Cyprian made his way confidently to the altar, where he pulled out a plate and held it up in triumph. Nazira tucked it into the bottom of her bucket and covered it with rags.
Within three hours they had hit several churches. Nazira’s bucket was nearly full. Radu was too tired to skip, but he and Cyprian kept laughing at the other’s fumbling in the dark. In one church, Cyprian tripped and fell backward over a bench, his legs straight up in the air. Radu held himself, bent over, trying not to laugh so loudly that they got caught. Rather than getting up immediately, Cyprian had remained on his back, kicking his legs, until tears streamed down Radu’s face.
When the tenth church was stripped, they agreed to one more. They weaved through the streets with secret laughter as muffled as the city by fog. Radu did not know how it felt to be drunk, but he suspected it felt something like this.
“I need it!” a woman screamed. They stopped, startled. Two women pulled at a basket. Each had a child or two at their legs, tugging on their skirts and crying. “My children are starving!” one of the women shouted.
“We are all starving!” a man said, shoving between the two women. One of them fell into the muddy street, taking a child down with her. The other scrambled for the basket, but the man got to it first.
“Give it to me,” she begged, picking up her small child and holding him in front of her as proof of her desperation.
“I have my own hungry children.”
Cyprian and Radu stepped forward, unsure what to do but knowing something needed to be done. “You should be at the walls,” Cyprian said to the man.
The man’s face shifted into something ugly and brutal. “So you can take this food for your own? I will go back to the wall when I know my family is eating.” He shoved past them, nearly knocking Nazira down. He did not so much as look back at the women he had stolen the food from. The one still standing stomped away, one child in her arms and the other hurrying after her.
Radu reached out to help the fallen woman up. She took his hand and stood, brushing off her skirt and using a clean section to wipe her child’s face.
“You should go to Galata,” Radu said, as gently as he could. “They have more food there, and your children will be safer.”
“God will protect us,” she said, and Radu did not know if it sounded like a prayer or a condemnation.
“But God is not feeding you.”
She looked at him, aghast, then bundled her child into her skirts and hurried away, as though Radu’s blasphemy were contagious.
She might as well have carried off all their easy happiness, too. But at least they knew this night was worthwhile. Necessary. “One more,” Cyprian said, sounding tired. He pointed the way. “The monastery where they house the Hodegetria.”
“What is that?” Nazira asked, linking one arm through Radu’s and the other through Cyprian’s. It did not feel quite right, with her in the middle. Less balanced. Radu had preferred when he was between them. But he carried the now-heavy bucket.
“The Hodegetria is the holiest icon in the city,” Cyprian said. “A painting of the Virgin Mary holding the child Jesus at her side. Said to be brought back from the Holy Land by the apostle Luke. They parade it around the walls sometimes as protection, though the monks have been withholding it as punishment for my uncle’s dealings with the Catholics.”
“Do they really think a painting will save them?” Nazira asked, no sting in her criticism, merely curiosity. Radu cringed at her choice of words—them instead of us—but Cyprian took no notice. At least Radu was not the only one too comfortable around Cyprian.
“They say it has saved the city before,” Cyprian said.
“Do you believe it?” Nazira asked.
Cyprian looked up at the stars peeking through the low cover of cloud and smoke that never really cleared. “I believe that the Virgin Mary would rather see us take care of our own than take care of a painting of her. Which is why I am going to go distract the guard so you two can sneak in and take what silver you find.” He bowed jauntily, trying to recapture some of their fun, then walked around the corner of the monastery.
Radu leaned up against a small outer door, working the lock as quickly as he could. They entered through a pitch-dark back hallway. Feeling their way along the wall, they came to another door. It was locked.
“That is promising,” Nazira whispered.
Radu picked this last lock. The air inside stung his nose with the remains of censer smoke. Radu dared to light a candle in the windowless room. As the light flared to life, the image of the Virgin Mary appeared in front of them. The icon, nearly as tall as Radu, was mounted on a pallet with poles extending for carrying.
“Too bad we cannot melt it down,” Nazira said thoughtfully, looking at the heavy gold frame. Radu searched for silver. There were a few small pieces, and he pocketed them. Nazira stayed where she was, staring at the icon.
“I think that is Constantinople’s problem,” she said. “They look to a painting to save them, instead of to each other. They argue and debate over the state of their souls for the afterlife, while letting the needy in this life go hungry. No wonder this city is dying.”
Radu put a hand on her shoulder. “I have what we came for.”
Nazira did not move. Her eyes shone heavy with tears in the candlelight. “I hate them. I hate everyone in this city. I walk among them, I talk to them, and it is like conversing with ghosts. I want to wear mourning clothes every day.” She was crying now. Reaching into one of the jars in the bucket, she pulled out a glopping handful of grease.
Radu grasped her hand before she could fling the grease at the icon. “No,” he said softly.
“We should burn it. We should punish them.”
“They are being punished enough.”
“Your sister would burn it to demoralize them.”
“My sister would do much more than that.” He smiled, imagining what Lada would do if she were here in his place. Nothing in the city would be safe. “But Cyprian is outside. He would know.”
