The call that had awoken her came again: this was Constantinople; this was where the train terminated. The guard shouted out the time but also the date. While she had been on Byzantine territory since landing at Anchiasmos, Eugeneia guessed many visitors to its capital would still be working on the west European – the Gregorian – calendar. Byzantines, like most of their Orthodox brothers, adhered to the Julian. From the news cried out at Thessaloniki, Eugeneia knew now that when she had sailed on 4th August from Bari it had been the day that Britain had declared war on Germany. Here, however, that day had been 22nd July. Before sleep had come, her mind had spiralled through what one might achieve being able to step back in time, even just that period.

Rising and seeking her baggage, Eugeneia tried to shake off such fantastical speculation. As Cordelia Sinden had emphasised on their last meeting, a wandering mind was one that put her in danger. She was here under a false identity, masquerading as a Byzantine rather than a Briton, and if she had no desire to spend this evening in a cell at the headquarters of the diatrechontes – the Byzantine secret police – Eugeneia knew she had to be alert. She stretched her limbs. It had been late the previous morning when she had boarded the train and, bar some visits to the restaurant car, she had largely been simply sitting here.

As she moved, the old woman opposite with whom Eugeneia had been practicing her Greek conversation from Kavala onwards came awake herself. She rubbed her eyes and restored the glasses that had fallen into her lap.

"Ka. Panagos, may I help you with your case?" Eugeneia asked, but was already lifting it down.

The two Italian men had already disappeared into the corridor and Ka. Loukanis was battling to get her irritable son and daughter in order. It had been three years since Eugeneia had made her last brief visit to Constantinople, but she knew the Stratēgos Kolokotronis Station, the city’s largest station on the European side, was chaos at any time of the day or night. As the guard had declared, at half-past-eight in the evening it would certainly still be busy. Byzantines dined late, seeking the cool of twilight and nightfall for their meals. She guessed there might be difficulty finding somewhere to eat and wished she had gone for an early dinner on the train.

For the moment, Eugeneia pushed these thoughts aside. After having sat for five hours on the ride from Kavala, Ka. Panagos proved to need not just help with her case but leaving the carriage too. For all her impatience to be away and out into the city, Eugeneia offered her arm. On the platform, she engaged a porter, not simply for Ka. Panagos’ meagre luggage but for her trunk left in the carriage. It contained more than enough to enable her to stay in Constantinople for months, even into the winter. Distantly, Eugeneia wondered if this mission would endure that long, or if she would soon be on a train back west or deported on a ship to Alexandria.

With the porter in tow, Eugeneia slowly walked the old woman on to the main concourse. She gazed up to the iron-vaulted glass roof, with its polished brass fittings of a range of imperial insignia. The evening light penetrated the panes enough to emphasise the floor of coloured marble slabs making up another huge image. Then, looking ahead rather than gawping, Eugeneia caught sight of uniformed magistrianoi casting an occasionally curious eye over the arrivals from the west. With satisfaction, she realised that having an elderly woman, perhaps mistaken for her own mother or grandmother, could provide such a useful disguise.

My son... the woman began.

Eugeneia was glad to hear someone was going to meet the woman; she looked around until she saw a man perhaps a decade older than herself, accompanied by a woman and a quartet of children.

"K. Panagos," Eugeneia called, in an intention to show she intended only the best.

The man, in garb that suggested he was lower middle class, perhaps a clerk or maybe a shopkeeper, was drawn up by the comment. However, his mother moved forward with renewed energy and any concern he might raise was lost in a typically ebullient Byzantine greeting. Feeling she had completed this task, Eugeneia had K. Panagos’ case removed from the trolley and headed in the direction of the taxis. Briefly she considered eating at the station but decided it best to get her trunk to the hotel. Crossing the concourse to the road exit, however, she heard a boy’s voice calling, "Dis., Dis.!". She turned to see the eldest of the Panagos children. Excitedly he bowled up to Eugeneia, his actions awkwardly attracting too much attention for her liking.

"Mamá says thank you and for you to have this; Dis. Giagiá says your parents lost their home and people like you should be helped."

