They spurred their tired horses forward. The wall, so long at the forefront of Mehmed’s mind, and therefore Radu’s, was…anticlimactic. Miles and miles of stone, worn and patched with jumbles of mismatching rocks, cut through farmland. Radu could not fathom how anyone was able to man the wall. It was too long. But it was also too high—easily five times taller than him. Any advance could be seen and met. There was nowhere to hide, no point more vulnerable to attack than any other. And behind the outer wall was another one.
“Stop gaping so,” Nazira said, elbowing him. “You look like a slack-jawed boy from the country.” Her smile was a tight warning. He had been scanning the walls as an invader. He was fortunate Cyprian focused only on the path ahead.
Radu had waited so long to be here, but he had never anticipated being escorted through a gate with a salute from soldiers posted there. Just like that, they were within the outer walls. Radu risked one look back as the gate closed behind them. He did not know when—or if—he would leave again.
He glanced at Nazira, who rode tall and proud on her horse, a hopeful smile pasted onto her face. He copied her confidence. Cyprian was far enough ahead that he dared speak. He leaned closer to her. “How are you so good at this?”
She lifted a hand in the air, gesturing toward herself. “When you spend your whole life learning how to show people only what you want them to see so your truest self remains safe, you become quite adept at it.” She smiled sadly at Radu. “You understand.”
He nodded. She was right. He knew how to do this. It would work. “I am glad to have you with me.”
She laughed. “Of course you are. Now put on a sorrowful but curious expression, and let us go see the city that is our sultan’s destiny.”
Radu faced forward again as they drew closer to the smaller wall that barred the way into the city. It felt like his whole life had been leading him here. If this was not how he had expected to enter, well, he would simply make the best of it. After all, Constantinople was the greatest city in the world.
Constantinople was not the greatest city in the world.
Compared with Edirne, it was a city of ruins. A city of ghosts. More than half the narrow, crowding houses they passed had an air of dereliction about them. Refuse filled the streets and pushed against foundations. Doors hung askew on some houses or were missing altogether from others. They passed entire blocks without seeing a soul. Unless scraggly stray cats and mean-looking mangy dogs had souls, in which case they passed many souls.
As Radu’s group moved from the outskirts, things improved slightly. More of the homes appeared lived-in. A few stalls with vendors popped up here and there, the men halfheartedly soliciting them as they passed. Women hurried through the streets, dragging children and darting furtive glances at their mounted procession.
Radu had expected more soldiers patrolling, especially if word of war had already reached the city, but they had seen no one aside from the guards at the gates.
And he had seen nothing of the fabled wealth of Constantinople. He had always known, rationally, that the streets were not paved in gold, but he had expected something more. Even Tirgoviste had glittered brighter than this.
Finally they came to a quarter that showed more life. They pulled to an abrupt stop as a priest crossed their path, swinging a censer and trailing scented smoke in his wake. He sang hauntingly in Greek. Behind him was a parade of people. It took several minutes before the citizens, eerily silent save for the singing priest, finally passed and their way was clear again.
“What was that?” Radu asked.
“A procession.” Cyprian looked troubled. “There is no small amount of internal strife. Most of it centers around Orthodoxy versus the Catholic Church. I will explain later. Come.”
Bells tolled, their clanging echoing through the city. Cyprian looked up, then sighed. “I had forgotten the day. My uncle will be in the cathedral. We cannot speak with him there. Come, I will get you settled. I have a home near the palace.”
“We cannot intrude,” Nazira said. “Surely there is someplace else?”
Cyprian waved her worries away. “I have many bedrooms and only one me. We could all live there and never see one another. Much like this city, my home is in need of a much higher population.”
Cyprian’s house was not far. It was a handsome, well-maintained building. The houses in Constantinople practically shared walls, narrow gaps between them sometimes disappearing where the roofs met. He pulled out a key and opened the front door. They were greeted with a wall of frigid air.
