The men had only just finished placing the barrels when a stone ball came sailing out from the blackness. Radu did not have time to hold his breath as he watched it smash directly into the makeshift wall.
The loose materials held by the skins absorbed the cannonball’s impact, and the ball rolled harmlessly to the ground.
The men around them cheered. Many dropped to their knees in prayer. Cyprian whooped joyfully, throwing his arms around Radu in a hug. Radu cringed at the pain in his shoulder, and at the shout of joy that had escaped his own lips before he realized he was cheering for the wrong side.
The next five days brought no rest, no change. The cannons fired, the sound of stone shattering stone so constant Radu stopped noticing it. The acrid scent of smoke was everywhere. When he came home to sleep for a few hours, Nazira made him dump water over his hair outside to try to rinse some of it away.
But as soon as sleep claimed him, the noise from the wall would jar him awake. He stopped trying to go home, instead slumping in the shadow of the inner wall for a few minutes of rest. The hours blurred, only the sun or the moon marking the passage of time. Even those were so obscured by smoke that they were hardly visible.
In addition to the ceaseless bombardment, Ottoman troops threw themselves against the walls at random. They used hooks to pull down the barrels of earth protecting the defenders. The Ottomans were packed so tightly that a single shot of a small cannon could kill several, yet still they came.
That was the part Radu wished he could block out, the acts that made him certain he could never wash the scent of the wall from his soul. Because he had to be on this side, and he had to play his part. And so, when the Ottoman soldiers—his brothers—ran up to try to retrieve the bodies of their compatriots, he sat on top of the wall with the enemy and picked them off one by one.
The first time he hit a man, he turned and vomited. But soon even his body was numb to the horror of what he was doing. That felt worse. With each shot he prayed he missed, and with each hit he prayed the walls would fall soon and spare them all.
On the sixth day of the bombardment, an explosion cracked through the air, echoing off the walls. It was notable only because it had not come from the walls—it had come from the Ottoman camp.
Radu ran to the top of the wall, leaning over. Black smoke billowed from the bank of earth that hid the Basilica. The location of the cannon had been identified on the first day, but Giustiniani had not been able to destroy it. They had not needed to, apparently.
Even from this distance the devastation was obvious. The gun must have finally succumbed to the heat and pressure of so many firings and exploded. Radu wiped furiously at his face, his hands leaving more grit than they cleared away. He had no doubt that Urbana had accompanied Mehmed to take care of her precious artillery. Had her greatest triumph been her end?
An exhausted and ragged cheer rose around him, but this time he could not even pretend to join in. The Basilica was gone. The wall still held. And his friend was more than likely dead.
Cyprian found him sitting with his back to the barrels, staring blankly at the city on the hill. How much more would this damnable city cost them all before the end?
“Come. Giustiniani is at the Lycus River Valley section of the wall. He is guaranteed to have some food worth eating.” Cyprian led Radu down the line to the Italian. He ate the offered food in numb silence as the sun set, realizing too late that he had not even remembered to pray in his heart.
“You should go rest,” Giustiniani said, his tired smile kind. “We have had a victory today, through no merit of our own. But we will take it.”
Radu felt as though he could sleep for years. That was what he wanted. To fall asleep and wake up with the city already the Ottoman capital, everything changed and settled and peaceful once more. Because he still believed Constantinople should be and would be Mehmed’s. The Prophet, peace be upon him, had declared it.
But Radu did not want to see anything more that happened before the city fell.
That was when a rhythmic pounding broke through the smoke-dimmed quiet of the night air. It was followed by the clashing of cymbals and the calls of pipes. Finally, the screams of men joined the chorus, a chilling cacophony promising death. The hair on Radu’s arms stood. He had been on the other end of this tactic before, at Kruje, exhilarated to join with his brothers in a wall of noise.
He had never been on the receiving end. He understood now why it was so effective, to hear what was coming and be unable to flee. Flares bloomed to life in the valley beneath them. With a wave of noise, thousands of men surged forward to crash against the wall.
Radu followed Giustiniani’s screamed commands. Men raced from other sections of the wall to help. Radu fired arrow after arrow, switching to a crossbow when his injured shoulder became too much.
Still the Ottomans came.
Where they breached the wall, Giustiniani was waiting. At some places the bodies were piled so high they formed steps nearly to the top. Ottomans scrambled on top of Ottomans, clawing their way to the death that waited for them. And then their bodies became stepping-stones for the men behind them.
Everything was smoke and darkness, screaming and drums, blood and fire. Radu stared in a daze. How could these be men? How could this be real?
“Radu!” Cyprian shouted. He grabbed Radu’s arm, spinning him out of range of a sword. Several Ottomans had breached the wall next to him. Radu wanted to tell them they were not enemies. But their blades were raised, and so Radu met them. Cyprian pressed his back to Radu’s. A sword flashed toward Cyprian. Not Cyprian was Radu’s only thought as he hacked off the arm holding the sword. It was then that he finally saw the face of the man. He looked at Radu, all rage draining away. He looked like Petru, that stupid Janissary Lada kept around. He could have been, had Lada not taken them to Wallachia. Then the man tipped off the edge of the wall and fell into the darkness.
