Now I Rise

by Kiersten White

  Radu pulled on his boots. They were caked with dust from the walls. “The bombardment is going better, but there have been no gaps big enough for a full-scale assault yet. Mehmed sends skirmishing troops to harass the forces and make certain no one is able to rest. I wonder if we can do anything more.”

  Nazira sat next to him on the bed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It is wearisome work, for both souls and bodies. If you want to leave, I will be at your side. But do you feel that if we fled the city and joined the camp, we would be able to say we had done everything we could? I know you will not be satisfied with anything less. Nor will Mehmed.”

  Radu sighed, running his hands through his hair and pulling it back at the base of his neck. He missed wearing turbans. They kept his hair out of his face and provided protection from the sun. There was something soothing, too, in wrapping one around and around his head in the morning. All his comforting rituals were taken from him here.

  “You are right. We will stay.”

  Nazira patted his hand. “But I did hear something that will make you happy. Word is spreading that the Ottoman navy is approaching, with doom in its terrible wake. Our friend Suleiman will be here soon, and maybe that will signal a quick end.”

  Radu allowed himself a weary smile tinged with hope. It would do his soul good to see those boats. And it would not even hurt that he was not on them, because the sea was the one place he wanted to be even less than on the wall.

  “I have been looking everywhere for you!” Cyprian said, joining Radu at the wall overlooking the Golden Horn. Radu had avoided Cyprian ever since that night they fought side by side. It was easier this way. Though he still caught himself watching the men for Cyprian’s way of walking, with shoulders leading, arms swinging wide.

  “You leave so early and are never there at mealtimes. I miss you.” Cyprian looked out over the water and tugged at the cloak around his neck. “Nazira is good company, but it is not the same without you.”

  It had been three days since Nazira brought news of the approaching fleet. Every spare moment Radu had, he spent at this wall looking for the ships.

  Today, his long wait was answered. He wished Cyprian were not here, were not leaning close. It made it so much more difficult to be truly elated. The massive chain held, an impassable barrier stretching between Constantinople and Galata. In the horn, Constantine’s ships loomed, ready to repel any attempt at destroying the chain. They were Venetian merchant ships, mostly, far taller and wider than the swift Ottoman war galleys. They were also armed to the teeth and well practiced in repelling pirates.

  On the other side of the chain, just outside of firing range, Radu’s fleet made the water look like a forest of masts. His heart swelled with pride to see it, and he shifted guiltily away from Cyprian. The fleet had arrived the day before, but this had been his first chance to come and see it in person. He wondered which boat Suleiman was on, wished he could see the admiral in full command of the finest navy in the world.

  Cyprian looked on, devastation marring his face. “So many more than we had planned for. You were right, as always. Where did they find sailors?”

  “Greek mercenaries, mostly.”

  “We will be our own undoing yet.”

  Radu hoped that was true, but still wanted to extend some comfort to Cyprian. It was an impulse he could not deny, and he thought again how this would all have been easier had Cyprian abandoned them to their fortunes once they had reached the city. His insistence on friendship made everything tight and aching in Radu’s chest.

  Radu again opted for truth as a way to avoid lying. “But the Ottomans cannot get past the chain.”

  “And neither can anyone else. Which means we are cut off from help. Men, weapons, supplies—nothing more is coming. What we have now is what we will have at the end, whatever that may be.”

  “Still, the seawalls are safe. Even if the Ottomans get past the chain, launching an assault from this side is nearly impossible. The sultan knows that. He means to press from all sides to wear you down. But you will not have to spare too many extra men to guard this wall. The Lycus River is his avenue in.”

  Cyprian considered Radu wryly. “You still think more like an attacker than a defender.”

  Radu blushed, his sheepish expression unfeigned. “I spent many years looking at maps over Mehmed’s shoulder.”

  “What is he like? As a person, not as a sultan.”

