“Well?” Nicolae asked.
“She is mad.”
“Then you do have something in common after all!”
His attempt at levity met with no reaction from Lada. His voice got quieter. “Will there be any aid from Moldavia?”
“None that she can provide. We can go to the capital and appeal to the new king. But I do not think these people will help us. She is just like all the nobility, the boyars. They are sick with the same disease. They lock themselves in finery and wealth, and they refuse to see anything that might jeopardize their comfort.” Lada paused, remembering her mother’s teeth, her mother’s foot. Perhaps she should not begrudge the small measure of comfort a powerless woman had managed to find in a cruel world.
But she would absolutely begrudge her mother the failure to empower herself. Running and abandoning those who needed her was the weakest, lowest thing possible. Lada would not do that. She could not. Whatever else she was, Lada was nothing like the class who could go on living after turning their backs on those who depended upon them.
“What, then?” Nicolae asked. “Do we try to convince more boyars that you are a tame princess and not a warlord prince?”
Lada picked up a canteen of water and poured it on the flames, watching them sizzle and die. “I do not know. I have tried—” Her voice caught. She had tried everything. She had pledged loyalty to foreign kings, she had betrayed an ally, she had trusted that love was the same as honesty. “I have tried everything.”
“The little zealot was always unlikely. None of us blame you for looking for help there, though.”
Lada sat up straight, alarmed. “What do you mean?”
Nicolae’s expression was without reproach. “We are all very good soldiers and scouts, Lada. Did you really think we would fail to notice the sultan camped within miles of us?”
She hung her head, the weight of her shame pulling her down. “I told you I was freeing you. But when he offered help, I leapt at the opportunity.”
“We do not care,” Petru said.
The way Bogdan sat perfectly still next to her indicated that he, perhaps, did.
“We know you fight for us. For Wallachia.” Nicolae shrugged. “The little zealot was a means to an end. It did not work. So we find more means for the same end.”
Lada held out her hands. “I have exhausted my means. I am sorry you have followed me this far.”
“We still have Hunyadi,” Bogdan said.
Nicolae rubbed his beard, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. “No, Hunyadi is not our best option. We have our own Hunyadi in Lada. What we need is someone who can work new angles of power. What we need is Matthias.”
“He is the same as all the other leaders,” Lada said, shaking her head.
“That is precisely the point.” Nicolae smiled, the fire illuminating his face in the midst of the darkness. “He is the same as them. So if we get him…”
Lada took a deep breath filled with smoke. It seared her lungs. She wanted nothing to do with Matthias, and knew his help—if she could get it—would not be without a price. How much more of herself would she have to lose to get where she belonged?
“For Wallachia,” Bogdan said.
Lada nodded. “For Wallachia.”
A THICK FOG OVER THE city muffled all life: muting church bells, softening footfalls, cloaking the streets in a layer of damp and stifling mystery.
Radu turned from staring out his window into the blank white that had settled over the distance like a sickness coming ever closer. Taking a deep breath, he knelt on the floor facing Mecca. Letting go of his fear and questions, he hoped his prayer could find its way out of the fogged-in city even if nothing else could. He was so lost in the ritual he failed to notice an increase in the frequency and number of church bells until his door burst open.
For a split second, Radu froze. He was upright on his knees, so he clasped his hands in front of himself like he had been caught in an acceptably Christian form of prayer. Cyprian, breathing hard, had been scanning the room at eye level. By the time he looked down at Radu, Radu was almost certain everything appeared as it should.
“What is it?” Radu asked, standing.
“The Turks.” Cyprian steadied himself against the doorframe. “They are here.”
Without a word Radu pulled on his cloak. Nazira was in the kitchen preparing the afternoon meal with anemic vegetables and some lumpy bread. “While you are out, try to buy some meat!” she called as they rushed by.
