Siege

by Jack Hight

  'Not much of a contest, I'm afraid,' Paolo said. Then, as if aware that his words might cause offence, he added in a conciliatory tone: 'Still, it should be over quickly. The boy won't suffer.' Longo ignored him.

  'Are you ready for your lesson, cur?' Carlo spoke sharply in Italian.

  'Go to hell, you son of a Turkish whore,' William spat back in English.

  'Very well, then.' Carlo bowed and assumed his fighting stance, his body sideways, his right foot forward and pointed at William, and his sword held lightly, following the point of his foot. William dropped to a low crouch, his entire body facing Carlo, his sword held out sideways before him. The two combatants stood still, gauging one another.

  Paolo chuckled. 'The boy looks something like a lobster, does he not?' he said. Longo watched on in silence, and Paolo added: 'I mean no offence, of course. I quite like lobsters. Delicious creatures.'

  Suddenly, Carlo sprang forward, bounding towards William in a few short steps and lunging at the boy's chest. William anticipated the attack, and he spun out of the way long before Carlo reached him, slashing in vain at Carlo's heels and then skipping to safety. Carlo continued to press the attack, lunging repeatedly with wicked thrusts. Each time, William spun clear, moving in a large circle around the square. Their fighting styles could not have been more different: Carlo always attacking on a line, moving back and forward only, while William moved constantly sideways, spinning and ducking. William was quicker than Carlo, but he was having a difficult time attacking against the Italian's much longer reach.

  Beside Longo, Paolo sensed that the fight would not go as easily as anticipated. 'The boy is a slippery devil,' he remarked. 'No doubt learned it picking pockets.'

  Another attack by Carlo, and this time William only narrowly avoided the blow, the sword ripping through the fabric of his shirt. Encouraged, Carlo pressed his attack, trying to close with William. William was on his heels now, no longer circling. He backed away, twisting from side to side and barely avoiding a handful of thrusts. His shirt showed several new tears, and now blood was trickling down his side. Still, William danced backwards, and Carlo pressed on, lunging again and again, his sword passing within inches of William's twisting body.

  A final lunge, and this time William was a step slow. He twisted into the blow, and the sword skewered his left side, just beneath the ribs. William stumbled, but before Carlo could withdraw his sword for another blow, William rose and drove his sword up through Carlo's throat and out the back of his head. Carlo fell instantly, a pool of blood spreading out around his dead body. William staggered backwards, Carlo's sword still lodged in his side. He looked down at the sword for a moment, then collapsed to his knees.

  'William!' Longo rushed to the boy's side. To his surprise, the wound did not look to be a mortal one. It bled little, and the sword seemed to have passed through cleanly, damaging neither the lungs nor the intestines. 'You were lucky, boy,' Longo told him. 'But this sword will have to come out now. Brace yourself.'

  'It wasn't luck, My Lord,' William replied, gasping as Longo withdrew the sword. 'I couldn't get close enough unless I took a blow. The pig-faced bastard had damned long arms.'

  Longo laid William down, and then poured a flask of brandy into the wound. He tore two lengths of cloth from William's new shirt, wadded the first into a ball, and pressed it against the wound. 'Hold that,' he ordered. Longo pressed the other strip against the wound in William's back. He then took a long strip of linen that he had brought with him and wrapped it tightly around William's mid-section several times, covering the wound.

  'That should hold you for now, but we had best get you inside,' Longo said. 'The cold won't do you any good, and neither will the Grimaldi men. The duel was honourably fought, but they'll be in a foul mood when they arrive. Paolo,' he called to the heavy-set young man, who was kneeling in shock over his brother's body. 'I trust this puts a satisfactory end to this disagreement? There will be no acts of vengeance?' Paolo gazed at him dumbly. 'Very well then,' Longo continued, 'I suggest you send for some of your men as soon as you can. The dogs will be at the body soon enough if you wait.'