“Valentin, go start the fires.” The boy nodded and ran inside. Cyprian frowned. “I have a maid. Where is that girl? The main room should have a fire going already. Maria? Maria!” There was no response. “Well, come in. It will warm up soon enough.” He led them to a small sitting room, where Valentin had already succeeded in lighting a fire.
They heard footsteps on the stairs. “Maria?”
“Just me,” Valentin called out. “No one else here.”
Cyprian looked troubled. Nazira put a hand on his. “Your home is lovely. Thank you so much. I hope you know your kindness is not unappreciated.”
“Of course!” Cyprian covered her hand with his other hand. “I am sorry. I have been so caught up in my own worries and fears, I have scarcely thought how you must be feeling. You have left your home, your country, all your possessions.” He turned to Radu. “Both of you have.”
Radu thought of what Lada might have said in response. “Edirne was my prison, not my home. Nazira’s is the true sacrifice.”
She nodded, looking down. “I will miss my garden. But I no longer recognize the landscape of the empire under this new sultan. And I do not think I belong there anymore.” She stood straighter, brightening. “And I have my Radu.”
Radu tried to imagine what Fatima must be doing right now, alone in the home that she shared with Nazira. How she must worry. If his separation from Mehmed was agony, how much worse to be separated from someone with whom you shared everything, including your heart?
He held out his arms. Nazira met him, resting her head against his chest. Cyprian watched them with the same look of longing Radu had seen before. Then he cleared his throat. “I will see to some food and send a message to the palace to find out when the emperor can meet with us.”
He left them alone. Radu stroked Nazira’s back one last time, and then they sat, side by side, staring into the fire.
“I like him,” Nazira said, and it sounded like a eulogy.
“Me too,” Radu echoed.
LADA’S MEN HAD NEARLY finished breaking camp when Hunyadi rode up. His horse pranced and shifted beneath him, picking up on his agitation.
“You have heard, then?” he asked Lada.
She paused in tightening her saddle straps. “Heard what?” she asked, careful not to reveal anything by her tone.
“Rumors of Ottoman troops massing in Belgrade, with designs on our Serbian border. You were right about Serbian loyalties. Housing the infidels in their own capital!”
Lada whipped around. How had Mehmed been this stupid? They were to meet in southern Transylvania. Surely he would not have come close to the Hungarian border. She had accepted that she needed Mehmed’s help, but she would be damned if she let Hunyadi know what she had done.
“Are you certain?”
Hunyadi shook his head. “One report. And the scout saw nothing himself. But I cannot risk this. Not with Matthias so close to the throne. You were wise to counsel me to stay.” He smiled at her, his eyes sad. “My duty is here. I cannot turn my back on Matthias for Constantinople. When will your men be ready to ride?”
Lada was seized with a sudden need to recheck every strap on her saddle. “You want us to ride into Serbia?”
“No. I want you in Transylvania. Protect the passes in case the Ottomans try to go through Transylvania and come into Hungary that way.”
Hunyadi had aided her yet again, giving her the simplest way to disguise her true goals: Mehmed an
d Wallachia. She nodded. “We will go to Transylvania. But after, we are not coming back. We will continue on when the way is clear.” She let her words imply that she would continue after the Ottomans were gone, though she meant she would continue once the Ottomans had cleared a way for her. “We go to Wallachia.”
Hunyadi put out his hand to stop Lada’s frantic tugging on an already-tight buckle. His voice was soft with concern. “What awaits you there?”
“I do not know what will happen. But I know that it is my country. I spent too many years in exile. I cannot continue to exile myself. We go back to whatever fate holds for us. Live or die, I want it to be on Wallachian ground.”
“Give me more time. Let me secure our borders, address this rumor of a threat. Once Matthias is on the throne, we can help you.”
Lada shook her head. Though a few weeks ago she would have clung to that offer, now she knew better. A promise of help that might never materialize was worth less than a sultan already waiting with troops. She had to do this. For Wallachia.