  “This past year the sultan and the person have become inseparable.” As Radu had seen Mehmed grow into himself and his power, he had also seen Mehmed grow further away. He was both proud and dismayed. “Before that? Focused. Driven. He had a burning intensity that did not slacken no matter what area of his life he directed it toward. He saw something unobtainable, and that was the only thing he wanted.”

  “Like you?” Cyprian’s tone was soft and without accusation. It was merely curious, as though he was trying to fill in parts to a story he had heard only a few passages of.

  Radu shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the water. The skies were leaden above them, making the sea the same color as Cyprian’s eyes. But the sea was safer to look at. “No, it was the other Draculesti sibling who was the challenge.”

  “Your sister? She was part of his harem?”

  “No.” Radu grinned ruefully, finally looking at his companion. “That was precisely the problem. She was not, and she never would be, and so he wanted her more than anything else.”

  “What happened?”

  “She left.”

  “She should not have left you.”

  “I wanted her to. I pushed her toward it. I thought that if she was gone, Mehmed would finally see—” Radu bit off the end of the sentence. It was so easy to talk to Cyprian. Too easy. He should not be admitting these things, not to him, not to anyone.

  Cyprian filled in the rest of the sentence for him. “But Mehmed could only see the things he did not have. He is blind.”

  Radu cleared his throat and looked away. “Well. She left me, and she left him, too. And because of that, I think he will always love her. Or at least want her. He cannot abide failure.”

  “She was his Constantinople.”

  Radu smiled, having entertained the same thought before. But it was not quite right. “I am afraid Constantinople is his Constantinople. Nothing could ever overtake this city in his heart.”

  A shout from the tower next to them drew their attention back to the water. The Ottoman ships had broken formation and were turning away from the chain. Radu could not understand why, until he saw four huge merchant ships, barreling through the water toward the horn.

  And directly toward the Ottoman navy.

  “Those are Italian ships!” Cyprian said, leaning out over the wall. “They are making a run for the horn!”

  The ships safely in the horn edged closer to the chain, uselessly firing cannons at the Ottoman fleet. They were too far away to make a difference. Radu could almost feel the desperation from here. Everyone could see the Italian ships, but no one could help them.

  “It is four ships against more than a hundred. They will never make it through.”

  Cyprian smiled grimly. “Do not discount them. They are born on the water. If the wind stays with them, if luck is on our side…” Cyprian’s lips moved silently, whether in prayer or something else, Radu did not know.

  Together they watched the battle play out from above. Radu did not even have to pretend to be emotionally invested in the other side—he could look on with the same intensity as everyone else, and no one would know his hopes were with the Ottoman navy.

  It did not look promising. He had assumed the numbers would give them the advantage, but the tall, heavy merchant ships cut through the water as though it were nothing. The smaller galleys struggled to navigate the choppy sea, their inexperience showing immediately. They fired cannons at the Italian ships, but no cannons large enough to be effective could be placed on the lightweight galleys.

  The four ships barreled st
raight through the middle of the entire might of the Ottoman navy.

  Cyprian cheered with the crowd that had gathered on the wall. Excited chatter around them made it feel more like a sporting event than a battle. Radu was devastated to see that it was not anything like a battle after all. His navy was useless.

  Then he realized the wind was no longer flinging sea air in his face. Everything had gone still around them—and around the merchant ships. As fast as they had been slicing through the water, they now drifted directionless.

  And the galleys had oars.

  Suleiman wasted no time. The larger galleys pulled in close, the smaller galleys edging between them to get right next to the merchant ships. With no wind, the ships were at the mercy of the water—which was causing them to drift, slowly but surely, across the horn to the Galata shore, where Mehmed already had men waiting.

  But the Italian sailors would not go down easily. They lashed the four ships together to prevent them from being separated and picked off. So many of the Ottoman vessels had converged it looked like a sailor could walk from one end of the sea to the other without ever touching water.

  The first small galleys to reach the merchant ships never had a chance at boarding. Large stones and barrels of water were dropped by the on-deck loading cranes, damaging some of the galleys and sinking others. The sounds of the battle—the snapping of wood, the shattering of stone, and the clash of steel against steel—rang through the horn.