Eugeneia felt some pride. If this had been her first test, then she had succeeded in passing herself off as the daughter of refugees from what had once been Byzantine Sicily – for the moment, at least. The boy pressed a basilikon coin into her hand.

"Thank you, o Theós eínai mazí sou," Eugenia said the well-rehearsed formula.

"Kai sto..." the boy began, stumbling over the response.

Eugeneia just smiled at him and pressed her gloved hand to his cheek. That appeared sufficient; the boy blushed before turning to run back to his family. She had forgotten the porter and was rather embarrassed herself as she turned back to him to resume her walk to the taxi. There were a handful of motor taxis at the station, but Eugeneia felt they were not yet sufficiently common for her as a young single woman to engage one. She went instead to one of the traditional dítrochi ámaxa, the Byzantine equivalent of a Hansom cab.

It proved harder than she had imagined to get her trunk secured. However, once done, she looked to tip the porter. However, she was conscious of how little small change she had, most of what she carried was in ten and twenty bezant notes. Consequently, she passed him the coin the Panagos boy had given her. Given that there were seven bezants – or hyperpyronoi, the official term – to the pound, one of the basilikon coins must be worth four pence back home, which seemed a fair tip.

Finally, the cab set off, moving slowly through the evening traffic that buzzed around the station and towards the Prasinos Spiti Hotel. Being this far south in Europe, sunset had already come and her way was lit not simply by street lights but the illuminations of the cafés, restaurants and stores, which unlike London closed in the middle of the day and reopened in the late afternoon in order to sell into the evening. Electric lights were more numerous than on her last visit; Eugeneia recalled something about a new power station that had been built out at Athyra. It apparently burnt oil from the Teluch theme, rather than coal.

Eugeneia reflected on whether it was because the war – or even the rumours of war – had not reached this city that made it so much more vibrant than the capital she had left the previous week. Perhaps the air of excitement she felt stemmed simply from being back in Byzantium after almost two years away. Maybe it was a thrill, possibly a misplaced one, that she was here not as herself but as Sophia Ioannou, ready – as far as she could be – for her clandestine mission.

Soon the cab was at the Prasinos Spiti and in front of the impressive building, Eugeneia wished that Goodwin, or whoever organised these matters for him, had selected somewhere more discreet. She told herself she would have to move quickly to a pension, probably as close to the docks as she could manage without it being seedy. Quickly the hotel porter had her trunk and case from the taxi and Eugeneia had managed to find a one-hyperpyron note to pay him. She tried to stop herself working it back to its British value when she received her change. Eugeneia tipped generously and then hurried into the hotel.

Fortunately, the reception had expected her, though believed that someone at the bank Wegelin & Co. had made the reservation. Eugeneia imagined there were many ways in which the Foreign Office carried out its work in a covert manner; this might be one of them. At the last moment, she stopped herself signing ‘Eugeneia Cranston’ and replaced it in cursive Greek with ‘Sophia Ioannou’. Eugeneia then pondered whether a day would come when she could carry out this masquerading without having to be so cautious; being so conscious every time she lied or pretended to be something – someone – that in truth she was not.

It was with relief that Eugeneia tipped the porter and closed her room door behind him. She locked it and went to the bed, slumping on it even though she was still in her light jacket, hat, boots and summer gloves. It felt as if she had just set down a heavy burden; Eugeneia found herself breathing heavily. Unsettled, rather dazzled by the electric bulb of the main, its intensity little ameliorated by a lace shade, she rose from the bed and splashed water from the sink on her face. The fact that water was piped to her room re-emphasised how luxurious this place was; she was used to an ewer on a washstand.

Finding her breathing still coming heavily, Eugeneia went to her case and pulled out the brandy that her mother had provided in the medicinal-style bottle. She sat in the armchair close to the window to drink a couple of mouthfuls. The curtains were drawn closed and she now reached to pull one open. Eugeneia looked at the beams of light which spilled from the main street into the narrow road running beside the hotel on to which her room looked out.

