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mission is not secret,” he said. “Now that Aragon has a new king, I am sounding out the attitude of certain powers concerning the war for Sicily that still drags on. Having been in Venice, I am bound similarly to the Byzantine Imperium. Since I talk no Greek, I admit that your instruction en route would be welcome; and afterward I can certainly make use of a confidential amanuensis. So be it, then, as long as you remain faithful. You shall have whatever pay you are worth, and I will not mention to anyone that you are not my original servant.”
    It was more than Lucas had dared imagine. “Blessings upon you, my master!” he shouted, bouncing back to his feet. Gaiety torrented from him. “I must go to work at once, to prepare a suitable midday meal. I confess I’m not expert in the kitchen, but I know what tastes good. So by adding a leek here and a smidgen of cheese there, a dash of vinegar and enough olive oil, I’ll feel my way toward a dish not altogether insulting. And, oh, yes, Messer, I must see what clothes you have along, brush them and--Would you like entertainment? I can tell you the most scandalous stories; or chivalric romances, if you prefer; or a ballade or sirvente--” Hustling about the narrow cabin, laughing, singing, chattering, he soon crowded the other out onto the deck. And before him there shone the vision of Cathay and new horizons.
     

Chapter I
     
    Fourteen years had passed when Lucas, called Greco, saw Constantinople for the second time. That was in April, in the year 1306.
    He stood in the Augustaion, waiting for Brother Hugh de Tourneville to meet him as they had agreed. This was the heart of the city. On one side rose the wall about the Imperial grounds. Mailed Varangian Guardsmen with axes on their shoulders stood on the top and at the gates; their helmets flamed in the late afternoon sunlight. Above the parapets could be seen the roof of the Brazen House, their barracks, and a shining glimpse of the Daphne and Sigma Palaces. Behind Lucas, over flat intervening roofs, soared the domes of St. Sophia; around a corner bulked the Hippodrome, crumbling with age, its arches a shelter for beggars, prostitutes, and bandits by night.
    Old and corrupt the Byzantine Empire might be, but nonetheless, here it surged with humanity. The citizens themselves, in long dalmatic and cope, dark, curly-haired, big-nosed, more Anatolian than Greek by blood, and styling themselves Romans; a noble in gold and silken vestments, looking with jaded eyes from the palanquin in which four slaves bore him; a priest, strange to the Western mind in his beard, black robe, and brimless hat; foreigners, English, Flemish, German, French, Iberian, Italian, Turkish, Arabic, Russian, Mongol, half the world poured down the throat of New Rome. Their voices, the shuffle and clatter of feet, the ring of hoofs and rumble of wagon wheels, made an ocean-like roar. A smell of dust, smoke, cooking oil, sweat, sewage, horse droppings, rolled thick across the grumbling and grinding city. High overhead, sunlight caught the white wings of sea gulls.
    Lucas shifted his stance, ill at ease. His memories of his first time here were still bright; but today he saw how much of that glamor had merely been his own youth. He shook his head, denyingly, for it was wrong that a man not yet thirty should feel old. He could not have changed so much. Could he? His bones had lengthened and his muscles filled out. His face, which he kept clean-shaven as part of an inborn fastidiousness, had become a man’s rather than a boy’s, flat-cheeked and square-jawed, with deep lines from nose to lips. The sun and wind of Asia had darkened his skin, lightened his hair, and put crow’s feet around his eyes. But he was stronger in every way than he had been then, wiser (or at least shrewder), with a thousand experiences both violent and subtle to prove he could rely on himself.
    Perhaps, he thought, that was what he had lost. Fourteen years ago, Cathay had lain