Her thoughts lingered on Mehmed. Her Mehmed, waiting for her. She pretended that was not a factor in her desperation to go, but her heart knew her to be a liar of the worst sort.
“Wallachia,” she whispered firmly to herself.
Before she could think better of it, she threw her arms around Hunyadi. “Thank you,” she said, “for everything.”
He patted her back. “Be careful, little dragon. You and I were made for battlefields, not royal courts. Do not start fights you have no weapons for.”
He kissed her forehead, then got back on his horse. “May God be with you.”
Lada smiled, and this time it was genuine. “God only sees me when I am in Wallachia.”
Hunyadi laughed. “Give him my regards, then.” He turned his horse and rode away, much slower than he had come. Lada watched him go, her smile disappearing. Her nurse, carrying their bedrolls, caught her eye and gave her a sharp nod.
It was time to go home.
CYPRIAN RETURNED, CARRYING A basket of bread and cheese and a skinny chicken with its neck already snapped. He motioned them to follow him into the kitchen. Radu and Nazira had been sitting in silence in front of the fire, both consumed with private strife. Radu had no doubt Nazira’s revolved around thoughts of Fatima, but his was an endless cycle of worrying over what Mehmed was doing and how Radu could prove his worth to him.
Nazira gently edged Cyprian out of the way. “Show me where the dishes are and make a fire in the stove.”
Cyprian nodded and gave her a tour of the kitchen. It appeared to be his first tour as well. “Oh, look! That is a lot of pots. Why do we need so many pots?”
Laughing, Nazira pointed at the table. “Go sit, you oaf. I can figure it out better on my own anyhow.”
Cyprian did as he was told. “I solved the mystery of my missing maid. Apparently word of my death has spread far and wide. She considered it notice of termination of her employment, and fled not only my house but also the city. So many have. I hope she will be all right.” He sighed, rubbing his face wearily. “I will try to find a replacement, but I do not think it will be easy.”
“We can manage quite well,” Nazira said. She smiled at Valentin, who had materialized and was helping stoke the fire in the stove. “Valentin is more than capable, and I am not unfamiliar with kitchens. I think we will do very nicely without extra bodies in the house.” She caught Radu’s eyes. She was right, of course. The fewer people watching them in close quarters, the better.
“Thank you,” Cyprian said. His relief was visible, a relaxing of the tightness around his eyes and the strain in his shoulders.
There was a knock at the door. Valentin left and then returned, accompanied by a liveried servant wearing a vest with the double-headed eagle crest of the emperor. “The emperor wishes to see you immediately.”
Radu stood. “I am at his disposal. We will go at once.”
Radu and Cyprian fastened their cloaks as they stepped out into the chilly afternoon. The servant walked at a pace so brisk he was almost running.
“Is there anything I should know before I go in?” Radu asked, seized with nerves. This first meeting was the most important. If he could gain the emperor’s trust now, he would be positioned perfectly. If he could not…
Well, that would be a much more unfortunate position.
Cyprian put a hand on Radu’s shoulder. “You have nothing to fear.”
Radu could not agree with that.
Constantine, just like the city he ruled, was not what Radu had expected. He was older, nearer to fifty than forty. His hair had thinned on top. In place of an elaborate crown, he wore a simple metal circlet on his head. Though every other man adhered to the fashion of layers, the emperor did not follow suit. His white shirt and purple breeches were simple, even austere. He seemed utterly devoid of pretense.
What a luxury honesty was.
Radu and Cyprian stood at the back of the crowded room. Constantine paced near the front, his tall, thin body leaning into the movement so that his head led the way with every step. With a start, Radu realized the emperor’s feet were bare. He stifled a surprised laugh at the absurdity of the emperor of Rome walking around without even stockings.
“What of the Golden Horn and the seawall?” the emperor asked.
“We have nothing to fear there,” a man said, waving dismissively. He was tall and broad, his body a blunt instrument of war. “A handful of poorly trained ships against my Italian sailors is nothing. We are perfectly safe on the seawall.”