Sniffling, Nazira nodded. She rubbed her hands along the pallet handles, trying to wipe off the grease. “I am sorry. I miss Fatima so much it feels like ice has entered my soul. And it is hard remembering not to care about these people. I was so sure when we came that it would not be a problem. I wanted— I wanted them to suffer. I wanted to watch them fall.”
Radu had never heard her talk like that. “To protect Islam?”
“For revenge,” she whispered. “For Fatima. Her family was killed by crusaders when she was very young. They did horrible things. Things she cannot talk about even now. I wanted Constantinople to be ours to prevent more crusades, yes. But also to punish them.” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her shawl. “I know it is not rational. None of the people here were responsible for what happened to Fatima. But their mindless hatred of us, their demonizing of Islam, is what let those men do what they did. It was wicked of me to come here with so much hatred in my heart. Hatred makes monsters of us all.”
Radu pulled her close, hugging her tightly. “You could never be a monster,” he said, as the Virgin Mary pointed solemnly at her son. Her face betrayed no emotion, no hint of judgment or mercy.
“I still think we are doing the right thing.” Nazira fixed her shawl. “And I am trying to set my heart in line with God.”
Radu nodded, taking her hand. Together, they left the monastery.
Cyprian met them outside. “The foundry is not far. No one will be there.”
When they got to the foundry, the forge’s fires were cold. It would take a while for them to be hot enough to melt down the metal. Nazira excused herself to go home and sleep.
Radu saw now that she wore her sadness like a cloak. She smiled so brightly, it was too easy to miss the sorrow swirling around her. Radu wished he could take it from her. But he knew that leaving this city and being reunited with Fatima would be what began her healing.
As they started the furnace, Cyprian found the molds for c
oins. “My father told me I would never make any money for the family. I wish he could see me now.”
“My father did not even think about me enough to wonder whether I was worth anything.”
“He sounds like more of a bastard than I am.”
Radu laughed, and was rewarded with one of Cyprian’s precious genuine smiles. They took turns stoking the fire. Cyprian leaned close, looking over Radu’s shoulder to watch the flames. He had washed, and did not smell like the walls anymore. He smelled like clothing dried in the sun, with a hint of the breeze blowing off the sea. Radu found himself breathing in so deeply he was dizzy.
“You are very good at this,” Cyprian said, his breath tickling Radu’s ear.
Radu would have blushed at the praise—after his broken childhood, he devoured praise like a starving man took bread—but it was so warm he was already flushed. Soon the room was stifling. Cyprian peeled off his outer layers, finally taking off even his undershirt.
It really is uncomfortably hot, Radu thought, looking everywhere but at the other man.
When the fire was bright enough, they fed the silver pieces to it one by one, collecting the molten metal. The coins they cast were rough, obviously inferior to genuine money. But no one would examine them too closely right now.
Cyprian sprawled out on the floor, arms behind his head. Radu did not look.
Until he did.
Cyprian was lean and tall, with broad shoulders. Radu’s eyes lingered on the space where his torso dipped from his ribs toward the line of his trousers.
No. He was tired, and it was—something. It was all something. He did not know what, could not form a coherent thought. Looking at Cyprian made him remember seeing Mehmed that night in Mehmed’s bedroom, before Mehmed had known he was there. Radu felt an odd surge of guilt, like he had somehow betrayed Mehmed tonight. When he thought of how miserable he had been in Edirne, he wanted to laugh. He would give anything for that small distance from Mehmed, as opposed to the tangle of emotions and questions the walls separating them had introduced.
Except he did not think he wanted to give up this night, even with everything getting here had cost him.
Still, he kept his eyes on the table after that. If Cyprian caught him looking, how would he react? How would Radu want him to react? Radu focused intently on the coins. “How will you explain them to your uncle?”
“A dowry from a withered old crone who wants to marry me.”
“You would be more believable if you said it was buried treasure.”
“I happen to be very appealing to women of advanced age. My eyes, you see. They cannot get enough of my eyes.”
Radu finally tugged his own shirt off, because the room kept getting hotter. He tried very hard not to look at Cyprian. He sometimes succeeded. All the while, he stayed on the other side of the table, glad it was between him and Cyprian. And glad his trousers were thick enough to hide the feelings his body would not accept should not be there.
Bodies were traitorous things.
“WE NEED DORIN,” TOMA said. He sat tall and regal on his horse. “And he is a Basarab.”
Lada pointed toward where they had come from. “He attacked us!” They had been met on the edge of Dorin Basarab’s forest by three dozen poorly armed and terrified farmers. Ten well-trained soldiers with weapons had stood at the farmers’ backs, leaving them no option but to fight. Before Lada had been able to open her mouth, one of the farmers had shot an arrow at her. Bogdan immediately cut the man down, then went after the next. It was a few minutes of bloody, screaming work to dispatch them. It was a waste of her time, and a waste of the farmers’ lives.
Toma did not mind. He sniffed lightly, eyeing the manor ahead of them appraisingly. “Dorin will agree to back us. And we will not have another incident.” He looked sharply at Lada. “I will placate him by offering him Silviu’s lands when you are on the throne.”
“No. I gave them to someone already.”