She became aware of her breathing calming – but then hunger took over. She had not eaten since the luncheon pastries bought on the platform at Thessaloniki. The taste of hot feta cheese, spinach and lamb in three-crispy pastry triangles – tiropitakia – more even than the Byzantine voices around her, had made Eugeneia aware that she was back in this land. Of course, if she were going down to the dining room, she would have to pull out an evening dress and change. For the moment she felt too weary even to go to the bathroom at the end of the corridor to properly wash away the travel dirt. Instead, she realised, she had more than enough money to pay for room service. She rang the bell to summon the floor porter; despite his encouraging her to sample the international cuisine the kitchen could provide, Eugeneia insisted on him having the seared mullet and courgette balls delivered, along with a bottle of Mamaran white.

The arrival of the food awoke Eugeneia and she realised she was still in all her outdoor clothes. She shed her jacket, hat and gloves before answering the door. She devoured the food avidly and was quickly through the wine. It was with great effort that she managed to get from the table where it had been set and to return to the bed. She failed to switch off the main light or indeed light one of the oil lamps, let alone get beneath the blankets, before sleep took her in so deeply.

Chapter Γʹ

Historical Notes [3]

This was to be Eugeneia’s second full day in Constantinople and she was feeling a little more settled. Still, as she paid the taxi driver and stepped down from the dítrochi, Eugeneia recognised that Constantinople in August – or July, as the locals still considered it – was going to mean her being both hot and dusty, and that would take time for her to accept. Setting aside the discomfort, Eugeneia could not suppress the flare of pride she felt in what she was achieving. The previous day she had been pleased to quickly get her most important task out of the way: sending the enciphered telegramme to the British Embassy advising them that their newest agent, Gratian, had arrived safely.

From then on, the rest of her day had been largely spent as if she was simply on a tour. Eugeneia had refamiliarised herself with the European side of the city. Having luncheoned at a small, quiet restaurant close to the university, she had then crossed the Tétarti Bridge to Galata and there walked past the British Embassy so that its appearance and location were clear in her mind. If she faced real danger, it would be her sole sanctuary. That was, of course, assuming she could reach it. Uncomfortably, Eugeneia reminded herself that the diatrechontes were unlikely to announce their arrival in advance.

That morning, a message – an unciphered response to her telegramme – had been waiting for Eugeneia when she had gone down to breakfast. She guessed she should be pleased that affairs were moving briskly as the note had told her that today she was going to be meeting with her ‘controller’ in Constantinople. While the title made Eugeneia feel she was going to be treated rather like a locomotive, she knew this would be the one who would give her immediate instructions and, she trusted, look out for her welfare. As far as she understood, he would be a man from the embassy. Initially on the ride to this street she had been expecting Cunliffe-Owen – she had seen a photograph of him – but she now realised it was far more likely to be one of his staff, probably no grander than a nondescript clerk whose appearance in a café of the Vráchos district would rouse minimal curiosity.

Eugeneia’s original suggestion had been to meet in the gardens around the St Eirene church, but the message she had received this morning had changed it to this café, close to Sant'Antonio di Padova. It was the newest of the capital’s churches, finished just two years earlier. Its Gothic style, Eugeneia saw now, was presumably how this Catholic church was marked out from the Orthodox ones, numerous in every quarter of the city. The dítrochi driver had said nothing about Eugeneia’s abrupt wish on coming into this district to be dropped before reaching the café. She worried now that, while it might indeed make it harder for anyone who had an interest in her movements to track where she had precisely gone, she risked getting lost.

Eugeneia raised her watch from where it hung from her waist on her chatelaine. For a moment, she recalled the weak joke she had made to Cordelia Sinden in asking whether there was a chatelaine made especially for spies, perhaps with a small telescope and a dagger among the items. Her watch showed Eugeneia that she was already a little late; rather frantically, she looked around her seeking out the sign for the Mageftiki. Relief came to her as she spotted it some way down a narrow road.

Eugeneia initially walked briskly towards it but, conscious of Cordelia’s early lesson about not drawing attention to herself, she slowed to a steady stroll. She had put on an ivory summer dress with matching light gloves and a round cream straw hat with a chiffon cover and the smallest of flower ornaments. Perhaps she was fortunate that the current mode was for less ostentatious smaller hats than in recent years. Still, even at the hotel, let alone now she was out on the street, Eugeneia was increasingly conscious that, while pretending to be a Byzantine, she was sporting western European styles. Perhaps in the centre of the city where many nationalities were around, she was less obvious, but progressing down this meagre street she worried that it would contradict the part she was supposed to be playing.