“The Turks are here!” Cyprian shouted. Nazira was at their side as they ran out the front door. She wore only slippers and a layered dress. Radu unfastened his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. She held it shut, keeping pace with the two men as they raced through the streets toward the walls.
If Cyprian had not been with them, Radu was certain they would have gotten lost. The fog changed the character of the city, obscuring landmarks, leeching the already faded colors. With no church steeples visible, bells rang out as though from the world of spirits, their metallic warnings hanging lonely in the air.
“When did they arrive?” Radu nearly slipped on a slick portion of road. Cyprian grabbed his elbow to steady him.
“I do not know. I only now heard word of it.”
By the time they bypassed several religious processions and made it to the walls, Nazira was winded and Radu was exhausted. They were allowed through a postern, one of the gates between the walls that let soldiers in and out of the city. Pulled down by the weight of fear, fog had settled heavily in this no-man’s-land, curling and pulsing like a living thing. Radu kept brushing at his arms, trying to rub it off.
They were not the only ones who had come running. They had to wait several minutes before there was an opening for them to climb a narrow ladder to the top of the outer wall. As he searched for a good position for them, Radu bumped into Giustiniani. The Italian nodded, shuffling to the side to let them squeeze in.
There, shoulder to shoulder with their enemies, Radu and Nazira looked out on their countrymen. Tents had sprung up out of the mist like a growth of perfectly spaced mushrooms. Movement stirred the white tendrils of fog, offering glimpses of men who were then swallowed again.
“We are beset by an army of ghosts,” Cyprian whispered.
“Do not let anyone hear you say that,” Giustiniani said, his tone sharp. “We have more than enough superstition to contend with.”
“When did they arrive?” Radu asked. He leaned forward and squinted, even though he knew it would not magically help him pierce the moisture-laden air. Knew he would not see what—who—he wanted to. But he tried nonetheless.
“It must have been in the night,” Giustiniani said. “The damn fog has been so thick we did not even see them. I got reports of strange noises, and then it finally cleared some.”
“What should we do?” Cyprian asked.
“Wait until we can see something. And then we will start collecting information.”
Giustiniani had been right—visibility was poor, but sounds hung in the dead air. At times the noises were muted, as though coming from a very great distance. And sometimes they broke through with such startling clarity that everyone spooked, looking around in fear that the Ottomans were already behind the wall.
“Shovels,” Nazira said, pointing toward the camp. “You hear that rhythmic scraping?”
Giustiniani nodded. “They will be digging their own moat, a protective line for themselves. Building up a bulwark to hide their lines behind. And generating material to try to fill in our fosse.”
Another sound cut through the air. Radu had half turned before he realized what he was doing. The call to prayer, and Radu could not answer. He had prayed too early. Nazira’s hand found his, gripping tightly. They stood, frozen, until it was over.
“Filthy infidels,” a man to Giustiniani’s right said, spitting over the wall. “The devil’s own horde.” Then the man straightened, brightening. “You hear that? Christians! I know that liturgy. We are
answering them! I—” He stopped, his eyebrows drawing low. “Where is it coming from?”
“Outside of the wall,” Cyprian said, his voice as heavy and blank as the fog.
“Mercenaries?” Giustiniani asked.
Radu realized the Italian had been addressing him. “Probably men pressed into service from vassal states: Serbs, Bulgars, maybe even some Wallachians. And then anyone who came willingly when they heard of the attack.”
“Why would Christians come against us?” The soldier’s face was twisted with despair. He turned to Radu as though he held all the answers.
It was Giustiniani who spoke, though. “For the same reason they sent us no aid. Money.” This time he spat over the wall. “How will he organize?”
Radu leaned against the wall, turning his back on the Ottoman camps and staring toward the blank white bank of fog. Only one thing rose up high enough to pierce it—the spire of the Hagia Sophia. The cathedral the city left dark. “Irregulars and Christians at the fronts on most areas of the wall. Places he thinks are less important. He does not trust anyone who is here solely for money. Janissaries and spahi forces at the weakest points—the Lycus River, and the Blachernae Palace wall section.”