Toma laughed. “To a peasant woman? Yes, I heard. That was amusing. Please leave land distribution to me. In fact, perhaps it is best if you stay out here with your men. I will handle everything.”
He rode away, his men following. Lada watched his back with all the tension of a nocked arrow.
Nicolae put a hand on her arm.
“What?” she snapped.
He jerked his head behind them. She turned to see a line of peasants. A line of very angry peasants. They made no move toward her—probably owing to the mounted soldiers behind her—but she had no doubt they would kill her if they could.
“Who is in charge?” she asked, pacing her horse in front of them.
“My brother,” one man grunted.
“Where is he?”
“Dead in the field back there.”
Lada stopped her horse, glaring down her long, hooked nose at the man. “And you think that is my fault?”
“Your swords have blood on them.”
Lada drew her sword. It gleamed, well polished. “My sword is clean. My sword was not behind your brothers and cousins, forcing them into a fight they were not prepared for. My sword was not hanging over your necks, forcing you to serve a man who cared nothing for your lives. My sword was not held by the guards of your boyar to ensure none of your sons and friends could run when they should have.”
Nicolae cleared his throat. “Maybe not the best tactic to encourage them to fight with us,” he said under his breath.
Lada turned her horse, disgusted and angry. “We are going to Tirgoviste,” she said. “Join us.”
The man looked to the side, rubbing his stubbled cheek. “Not right, a lady having a sword.”
Lada knew that killing him would set a bad precedent. She knew that, yet her sword inched closer to him anyway.
“Why should we?” asked an old man with white and wispy hair like the clouds overhead. Loose skin beneath his chin wobbled as he spoke. “We were fine before you came. We want no trouble from Tirgoviste.”
Lada turned toward him, sparing the other man. “And Tirgoviste has never troubled itself about you. It does not care. It does not care about your lives, or your families, or your welfare. What has the prince ever given you?”
The old man shrugged his sharp shoulders. “Nothing.”
“If you are happy with nothing, by all means, flee and find another boyar to serve. Dorin Basarab will be with me. And when I am on the throne, I will remember every man who helped get me there, no matter his station.”
“You want to be prince?” the first man asked. He was not angry anymore. He was confused. Lada preferred angry.
“I will be prince.”
“What family are you from? Do they have no sons left?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to declare her lineage. Then she stopped. She did not deserve the throne because of her family. Because of her father. Because her brother would not take it. She did what she did not for herself or her family name but for Wallachia. She would earn the throne. “I am Lada Dracul, and I will be prince.” She lowered her voice, leaning toward the man and speaking like the sound of swords being drawn. “Do you doubt that?”
He shuffled back a step, finally seeing the truth in her face. She was not a lady. She was a dragon, and this whole country would know it before the end.
“If you fail?” the old man asked.
“Then you are no worse off than you are now. Your boyar will come crawling back. They always manage. But if I succeed—and I will succeed—I will remember you. Do you understand?”
The men nodded, some more grudgingly than others. The old man grinned toothlessly. “I think you are mad. But I will not say no to this offer.” He bowed to her.
Lada looked over their heads toward the horizon. The effect was rather ruined by one of Toma’s men riding up. “My lord says you can make camp behind the manor. You may join them for dinner, if you wish to.”
Lada did not wish to. She gritted her teeth and nodded anyway.
AS MAY PASSED ITS zenith and began slipp
ing toward June, no end to the siege was in sight. The weariness with which Radu wandered through the days was broken only by scarlet bursts of horror. Everything else about that time was dirty—the dust, the clouds, his soul.
After the night in the forge, he had again done his best to avoid Cyprian. Nazira had few useful contacts left; Helen’s disgrace at being associated with poor impaled Coco left her a pariah, and Nazira was swept along in that wake. Most of her time was spent trying to find food and delivering it to those in need. Radu never asked what the latter accomplished. He understood the need to extend kindness even as the very act devoured the soul with guilt. He understood the desire for penance, as well.
When Radu made it home to sleep, he and Nazira lay in the bed, not touching, not talking. Side by side, and alone together. The only thing Radu was certain of anymore in the sea of endless smoke was that Nazira would make it out alive. Everything else was negotiable.
On May nineteenth, the bells of the city jangled out their now-familiar call to the wall. Panic! they said. Death! they said. Destruction! they said. They were no longer instruments of worship, only proclaimers of doom.
Radu trudged past the Hagia Sophia. A sharp tug on his shirt startled him. He turned to find Amal. “I do not have anything for him,” Radu said.
Amal shook his head. “He has a message for you.”
Radu’s weary heart stepped up its pace. Mehmed! His Mehmed. “Yes?”
“He says to stay away from the walls today. Find somewhere else to be.”
Radu did not know whether to laugh in delight or cry in relief. Mehmed remembered him—and cared whether or not he was safe. “Why?”
Amal shrugged. “That is the message.”
“Tell him thank you. Tell him—” Tell him I miss him. Tell him I wish things could go back to how they were. Tell him I am terrified they never can. Tell him even if they could, I do not know if I will ever be satisfied with it again. “Tell him my thoughts and prayers are with him.”