From the outside, the Mageftiki did not look to comply with its name. The road it sat on, at least this time of day – approaching twenty-to-ten in the morning – was safe enough, but Eugeneia was conscious that her walking to it could easily have been witnessed by a score of eyes, both visible and unseen. She hesitated at the café door, looking up and down the street, but none of the few she could see seemed even to have noticed her. Slipping inside, the place had a stark, dark elegance that betrayed its exterior and which she accepted would not disgrace perhaps a junior member of the ruling Palaiologan family as a customer.

Eugeneia was glad to find that she was not the only woman inside. Byzantine matrons, and even wealthy women of some of the other nationalities that found home in Constantinople, were present. In her time in Byzantium she had primarily dealt with Cretan peasants and, at best, shopkeepers. Their clothing looked little different from what she might have found in Italy or southern France. Here, though, she was being reminded that she was in an opulent empire. Even if it was now going to seed, its prosperous subjects were far from becoming shabby. Eugeneia trusted that what she had worn indicated she was not misplaced in walking into the Mageftiki; she felt sure, however, she would be seen instantly as a foreigner.

The kohl-rimmed eyes that were turned to note her entrance made the Byzantine ladies, she felt, resemble saints and ancestors staring out from the rich, but also austere, icons that were found in every church and, Eugeneia knew from her only previous visit, in large numbers in the capital. Her mother would have been familiar with such styles, but she had been a girl when her family had gone into exile from Sicily, now no longer under the Autokrator’s auspices but those of King Victor Emmanuel. As long as she had known her, Eugeneia’s mother had dressed like an Englishwoman – and indeed, when at an excavation, like an Englishman.

Eugeneia tried to suppress her feeling of having made a mistake being seen as English from the outset and tried to remind herself there were more immediate concerns. As the waiter approached, she quickly scanned the room looking for the man who would be her ‘controller’, or at least his messenger. However, it proved to be an elderly woman dressed as much in London-style clothes as Eugeneia herself who waved towards her with increasing certainty. Even if the lady had made a mistake, Eugeneia guessed it was better to close with her than have even greater attention be drawn to herself. It was only her second day in Constantinople and, despite her progress so far, she remained apprehensive that it could end with her answering questions to the magistrianoi, let alone the diatrechontes.

My friend, Eugeneia said to the waiter.

Having practiced most of her Greek – at least the modern version – on Crete rather than at her mother’s knee, she was anxious now people might think she had just arrived from Khania. She just prayed her accent did not sound too Cretan. She tried to seek reassurance in the fact she had managed to convince Ka. Panagos that she was Sicilian, at least by heritage. Still, Eugeneia reminded herself, the old woman had been that – old – and her hearing, especially with the sound of the train, might have struggled anyway. Eugeneia hurried ahead of the waiter, eager that he did not overhear the phrase she would have to exchange on the first meeting with her contact here.

I always have to order a pair of pomegranates, she prompted in Greek.

The lady looked bewildered for a moment, but then as if something had dawned. But I make sure to eat only six segments of each. Her response was in Greek of the kind Sophocles would have used rather than a contemporary magistrissa. Damn those Wykehamists in Whitehall and their Classics japes, the lady then complained in English.

Indeed. Is... for a moment Eugeneia was going to ask after Cunliffe-Owen, but realised it might expose her as a novelty in this game. You are to be my contact? My controller?

Yes, yes, and all of that fuss. Sit down, she gestured vigorously.

As Eugeneia complied, the woman softened her tone a little. At first I could not believe they would send a young woman for such a task, but now... now, with war actually having broken out and... well, for some reason that I do not comprehend, England is involved, I imagine they are saving the fit young men for the war. Had war been declared when you were sent?

Just. However, even now the Germans have not advanced far into France. I travelled to Bordeaux rather than Calais...

Yes, yes, and Italy appears to be reneging on its alliance with Germany and Austria-Hungary.

Yes, and from Italy it is still no difficulty to take a ship to Byzantium, at least from the southern end of the Adriatic.