“So he will be weak where the other forces are weak. If we sallied out, broke through—”
Radu shook his head. “He will have enough men to spare to make certain the irregulars maintain as much order and discipline as possible. There will be no breaking point in his lines. He will concentrate his attacks on your weaknesses, but he will have no weaknesses vulnerable to direct attack.”
Giustiniani sighed. “So we wait.”
“So we wait,” Radu echoed.
The next day dawned bright and clear. From the looks on the soldiers’ faces, they wished it had not.
Radu was once again at Giustiniani’s side, along with Cyprian. Nazira had stayed home. Her parting embrace had been too tight, her whispered caution tucked around him. Radu had to be more careful than ever.
Giustiniani handed him a spyglass. He pointed toward the back of the camp, in a corner where smoke was billowing upward. “What are they doing there?”
It took a moment for Radu to focus, and another few moments for him to train the glass on what he was trying to find. Familiarity warmed him, and he hid his affection behind a grim look. “Forges,” he said, handing back the glass.
“What do they need forges that big for?” Cyprian asked.
“Cannons.”
“They are going to make cannons on the battlefield?” Cyprian laughed. “Are they also planning on a brick kiln? Building a wall of their own while they are at it?”
“I think it is to repair cannons, mostly.”
“They would need a tremendous amount of supplies.” Giustiniani frowned. “The logistical aspects would be a nightmare. Do you think they could actually do it?”
“I do. Mehmed—” Radu cringed, and started over. “The sultan is organized and methodical. He has resources he can pull from two continents. If he needs it, it is already here or on its way. I have been in an Ottoman siege before, under the sultan Murad. This will be even bigger, cleaner, more efficient. Mehmed watched and learned. He will have enough supplies to last as long as he needs. The men will be limited to one meal a day to preserve food. He will keep things meticulously ordered and clean to prevent sickness.”
Giustiniani pointed toward the rows of tents. “By my estimations, there are almost two hundred thousand men out there.”
Cyprian let out a breath, as though he had been hit in the stomach. “That many?”
Radu nodded. “But roughly two men in support for every one man fighting.”
“That still leaves sixty thousand? Seventy thousand?” Cyprian covered his mouth with his hand. Radu was shocked to see tears pooling in his gray eyes. “So many. What could Christianity accomplish with a mere fraction of the unity Islam has? How can our God ever withstand the ferocity of this faith?”
“Do not blaspheme, young man.” Giustiniani’s tone was sharp, but it softened when he spoke again. “And do not despair. The odds are not so against us as they look.” He patted the stone in front of them with one thick, callused hand. “With a handful of men and these walls, I could hold back the very forces of hell itself.”
“Good,” Cyprian said, his voice hollow as he looked back over the Ottoman camp. “Because it looks like we will have to.”
Giustiniani left, but Radu and Cyprian stayed where they were. Cyprian waved his hand in disgust. “Look at those animals in that pen. That one, there. Those are not even war animals! That lord brought those to show off!”
Radu’s eyes never left the red and gold tent in the center—Mehmed’s. “A pasha, probably. Or a ghazi from the Eastern regions. They do not see each other often, so they would want to use this as a show of wealth and strength.”
Cyprian laughed. “They do not even care about scaring us. They are here to impress each other.” He sighed, finally turning and sinking down to sit with his back against the stones. Radu knew Mehmed was not here yet, that the tent was empty. Still, it was all he could do to look away and sit next to Cyprian.
“If they have all that—if they can do this much on a military campaign—why do they even want our city? That camp is nicer than anything we have in here.”
Radu sighed, resting his head against the cold limestone that stood between him and his people. “They think Constantinople is paved in gold.”
“They are two hundred years too late. How can the sultan not know that?”