Radu did not have time to think, to feel, because there was another sword and another arm. These were his brothers, but in the chaos and the fury, it did not matter. It was kill or be killed, and Radu killed.
And killed.
And killed.
Finally, the attack that had started like a wave receded like one, quietly fading back into the night. Giustiniani limped past Radu and Cyprian. “Burn the battering rams. Let them gather their dead.”
Radu did not know how long it had lasted, or what it had cost them, but it was over. He did not realize he was crying until Cyprian embraced him, holding him close. “It is done. We did it. The wall stands.”
Whether Radu was crying in relief or despair, he was too tired to know. He had had no choice—had he? He had kept Cyprian alive, and he had stayed alive. But it did not feel like a victory. Together, they stumbled from the wall and into the city, collapsing in the shadow of a church and falling into a sleep not even the angry increase of bombardment could disturb.
When Radu awoke, his head was resting against Cyprian’s shoulder. A deep sense of well-being and relief flooded him. They had done it. They had made it.
And then horror chased away the relief. He had fought at this man’s side, rejoiced in their survival, knowing full well that every Byzantine who survived was one more Mehmed had to fight to win. Knowing that every day the walls held, more of his Muslim brothers died.
Where was his heart? Where was his loyalty?
Radu staggered away from the still-sleeping Cyprian. He wandered, dazed and in mourning, once again finding himself at the Hagia Sophia. A small boy was curled into himself, asleep at the base of the building. Invisible in the midst of so much darkness.
Radu walked over to Amal, his steps heavy. He leaned down and shook the boy awake.
“Tell Mehmed he is firing the cannons wrong.”
LADA RAN TO MEET the solitary form of Stefan making his unhurried way through the canyon toward them. He had shaved. Facial hair had helped him blend in at the castle in Hunedoara, but out here where only landed men could have be
ards, a bare face made him more invisible.
“No gossip precedes us,” he said. “We should make camp this afternoon, and travel the rest of the way in the morning.”
Lada sighed. “I would set up camp with the devil right now if it meant getting out of the cold.”
“I believe the devil quite likes flames.”
Lada started, narrowing her eyes. “Stefan, did you make a joke? I did not think you knew how.”
His face betrayed no emotion. “I have many skills.”
Lada laughed. “That, I already knew.”
The path they took followed the Arges River, retracing the route Lada had taken with her father so many summers ago. This time Bogdan rode at her side instead of in the back with the servants. And Radu was lost to her, as was her father and any tenderness she might have held for him.
Radu would survive. He would be fine. He could not die at the walls of Constantinople, because he belonged to her and she would not allow it. Just like Wallachia belonged to her and she would not allow anyone else to have it.
“Why do you keep looking up at that peak?” Nicolae asked, following her line of sight. “You are making me nervous. Do you expect an attack?”
Lada glared. “No.”
She had considered slipping out and making her way toward the ruins of the fortress on the peak. She wanted to stand at its edge to greet the dawn and feel the warmth of her true mother, Wallachia, greeting her and blessing her.
But the too-recent encounter with her other mother pulled at her, tearing at the edges of her certainty. What if she remembered the fortress wrong? What if she climbed up and the sun did not come out? What if it did, but it felt the same as any other sunrise?
She could not risk tainting that precious memory. She clutched the locket around her neck, the one Radu had given her to replace her old leather pouch. Inside were the dusty remains of an evergreen sprig and a flower from these same mountains. She had carried them with her as talismans through the lands of her enemies. Now she was home, and still in the land of her enemies.
She would climb that peak one day, soon. When it was all hers. She would come back, and she would rebuild the fortress to honor Wallachia.
They paused at the peak’s base, refilling their canteens and watering the horses. Lada dismounted. She scrambled through a jumble of dark gray boulders, following a trickle of water that met the stream. Hidden behind the rocks was a cave. She ducked inside, where the frigid temperature dropped even lower. She could not see far, so she felt along the rough edges of the cave. But then something changed under her fingers. These were too smooth, no longer the natural shape of rocks. Someone had carved this out of the mountain. Which meant it was not a cave.
It was a secret passage.
Lada pushed forward blindly until she hit the end. There were no other tunnels, no branches. Why make a passage that led nowhere? Had someone been cutting to the heart of the mountain just like Ferhat in the old story, only to find that mountains have no hearts?
A drop of water fell on her head and she tipped her chin up. She shouted. The sound echoed upward, disappearing into the noise of frantic bats disturbed in their slumber. Lada flinched, but none came down toward her.
Which meant there was another way for them to escape. She felt the wall again until she found handholds carved into the stone. There was only one place this tunnel could lead: straight to her ruined fortress. Which meant it was a secret escape, a way to be free when all other ways were closed.
Wallachia always found a way.
Though it was spring—bitterly cold, but still spring—Lada saw more fallow fields than ones ready for planting. The land they traveled through had an air of stagnation.
Finally they reached farmland that was being used. Decrepit hovels with smoke rising from their chimneys dotted the edges of fields. On the horizon, the Basarab manor soared, two stories and large enough to house all the peasants in all the hovels they had passed. Lada and her men made no attempt to hide their approach. Matthias had promised to send notice. If he had betrayed them, they were going to have to fight regardless.