  They left the stupefied Paolo still kneeling beside Carlo. Longo helped William into the saddle, then mounted behind him. They rode back to the Palazzo dei Giustiniani, the bells of San Salvatore ringing out behind them to welcome the new day. The next morning it was clear from the sickening smell of the bandages that William's wound was festering, and later that day the boy contracted a raging fever that left him incoherent, talking to those around him as if he were at home in England with his mother. A doctor was summoned, and he bled William to reduce his bad humours and relieve the fever. Still, the boy continued to burn, and none of the doctor's efforts succeeded in relieving the delirium. Two days passed with no sign of improvement, after which the doctor offered only the direst of forecasts: even if he survived, the doctor assured them, the boy would be an idiot, all his wits burned away by the fever.

  Longo could not bear to watch William wasting away. Leaving Tristo with orders to alert him of any change in the boy's condition, he returned to his villa and busied himself with the tending of his vines. The very night of his return there was a frost, and Longo and his serfs spent a busy night lighting pots filled with pitch all along the rows of vines, fighting to keep the killing chill from the young leaves. The next morning, as Longo walked his vineyards to inspect the damage, he was surprised to see Tristo on horseback, galloping down from the villa to meet him.

  As Tristo came closer, Longo could see that the huge man was struggling to stay upright in the saddle, and that he favoured his right arm, keeping it pinned to his side. What in God's name had happened to him?

  'My Lord,' Tristo said with a wince as he reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. 'I bring news from town.' Tristo's right arm was in a sling, and blood showed through a heavy bandage wrapped around his head.

  'What has happened?' Longo asked.

  'There was a fight with some of the Grimaldi men. I only happened across it at the last, and I set about trying to separate the men. I had my arm broken by the mace of one of our own men — the cursed idiot — and got a nasty gash on my head for my troubles. Still, the rest had it much worse. Gucio and Piero are killed. Four others are laid up with various injuries. One Grimaldi man is dead, and the rest are pretty badly off.'

  The news was not surprising — duels started more feuds than they ended — but it was not welcome either. The Grimaldi were a powerful family, and Longo did not fancy having them as an enemy. Much less did he fancy watching his back each time he rode through the streets of Genoa, or sending his servants to market with armed escort. He would have to act fast. Now that men on both sides had lost friends, the matter needed only a small push — the death of another noble from one of the two families — to evolve into a blood feud.

  'Who started the fight?' Longo asked.

  'Our men had been to the dock, and most likely to the tavern as well. On returning, they met six Grimaldi men in the street. Probably they were waiting for our men. Insults were exchanged, a Grimaldi man drew, and that was that. From what our men tell me, the Grimaldi men seem bent on revenge for what William did to Carlo. They seem to think the boy is some kind of assassin.'

  'And what of William?' Longo asked.

  'The same. Only he stopped talking last night. Hasn't said a word since. Loretta, the midwife, says that is a good sign. She says the fever will break now.'

  'And what does the doctor say?'

  'The doctor says that this is the beginning of the end. The no-good bastard seems to think that William is as good as dead.'

  'Then we shall have to hope that the midwife is in the right,' Longo said. 'You will stay here at the villa until you are healed. Have Maria look after you. I will return to Genoa to see to William and take care of this Grimaldi mess.' Shortly after Longo's arrival, William's fever finally broke, and the boy woke from his long delirium with his senses intact. Longo watched him consume enough pasta to fe
ed ten men, and then left for the Grimaldi palazzo to make his peace.

  Despite the hostility between the families, Longo was greeted politely and presented immediately to Niccolo Grimaldi — the father of the recently deceased Carlo and the head of the family. The elder Grimaldi was a small man. Despite his sixty years, his lean, tan face was hardly wrinkled, though his hair was a wild mix of grey and black, like the ash from recently burned wood. He was seated on a balcony overlooking the courtyard, drinking a thick black liquid that Longo recognized as coffee, an eastern delicacy. Grimaldi motioned for Longo to sit. Once the formalities were ended, Grimaldi moved right to the point.

  'You have come to make peace between our families,' he said. 'I am an old man. I treasure peace, but it is hard-bought after so much blood.'

  'Surely more blood is not the answer,' Longo replied. 'I am a warrior, Signor Grimaldi. I have fought more battles than most men have seen years. I do not fear bloodshed, but I have no quarrel with your family, nor with you. Your son was killed fairly, honourably. Let that be an end to it.'