“He knows.” Radu was certain of it. Mehmed was too careful, too meticulous not to know the true state of the city. “He lets them believe the city is wealthy so they are willing to fight. But he wants the city for itself. For its history. For its position. For his capital.”
“And so he will take it.”
Radu nodded, echoing Cyprian. “And so he will take it.”
“What is life like under the Ottomans? For the vassal states and conquered people?”
Radu closed his eyes and saw a red and gold tent in the darkness. Saw the face of the man who would be there, so soon. Saw himself, where he should have been, in the tent next to Mehmed.
To impress his loyalty on Cyprian, he should probably talk of horrors. But the look of despair in Cyprian’s eyes haunted him. There was comfort in the truth, so Radu extended it. “Honestly? It is better than many other things.” Radu blinked away the images of what would not be, focusing on the city on a hill in front of him. “The Ottomans do not believe in the feudal systems. People are far freer under their rule. Industry and trade flourish. They let their vassal subjects continue to worship how they wish, without persecution.”
“They do not force conversion?”
“Christians are free to remain Christians. The Ottomans actually prefer it, because they have to tax Muslims at a lower rate.”
Cyprian laughed, surprising Radu. “Well, that is very…practical of them.”
Radu smiled grimly. “I do not know if it will comfort you, but when I compare the people in Wallachia to the people in the Ottoman Empire, the Ottomans have it better.”
Cyprian swallowed, his throat shifting with the movement. He looked down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him. “But it was not better for you.”
Radu turned his head away as though struck, remembering what they thought he was to Mehmed. What shame and pain they must think he carried over what he was rumored to be. What he would gladly have been, had Mehmed so much as hinted that it was a possibility.
“No,” Radu said, his voice a cold shadow in the clear sunlight. He stood just in time to see Mehmed’s procession arrive, the walls of the city the least impossible barrier between Radu and his heart’s desire. “Not for me.”
LADA STOOD, PARALYZED WITH rage and grief, next to the bed where Hunyadi lay dying.
Three weeks ago when she left him, he had been robust and thick with power. Now he was a wasted shadow of himself.
Mehmed
had managed to kill him after all.
Hunyadi wheezed a laugh. “He sends any men with the plague to the front lines. It is clever, really. He could not get me with a sword, but he got me with—” His words were cut off as he struggled to breathe, gasping.
Lada had never before felt so powerless. She wanted to kill something.
She wanted to kill Mehmed.
“Where is Matthias?” she asked the girl attending Hunyadi in the dark, cramped room in a humble home a good distance from the castle.
The girl kept her eyes averted, tending the fire as though keeping it alive would do anyone any good. “He does not come.”
“His father is dying. Send someone to fetch him.”
The girl shook her head, locks of hair falling in front of her face. “He will not come.”
“It is better,” Hunyadi said, finally able to speak again. He smiled. His gums were pale, his lips cracked. “I was gone when my father died. Too busy fighting to watch a sick old farmer die. And now my son is too busy in the castle to watch a sick old soldier die. It is good.”
Lada hated this talk. She wanted more time with Hunyadi. She wanted back the time she had squandered that had cost them both so dearly. She could still learn so much from him. She helped him sip some water, then adjusted his pillow. “How did you manage it? How did you come so far from such a humble start?”
“I always chose the path of most resistance. Did things no one else was willing to. Took risks no one else dared take. I was smarter. More determined. Stronger.” He lifted one shaking hand in the air and wheezed a laugh. “Well, some things change. But I was always brutal. I was the most brutal. When you start lower, you have to fight for every scrap of space you occupy in the world.” He patted Lada’s cheek, his palm too warm, and thin like parchment. “Even starting from nothing, I had more luck than you. If you had been born a boy, the whole world would tremble before you.”
Lada scowled. “I have no wish to be a man.” Then she cringed, the memory of Mehmed’s hands and tongue and lips on her body. She had never been happier to be a woman than she had been in that falsely precious space. Her body had not felt like a stranger to her then. She wanted to reclaim that feeling.