A child sat on the side of the road. His head was too big for his rail-thin body, which was visible through his rags. It was too cold to be out in anything less than a cloak. He watched them approach, listless.
Nicolae paused in front of him. “Where is your mother?”
The boy blinked dully.
“Your father?”
When there was no response, Nicolae held out a hand. “Come with me,” he said. The boy stood, and Nicolae easily lifted him onto his horse.
“He is probably crawling with bugs,” Petru said, frowning. “Leave him be.”
Nicolae gave Petru a dangerous look, all his good humor gone. “If being infested disqualified someone from our company, you would have been out years ago.”
Petru sat straighter in his saddle, hand going to the pommel of his sword. “I tire of being the butt of your jokes.”
“If you do not want to be the butt, try to be less of an ass.”
Petru’s expression turned ferocious. Lada moved her horse between them. “If Nicolae wants to pick up strays, that is his choice.”
Bogdan, next to Lada as always, nodded toward their party. “We are doing a lot of that.” Behind the mounted men, straggling back for half a league, a weary but determined group of people was catching up.
In addition to her thirty remaining Janissaries, Lada had picked up more than two dozen young Wallachian men from her time in Transylvania and Hungary. They carried staffs, pitchforks, clubs. One had a rusty scythe. None of them had horses, but they marched in as near a formation as they could manage. Lada knew those men. But behind them were the fringes of the camp—women organized by Oana to run things, men too old to fall in easily with the eager young ones, even a man and his daughters who had followed them from Arges rather than take the dangerous roads alone.
“This is absurd,” Lada said. “Why do they stay with us?” Her men, she understood. They had nothing better, nowhere else to go. They were loyal to her, and to the hope that perhaps she would find them a place in the world. They were soldiers, too, used to travel and hardship. But these people, they…
They had nothing better, nowhere else to go. They were loyal to her, and to the hope that perhaps she would find them a place in the world, too.
An hour later Lada sat in a pleasantly furnished room, drinking hot wine, and warm for the first time since her mother’s stifling sitting room. Bogdan was on one side, Nicolae the other. Petru and Stefan stood at the door, casually intimidating. Against the opposite wall, Toma Basarab’s guards stood with snide confidence.
“The letter I received from Matthias Corvinas was…interesting.” Toma Basarab’s hair and beard were silver. He wore velvet and silk as dark as his wine, his buttons shining silver beacons that matched his hair.
“I want to be prince,” Lada said.
Toma Basarab laughed, his mirth as bright as his buttons. “Why would you want that?”
“Our princes fail Wallachia. They are too busy appealing to foreign powers, pandering to boyars, desperately going over their own coffers. Meanwhile our country rots around them. I will change that.”
Toma leaned back, tapping his fingers on his glass. “The system is what it is. It has worked for this long.”
“Worked for whom?”
“I know you have big dreams, little Draculesti. But Wallachia is as Wallachia was and will ever be. What can you offer it?”
Lada understood immediately his true question was “What can you offer me?” She wished Radu were here. He would have this old fox eating out of his hand. Lada fixed a cold glare on him. “Your mistake is in thinking I care one whit about offering anything. The system is broken. I am going to change it.”
“People who agitate for change end up dead.”
Lada bared her teeth at him in a smile. “We will see who is dead at the end of all this.”
Toma smiled, a slow spread of his mout
h and ending with his dark eyes. “I think I see what you have to offer, then. Matthias was right to send you here. You have much potential. I will advise you. There are many boyars I can sweep into your support. A few will need…aggressive persuasion. But I suspect you excel at that. Under my guidance, you will get your throne in Tirgoviste. I would be proud to be at your side, serving a Draculesti prince.” He held out his hands in offering, the fire in the hearth burning behind him.
Lada remembered her joke about making camp with the devil, and a sudden revulsion seized her. She did not want to have his help, or anyone’s. But she needed it.
“Thank you.” The words grated against her teeth like sand.
“My men will show yours where they can stay. Let us take a meal while we discuss the surrounding regions. Many of these boyars have done simply horrendous things to their people.” He clucked his tongue in pity, but his eyes looked like they were tallying encouraging financial ledgers as he considered Lada.
RADU’S INFORMATION HAD LED to more successful cannon fire, and he paid the price. Every day he watched as the adjusted bombardment targeted the walls with more devastation, and every day he stumbled home, exhausted from trying to fix the holes. His aid to Mehmed put his own life in constant danger. Did Mehmed worry about that? Was he sorry?
Nazira’s work was equally exhausting, but in other ways. “Helen cries constantly,” she said in the morning, the only time they saw each other. “I have to spend half our time reassuring her that Coco, the Italian captain she is mistress to, really does love her and that when this is all over he will leave his wife in Venice for her. It is all I can do not to slap her and tell her she is wasting her life. The other women mostly spend their time in church praying. And when they are not there, they are complaining of how hard it is to get food and how they had to donate their tapestries to the walls. How is your work?”
Now I Rise Page 22