Radu saw his opportunity. Telling Constantine the truth, and about something easily confirmed, would solidify his status. Knowing what they faced would not magically replace the seven ships that had already fled, or line their walls with men that were not coming.
“You are not safe there,” Radu said. Every face turned to him with curiosity. “When I left, Admiral Suleiman had six large galleys. Ten regular. Fifteen small. Seventy-five large rowboats for transporting men and navigating small spaces. Twenty horse transports.”
The change in the air was palpable. “Who are you?” the Italian man demanded.
“Radu of—” Radu paused, again not knowing what name to give himself. “Radu most recently of Edirne, where I served at Mehmed’s—the sultan’s—side these last several years. Most particularly overseeing the secret development of his navy.”
Cyprian put a hand on Radu’s shoulder. “This is the man who saved my life, Uncle.”
Constantine pointed at a man near the door. “Send word to the governor of Galata. Tell him we are drawing the chain across the horn to block all entry.” No one moved. “Now!” he shouted.
The man stood, bowing, and ran from the room.
“Is that to be his main point of attack, then?” Constantine asked.
Radu shook his head. “He means to press you on all sides. If he can get through on the seaward side, he will. But his focus is the land walls.”
“The walls will stand,” a priest said. “They have always stood. They will always stand.”
“They have always withstood attacks before, but attacks change,” Radu said. “The sultan spares no expense on new methods and weapons. He has studied the walls, has even been here in person. He means to focus on the Lycus River Valley and the section outside the palace.”
A man near the front frowned. He wore clothes closer in fashion to the Ottomans than to the Byzantines. “Those are obvious choices. We already know this.”
“Orhan is right,” the Italian man said. Radu startled, looking closer at the oddly dressed man who had just spoken. Orhan was the false heir to the Ottoman Empire—a man whom Constantinople had used to threaten Mehmed’s rule since before it began. Even now, Mehmed had to send money periodically or else Constantine would send Orhan into the empire to stir up civil war.
Orhan had been and was an actual, active threat to Mehmed’s life. Anger flared in Radu’s heart. He wanted something to hurt these people, to make them feel the fear th
ey should. “He has artillery.”
“We have seen artillery!” a portly man shouted. “So he throws some stones. Our stones are bigger.” Laughter echoed through the room. Encouraged, the man continued. “The Ottomans have never had stones as big as ours.”
Radu offered a tight smile in response to the man’s dirty bravado. “They have a cannon four times my height that can shoot a six-hundred-pound ball over a mile.”
No one laughed at that, though several scoffed visibly. Constantine sighed. “We may as well bring in food. And I hope someone is writing all this down?” He gestured for Radu to take an empty seat nearby.
Radu sat. He was in, for good or ill.
Constantine looked at the ceiling as though an answer were there. “What if we relinquish Orhan’s claim?”
Radu looked at the pretend heir. Orhan stared down at his hands, which were soft and pale. Not warrior’s hands, like Constantine’s or the Italian’s. Orhan nodded.
Constantine reached out and squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “We release any threat against Mehmed’s legitimacy. We graciously decline payment for the land the Rumeli Hisari is built on. We increase our payments to him.”
Radu wondered if he should encourage that. Perhaps Mehmed would want it. But he would still attack. And everything here would be Mehmed’s in the end, so it did not matter. Radu would tell the truth. “His mind is set on the city with a singular focus. He has spoken and dreamed of little else since he was twelve. I do not think anything will deter him now. You can offer, but short of surrender, you should prepare for siege.” Radu dared to hope that after hearing his tales of men and cannons, they would surrender. He could deliver the city, unharmed, directly to Mehmed!
Constantine turned to the Italian, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Giustiniani?”
Giustiniani’s Greek was heavily accented, but he spoke with a command and even a joviality that demanded confidence. “We are nearly settled, your grace. We stretched your purse as far as we could. All the food and water is stored. We have enough to last for a year, with minimal supplementation.” He smiled bitterly. “There are advantages to so many leaving, after all.”