  Grimaldi nodded and took a long sip of coffee before he spoke again. 'No doubt you are right. Still, I have lost a son, Signor Giustiniani. Nothing can replace him. Nothing can repay that loss. But perhaps if I were to find a new son, then I could forgive. By joining our families, we might end this bloodshed. You are not married, I recollect?' Longo nodded. 'Very well, shall I introduce my daughter, Julia?'

  'I would be delighted,' Longo replied. Julia was ushered in and introduced, a shy girl of twelve. It was clear that she had been preparing for this meeting from the moment Longo entered the courtyard, for she was dressed in her very best — a flowing gown of white silk embroidered with interlacing red roses — and her hair was braided with ribbons and twisted into an intricate knot atop her head. She was thin and still flat-chested, but she had delicate features and looked likely to grow into a beautiful woman. She curtsied, blushed demurely as Longo complimented her fine dress, and was dismissed.

  'She is fertile, no doubt, like her mother,' Grimaldi said. 'And a beauty as well, yes?'

  'Indeed, signor,' Longo replied.

  'Good. Then you do not object to marrying her?'

  Longo paused. As his chamberlain Nicolo often reminded him, none of Longo's properties would be secure until he produced an heir. Julia was young, fertile and certainly attractive enough. A female touch would be welcome in his household, not to mention in his bed. Most importantly, the marriage would transform the budding feud into an alliance with a powerful family. Longo's feelings were beside the point. It was his duty to marry Julia Grimaldi. 'You honour me, Signor Grimaldi,' Longo said at last. 'I would be overjoyed to marry your daughter.'

  'Very well,' Grimaldi said, rising. 'Let me embrace you as my new son. But I am not one of these Turks, you understand, to send my daughter away so young. I trust you will not object to a delay in the marriage until she is more of a woman?'

  'I am very much of your mind on the matter, signor. I would be happy to wait.'

  'Then it is settled,' Grimaldi said, returning to his coffee. 'We shall work out the details in time. I thank you for your visit, Signor Giustiniani.'

  'And I for you kindness, Signor Grimaldi,' Longo replied. He bowed and left.

  So I am to be married, he reflected as a servant led him back to his horse. Nicolo, at the very least, would be overjoyed.

  Chapter 5

  MARCH TO JUNE 1449: CONSTANTINOPLE

  Sofia, dressed in a tight-waisted, rust-red caftan with billowing sleeves, followed Constantine, Helena and the other members of the royal family into the great hall of the Blachernae Palace. Constantine had arrived in Constantinople the previous day, and a great feast had been prepared to celebrate his new reign. Sofia passed between long tables heaped with roasted meats, candied fruits and still-steaming bread. Nobles lined the tables, their gold-and jewel-embroidered caftans lending some splendour to an otherwise rather shabby scene. The imperial family had been desperate for money for decades, and the golden plates, goblets and candelabra that once graced the tables of the palace had long since been melted down for coin. Simple pewter plates and wooden cups now adorned the tables, and while candles burned on the emperor's table, the rest of the hall was lit by torches set in the walls.

  Sofia was surprised to find herself seated at the emperor's table between Lucas Notaras and the dull but very talkative Grand Logothete, George Metochites. As a woman, it was not Sofia's place to speak unless directly questioned, and so she listened politely to Metochites, stifling yawns while he alternated between his two favourite subjects — the glories of his learned great-grandfather Theodore Metochites, and the dangers of union with the Catholic Church. All the time he managed to eat at a fascinating rate, far outpacing the constant stream of dishes, and shortly a trail of half-chewed food began to form, leading down his shirt and under the table. Oblivious, Metochites prated on and on.

