He went to the wall near the Romanus Gate, sliding among the men as though he had been there all night. He made certain to say a few words to some of them, taking a place in their memories. Although he faced out toward the Ottomans, all his thoughts were focused on the horn at his back and the city between them.
The bells began ringing an hour before dawn. Radu acted as surprised as everyone, looking up and down the wall as though he, too, suspected the attack was on this side.
As soon as relief came, Radu joined the other men heading to the seawall. Brief flashes of cannon fire illuminated the end of a battle. A small galley burned. Radu’s stomach dropped. But as the galley drifted slowly in the water, its flames revealed one of the big merchant ships half sunk and listing heavily. The merchant ship dragged itself away, flanked by two others.
“What happened?” Radu asked a guard on the wall. “Did they try an attack?”
The man shook his head. “We did. Somehow they knew we were coming, started firing before our ships had gotten close enough to surprise them. They sank one of our small ships.”
Radu could have laughed with relief. Mehmed would know now that Radu still had use. The Italians would not risk another attack on the galleys, not after this. The Golden Horn was effectively neutralized.
Dawn broke, illuminating the remains of the battle. Though several galleys smoked, there were no significant losses on the Ottoman side. Radu saw more masts than should have been in the water though.
And then he realized they were not masts. The wooden poles reaching up to the sky to greet the dawn were stakes. And on each of them, slowly revealed as the light touched them, an Italian sailor was impaled. In the middle, on the highest stake, Radu recognized Coco himself.
On the hill above them, surrounded by Janissaries, a white-turbaned figure in a purple cloak sat on a horse.
Radu could not understand the scene in front of him. The Ottomans had won! They had decisively defeated the sneak attack. There was no reason for this, none, except to torment the city. It felt needless.
It felt…cruel.
Troubled, Radu watched the bodies as though his vigil could bring them peace. Or bring him peace. This seemed less like war and more like murder. And it was all because of him.
A commotion farther down the wall finally drew his attention away from the stakes. He leaned out just in time to see the first battered Ottoman prisoner dropped over the side. A length of rope secured around the prisoner’s neck went taut, and the body swung limply.
Before Radu could shout, another prisoner had been hanged. And then another. And then another. He watched in horror as Ottoman prisoners were dropped like decorations, a tapestry of terror along the wall in response to the brutality across the horn.
Unable to stand it, he ran toward the hanging men. Someone had to end this. These soldiers would be held accountable for such cruelty to prisoners.
He stopped, though, when he saw the line of Ottoman prisoners waiting their turn. They were on their knees, some praying, some weeping, some too bloody and broken to do either. And standing behind them, staring out as tall and still as a pillar directly across from Mehmed, was Constantine.
Radu had been wrong. There were no good men in this city.
And there were no good men outside of it, either.
LADA EMERGED FROM HER tent to find her fire already lit and a pot of water boiling. She had forced Oana to stay behind to help run their base at Toma’s estate, in part because she trusted Oana to do it well, and in part because she did not want anyone fussing over her wretched hair. Since then, Lada had not woken to a fire.
“What are you doing?” Lada asked Daciana.
Daciana pointed to the pot. “Your options are weak pine tea or weak pine tea. You really need better provisions.”
“You know what I meant.” Lada sat, taking a cup of blisteringly hot pine tea. It was weak, as promised. “I am not riding through the country, charitably adopting all those who want to join my merry band. I am taking men who can fight. Besides, it is important that the land be tended to.”
“Why do you care so much about the land?”
“Because it is mine. I have no desire to be prince of a country with no crops. People need to eat.”
Daciana laughed. “You will be prince, then?”
Lada did not share her mirth. “There is no other title. I will be vaivode, prince of Wallachia. And I will make the land into the country my people deserve.”
Daciana eased herself down, moving awkwardly with her swollen belly. “Very well, then. You take the men for soldiers and you leave the women to plant so that we do not all starve. And what will you do with the boyars?”
As though summoned, a letter from Toma Basarab was delivered at that moment by a smooth-faced boy.
Lada read the letter with a scowl. Nicolae sat next to her, trying to read over her shoulder. “What does he say?”
“He disagrees with my negotiating tactics.” Her temper bubbled hotter than the tea. “And he says he is joining us to make certain I do not negotiate like that with any more boyars.”
She threw the letter to the ground, standing and pacing. “Who is he to tell me what to do? You saw Silviu! You saw his land, what he was doing. Was I not right?”
Nicolae read over the letter with a resigned expression. “I am not saying you were not right. But…perhaps more thought and care should be taken with future boyars.”
“Why?” Daciana said.
“We need them.”
Lada snorted. “We need them? No one needs them. They are maggots, feeding on my land and doing nothing for it!”
Nicolae wore a long-suffering expression. “They are necessary for organization. They collect taxes. They run the farmlands. They muster troops from the men living in their provinces.”