Reginald likens a battle between the Austrians and the Serbians as like that of two imbecile peasants. Oh, Vienna may be glorious, but I feel the Austrians have not been a military Power since Napoleon fell. The Hungarians – the lady gave a shudder – are barbarians no better than the Seljuks or the Tartars.

For a moment, especially given that the lady had known the coded phrase, Eugeneia was willing to accept this was the one sent to meet with her. However, she recalled the words not of Goodwin, but of Cordelia Sinden, who apparently had undisclosed experience in these matters. She had cautioned Eugeneia never to assume anything. Tricking an agent, she made clear, was often of greater benefit than simply killing her.

You are Lady Henrietta Mears, Eugeneia recalled from the lists of important Britons in Constantinople.

Of course, I had thought that would be obvious. I have come to assume you are the one they have titled ‘Gratian’?

Eugeneia nodded.

Hardly appropriate. The lady gave a sound like a snort of disapproval. "Yes, my husband, Sir Reginald Mears, maritime attaché, has roped me into this charade. He made all this fuss about him being too well known for covert meetings. I think he overestimates the recognition of himself in this city and underestimates mine. However, he neglected to tell me that they would be sending a girl. I can accept this approach a little better now. Him being seen in your company... well, this may seem... be more seeming. They might think you a governess or perhaps a housekeeper, though why I would want to bring either out to a café I do not know... this is all so untidy.’

Eugeneia did not really know what Henrietta Mears wanted, beyond perhaps for her complaints to be heard. She trusted that soon enough she would have blown herself out and they could get on with what this meeting had actually been called for.

I cannot call you Gratian; at best it makes you sound like my butler. What is your real name?

Lady Mears started up again, but at least, Eugeneia conceded, she was now talking with her rather than at her.

In Constantinople I am-

The older woman waved her hand irritably to dismiss the next words. "I am tired of all these false names, code names. How I am to know whether to trust someone... an agent if I do not know his – or now, it seems, her – family?"

I am Eugenia Cranston, Eugenia responded, anglicising her first name from the Greek version her parents had delighted in.

The lady opposite did not respond to this but looked to be running through her mental files of names.

Sir Alastair Cranston, the archaeologist, Eugeneia prompted.

But your mother was a Greek.

A Sicilian.

The same thing... well, until Garibaldi’s mob chased the Byzantines out. I imagine she was one of those who pitched up in London in the mistaken belief we still put store by what Lord Nelson and the gentlemen of his generation had done there.

Has Britain, then, abandoned Byzantium entirely?

Eugeneia knew it was not the case; her presence was testament to that. However, Lady Mears’ manner was provoking her to find ways to rile this woman.

What an impertinent question. I accept that... that your loyalties may be divided, though why Whitehall would select you if they feared it... but you must know that England always stands by its allies. Remember the Crimean War. Of what benefit was it to us if Dory or indeed any part of Cherson was in Byzantine hands or not? Yet Britons went and died there so the two-headed eagle – this one, not the Russian, of course – could still fly on that side of the Black Sea.

The two women fell silent and Eugeneia took the opportunity to bring the waiter, who had kept a diplomatic distance up to now, closer to their table.

They have no tea... or at least nothing different to that Russian bilge with lemon.

"I will have a sketos." In Greek, Eugeneia ordered the bitterest version: it fitted her growing mood.

Again, Lady Mears tapped her small cup as she spoke slowly but loudly in English.

Eugeneia wondered if Lady Mears’ inability to behave in a covert manner was a danger to both of them. Surreptitiously she ran her gaze over the people in the room. With some quiet at her table for the moment, Eugeneia could make out a woman speaking pretty loudly in Italian and smiled to think that perhaps her controller fitted in here better than she might have first thought.

Now, we must discuss your ‘work’ – especially as I believe you are being paid an inordinate amount to be gallivanting around Constantinople; a girl of your age.

Eugeneia felt irritated once more. She did receive an allowance from London, but it could hardly be considered all hers. From what Mrs Sinden had said, she would need some of it at least to pay bribes and certainly to fund any agents of her own she might recruit. However, Eugeneia was coming to accept that she was not going to shift Lady Mears from her opinions and all that her ripostes could achieve was prolonging this interview.

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