  And always, a sound Radu heard even in his sleep, the screams of men. There was a quality of voice, some subtle shift, that allowed him even at this distance to pick out which screams were screams of killing, and which were those of dying.

  When the Ottomans managed to throw ropes up, the ropes were cut down. Hands were sliced off when they tried to find purchase. Burning pitch was thrown, and Radu watched as men fell into the water to be extinguished or onto their own boats, lighting them on fire with their bodies.

  The Italians had the advantage of height and weight, but the Ottomans kept coming. For every galley sunk, two more pushed into its place. It was exhausting to watch. The sun, too hot for once, had shifted overhead, marking the endless passage of time. The crowd around Radu and Cyprian had gone quiet except for the occasional prayer or gasping sob. Though the Italians fought bravely, the outcome was inevitable. They drifted ever closer to the shore, where the Ottoman cannons would take them out if the galleys did not manage to first. It was only a matter of time.

  Radu closed his eyes in relief as a breeze cut through the sun battering his face. And then he opened his eyes in horror. A breeze from the south that turned into a stiff wind. A ragged cheer went up along the wall as the Italian ships’ sails caught. They plowed through the galleys around them, pushing them aside like branches, moving forward as one. Their escape was unavoidable, unassailable.

  Radu looked to the Galata shore and his heart sank. There, astride a beautiful white horse, a tiny figure watched as his navy—more than a hundred ships, the best in the world—was bested by four merchant boats.

  Radu’s project. Radu’s navy. He hung his head with shame. Against all odds, they had failed. Mehmed’s horse reared, then he turned it and rode swiftly away. All along the wall the citizens cheered and jeered, ebullient with the miracle of the Italian boats. The chain had been slipped free to allow them through. No galleys could catch up to take advantage before the chain was closed again.

  It was over.

  For once, Radu was invited to a meeting with the emperor. But this one he wished he could avoid. The humiliation of his navy’s defeat settled in his chest like a sickness. It was a kindness, then, that he was not with Mehmed. He could not bear to think of what Mehmed would say, how disappointed he would be. He had trusted this task to Radu, and Radu had failed utterly.

  Though Radu knew he should not, he took some small comfort in Cyprian’s coming with him. He was unmoored, worn down by time and failure. At least with Cyprian he would have to pretend to be okay. That was a good reason. That was the only reason. He would not allow any other reasons to crave Cyprian’s smile or a touch of his hand.

  In Constantine’s meeting room, Radu and Cyprian joined Giustiniani, the pretend Ottoman heir Orhan, the Italian commander Coco (whom Radu knew only through Nazira’s stories of the unfortunate Helen), and the emperor. Constantine moved with more lightness than Radu had seen. He was again barefoot, pacing with joyful energy. “Grain, arms, manpower. Two hundred archers! But that is not the true strength. They have brought us hope. More can come. More will come. That wind was the hand of God, delivering a blessing to this city. The first of many.”

  Coco nodded, unable to avoid Constantine’s infectious joy. “One good Italian ship is worth a hundred infidel boats.”

  Giustiniani laughed, clapping Orhan on the back. “So you see, we Italians can do good things. I hear the sultan is furious. The admiral will pay for his failure.”

  “Suleiman?” Radu spoke before he thought better of it. He tried to shift his face into impassivity, but it was impossible. “I knew him. Is he— Will he be killed?” A gentle hand on his back startled him, but he did not turn around. Had Radu’s grief been that obvious to Cyprian?

  “He lost an eye in the battle. That alone probably saved him, as testament to how hard he fought.” Giustiniani snorted. “For all the good it did him. Our scouts report he was flogged and stripped of all rank and authority. One of the pashas is in charge of the boats now. Not that it matters. We have nothing to fear from the sea.”

  “But do the Venetians know that?” Cyprian asked. “They must have heard of the size of the Ottoman navy. How can we get word to them that they are guaranteed safe passage to the horn?”

