Prologue: Ottoman Greece – 1824
The riot of battle. Adrenal cries of rage, fear and pain. Guttural curses, pants of effort and exhaustion, rising screams, cut off in an instant. The whinny and snort of frightened horses, and the heavy stamp of flailing hooves in the dirt. The ring of clashing blades, and the pulpy thud of pikes on flesh. The broken groans of the dying, who rattle and cough like wounded geese. The air is palpable, thick and moted with dust. The sharp stink of shit is overpowering.
At the edge of the tumult, two men circle, probing for advantage. Their narrowed world consists of raised blades, the opportunistic flex and slide of legs and feet, and the quick flicker of eyes that may betray intention or disguise it. One – a Turkish janissary by his uniform – feints to the left and whips his curved kilij forward, seeking the exposed flank of his adversary. The other, whose pale complexion marks him as an Englishman, parries the blow with his saber, then slashes at the Turk’s right arm. The razor steel slices through fabric and flesh as the Turk, grunting with pain, shifts the kilij to his good left hand.
The opening is brief, but fatal. With a sharp thrust, the Englishman drives the point of his weapon deep into the Turk’s belly. The janissary slashes desperately as the Englishman struggles to withdraw the blade, then silently doubles over and, as if in prayer, drops to his knees in the dark, clotted mud.
Time seems to pause. The janissary lists to the side, falls over, and lies still in a spreading pool of blood. The Englishman’s heart pounds as he stumbles backwards, recoiling from the dead man at his feet. His chest heaves as he gasps for breath. His eyes are wide, and he struggles to suppress a rising nausea. Only then does he feel the wetness in his side, and a burning pain. He looks down, astonished, and with a peculiar sense of detachment wonders at the brightness of his blood. He feels cold.
Turning away, he sees two men running towards him, one solidly built with thick red hair, the other slight, pale and oddly dressed in silk jacket and pleated trousers. He tries to speak, but can make no sound. A wave of weakness washes over him, the world spins, and he struggles to keep his feet. As the two men half-carry, half-drag him away from the fighting, the ruddy one mutters a soft oath. “God damn you, Byron, how the hell did you talk me into this?”