  'Did you know that my great-grandfather was something of a scholar?' Metochites asked in a dull monotone. He continued without waiting for an answer. 'Oh yes, he was. Quite the scholar. His studies of Aristotle and of astronomy are simply marvellous. Astronomy is certainly superior to mathematics. Most certainly superior, epistemologically speaking, for astronomy assumes the proper functioning of mathematics, does it not? Even without our understanding of the golden mean or arcs or circles, the sun would still travel around the earth. Of course, our Latin friends don't think so. To them, the sun revolves solely around the pope, with never so much as a nod to any bishops or councils. Did you know that they use unleavened bread in their communion? They might as well be Jews…'

  Sofia had already met her other dinner companion, Notaras, on several occasions. She found him arrogant, very handsome, and very aware of it. He spent the meal locked in conversation with the royal councillor Sphrantzes and hardly glanced at Sofia. From what she could gather, they were arguing over the possibility of union with the Catholic Church. Only near the end of the meal, after his conversation with Sphrantzes had ended in frustration, did Notaras finally turn to her.

  'The damn fool,' Notaras muttered. 'He would have us go begging cap in hand to the Latins.' He glanced at Sofia as if noticing her for the first time, and his gaze lingered. 'I understand that you know something of politics, Princess. Tell me, what do you think of this talk of union?'

  Sofia lowered her eyes. 'I am sure that I could tell you little you do not already know,' she replied. She might study politics and philosophy in the privacy of her quarters, but she knew her public limits well enough.

  Notaras's eyes narrowed. 'Sphrantzes has told me that you are not so modest behind closed doors. Come now, Princess. You may speak freely.'

  'Very well,' Sofia said, raising her eyes to meet Notaras's gaze. 'When help is there, I believe that one should take it. And, I believe that it is not piety that makes us spurn such help, but pride.'

  'Hear, hear! Well said,' Sphrantzes cried from down the table. Notaras ignored him.

  'Perhaps you are right, Princess,' he said, his voice rising. 'Perhaps it is pride that motivates me. But I am not ashamed to say that I am too proud to submit to the rule of the pope; just as I am too proud to see our patriarch dethroned, or to see Latin soldiers walking our walls in place of their rightful defenders. I am proud, Princess, and I hope to God that all the men of this city are just as proud.'

  'Your pride will count for very little if the city falls, if our homes and churches are looted and our women raped,' Sofia replied, rather more loudly than she had intended. Around her, the table had gone quiet as people turned to listen, but Sofia continued regardless. 'I do not see the honour in sacrificing an entire city to your finer feelings.'

  'You are a woman,' Notaras snorted. 'You could hardly understand such things as honour, could you?'

  'It seems you understand little else,' Sofia murmured.

  'What was that?'

  'I said you are right. I do not understand the honour of which you speak.'

&nbs
p; 'That is enough, Princess,' Constantine called from the centre of the table. 'We are not here to bicker, but to celebrate. Come, let us all drink to the continued glory and prosperity of our empire.' He quaffed his glass, and the rest of the guests followed suit. A long round of toasts followed: to Constantine; to the empire; and to continued peace and friendship between the Turks and Constantinople. When the toasting was done, Constantine left the table, signalling that the feast was over. Sofia left her place without even a glance at Notaras. She hurried from the great hall and was surprised to find Constantine waiting for her in the corridor.

  'Niece,' he said. 'Come here. What did you think of the megadux, Lucas Notaras? A fine man, is he not?'

  'Yes, sire,' she replied, although in truth she thought him a prideful buffoon. She could not, however, contradict the emperor. 'He is a very fine man, certainly.'

  'Good,' Constantine said, smiling. 'Perhaps you shall not believe it, but it would pain me to upset you. I am very glad you enjoy Notaras's company, for he has agreed to marry you. He will be your husband before the year is through.'

  Sofia felt suddenly sick. She put her hand to her stomach and lowered her head, breathing deep as she struggled to control her shock and disappointment. 'Yes, sire,' she managed to say in a dead voice. 'I am overjoyed.' She bowed and hurried away before Constantine could see the tears in her eyes. 'On guard!' Sofia cried and lashed out with her sword, swinging for the head of Dalmata, the head of the imperial guard and her fencing instructor. Dalmata gave ground, and Sofia pressed her attack, driving him across the floor of her apartments. Dalmata was much larger than Sofia, but she compensated with exceptional quickness and lightning reflexes. She swung high, then sidestepped a blow from Dalmata before swinging down hard and giving him a cruel rap on the knuckles of his sword hand. The blow stung, despite the leather glove that Dalmata wore and the dulled blade of the practice sword. Dalmata cursed and dropped his sword.