  Radu wished desperately that Lada were here. She would not be sad; she would not let this failure derail her. She would figure out a way to turn it to her advantage. She would use the enemies’ strength and confidence against them. Just as she had when they snuck into the palace under Halil Pasha’s nose, putting Mehmed in place to take the throne when his father died.

  A flicker of delight lit Radu’s soul as he remembered that night, all Lada’s fierce Janissaries dressed in veils and silk robes, trying to walk like women so they could sneak past the watching guard. And then he knew exactly what Lada would do.

  “Do you have any Ottoman flags?” he asked.

  Everyone turned to him, puzzled. Orhan, a quiet, delicate man who wore a turban along with his Byzantine styles, nodded. “I have a supply of them.”

  “What about uniforms?”

  Constantine spoke. “We have over two hundred prisoners. They have no use of their uniforms in our dungeons.”

  “Send out three boats tonight under cover of darkness. Small, unthreatening ones. I will teach their crews a few common greetings in Turkish. Have them fly the Ottoman flag and sail as close to the Ottoman galleys as they can.”

  “Slip by in disguise.” Constantine tugged at his beard thoughtfully.

  “Three small boats could get out where one large ship cannot. Task them with finding the aid we need, and then they can return, heralding the ships that will follow so we can be prepared to welcome them.”

  Giustiniani stretched in his chair, leaning back. “It is a good plan. Coco, select the men. They leave tonight.”

  The Italian captain nodded. Orhan excused himself to get the flags, and Giustiniani went to find suitable uniforms.

  “Well done.” Cyprian beamed at Radu.

  Radu could not meet that smile full on, so he looked at the floor. He would not have time to send word to Mehmed. He did not need to, though. He wanted the boats to escape. Because if they could escape, they could return.

  And when they did, Radu would have first warning of a Venetian force. Then he could warn Mehmed, and find some sort of redemption.

  THIS TIME, STEFAN DID not return alone from scouting. He walked with a peculiar guilt, slinking back into camp with a girl.

  “What is this?” Lada barely glanced at the girl. “
You were supposed to bring information on Silviu’s land and men.” Toma Basarab had sent them here first. Silviu did not have much in the way of soldiers, but he was a Danesti and in the path of all their future goals. They could not leave a close blood relative of the prince behind. Lada was to negotiate his support. If that was not possible, she was to place him under house arrest and leave precious men here to watch him. Toma Basarab would hear no arguments against it.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  Stefan shrugged, clearing his throat at the same time, as though he could force the words out. Lada had never seen him like this. Fear seized her—was he injured? She looked him up and down, but he did not appear harmed.

  His face flushed a deep red. “She caught me.”

  Lada finally looked at the girl. She was Lada’s height, perhaps younger than her, but not by much. She met Lada’s stare with a bold, unflinching one of her own. Her narrow jaw was set and her dark eyes burned. Rough cloth wrapped her hair, and her clothes seemed made for someone else. They hung all wrong on her body, loose in the shoulders and pulled tight across her stomach, which—

  “Oh,” Lada said, frowning.

  The girl’s hands jerked instinctively in front of her pregnant belly. Then she deliberately moved them away. “Caught your man spying. Told him I would turn him in unless he brought me here.”

  Lada raised her eyebrows at Stefan. He shrank farther into his cloak. No one ever noticed him. He drifted invisibly, a weary traveler no one wanted. That was his entire purpose.

  “Well.” Lada turned her attention back to the girl. “Here you are. What do you want?”

  “You are that woman, right? I thought you would be taller. And older. You are very young.”

  Lada gave her a heavy look. “I assume there are many women in this country. You will have to be more specific.”

  “I heard rumors. You are staying with Toma Basarab. Took in men for soldiers. Peasants talk.”

  Lada shifted uneasily. Thanks to Toma’s men—both his trained soldiers and the farmers they had conscripted—her ranks had swelled to over one hundred men. The peasants were poorly trained and poorly fed, but they had a gritty eagerness that could not be undervalued. And they did not eat much, which was good.