Lada leaned forward. “Tell me, Nicolae. Does it look like they are doing a good job?”
Nicolae smiled. “The roads are impassable with thieves. The fields are fallow or untended. The boyars are fat and wealthy while the people starve. The prince has no military support unless they decide to give it—which they never do. But the fact remains, that is how the country runs. Figure out how to use them better. Control them better. But you cannot get to the throne without them.”
Lada sat in disgust. “Why not?”
“You are already using Toma Basarab. Trust that he knows what he is doing.”
“I do not trust him at all.”
Nicolae rubbed his scar. “Did you think he could just hand you the throne? You need allies. You need the boyars. You cannot skip past them, and to get them, you need him.” Nicolae put an arm around Lada, drawing her close. “Make a deal with the devil until you are both over the bridge.”
“Am I the devil, or are they?”
Nicolae laughed again, but he did not answer.
Bogdan sat on Lada’s other side. His eyes lingered on Nicolae’s arm around her shoulder. He offered her the inside of his bread. It was the softest part, her favorite. He took the crusts without expecting thanks. He simply did it, as he did everything for her. As he always had.
It sparked an idea.
“What if I take land—if I give the land to the people who deserve it, like Daciana’s mother? I get their loyalty. The boyars claim things based on centuries of blood. The land is theirs by birthright. So I take it from those who oppose us. I give it to people whose vision for Wallachia matches my own. They have nothing to claim other than my favor, and they owe all allegiance to me.” She met Bogdan’s approving stare and offered him a smile. He ducked his head, a pleased flush spreading across his cheeks.
“You cannot kill all the boyars.” Nicolae helped himself to some tea.
“Oh?”
Nicolae looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes. “They did not ask for their birthright. They have done nothing to you, and you have no guarantee that they ever will. I do not think you were wrong to kill that last pig, but slaughtering every noble in the country will have repercussions even
you cannot handle.” When Lada did not respond, he threw his hands up in exasperation, spilling his tea. “They are related to nobility in other countries. You will draw too much attention and too much ire. Someone will retaliate. Besides, they have families. They have influence. And they are people.”
Lada gazed into the flames, letting them fill her vision. “Of course. I will listen to Toma Basarab and accept allegiance from those who offer it. But no one keeps anything without meriting it. That goes for every Wallachian.” She blinked, spots of light dancing in front of her eyes. “Including you, Daciana. So I ask again: why are you here?”
“You have no lady’s maid.”
Nicolae snorted. “You are mistaken. Our Lada is no lady. She is a dragon.”
Bogdan growled low and angry in his throat. Lada laughed, patting Bogdan’s knee. Then she tossed a handful of dirt and dry evergreen needles at Nicolae. “No one asked for your opinion.”
“My opinions are gifts I distribute freely, asking neither permission nor payment.”
“Take your gifts elsewhere,” Bogdan grumbled.
Lada waved her hand. “Nicolae is right. I need no lady’s maid, because I am not a lady. I am a soldier.”
Daciana smiled, smug and self-satisfied. “Precisely. A soldier does not have time to wash her monthly courses from her clothes.”
Lada’s cheeks burned, and she looked at the ground rather than at Nicolae and Bogdan. Daciana’s stomach loomed in the edge of her vision. And then she had a thought.
A terrible thought.
Lada stood, nearly falling into the fire. She grabbed Daciana’s hand. “Come with me.” The girl yelped, struggling to her feet. Lada dragged her away from the camp and into the trees.
“Tell me about being with child. How did it happen? How long did it take until you knew there was a—” Lada swept her hand toward Daciana’s stomach, unable to tear her eyes away from it now. “How long until you knew that thing was in there?”
Daciana’s dark eyes betrayed no emotion. “When was your last bleeding?”
Lada turned her back, stalking several feet away. “I am not asking about that, I only want to know—”
“I am neither stupid nor a gossip. When was your last bleeding?”
“Weeks. Maybe eight? Or nine.” It had been before Hunyadi, when they were in the mountains of Transylvania. Her underclothes had frozen when she hung them to dry after washing.
“Do you bleed regularly?”
Lada shook her head. “No. Only a few times a year.”
“That is fortunate. I am—” Daciana paused, taking a deep breath. “I was so steady you could track the moon by my blood. And when did a man last know you?”
Lada whipped around, snarling, “No man knows me.”
Again, Daciana did not respond with any apparent emotion. “Your breasts would be tender and swelling already. You would be sick. Exhausted beyond anything you have ever known.”
Lada shook her head in relief, then realized she was confirming Daciana’s assumptions. Of course she was. She was a fool. Moving with Mehmed in the darkness, the feel of his skin, the feel of him inside her…
She closed her eyes, because she had worked so hard not to think of it. But as soon as she allowed the memories back in, she wanted to kill him. And she wanted to be with him again.
She did not know which impulse was stronger.
“My sister is like you.” Daciana spoke as though they were discussing the weather. “She bleeds rarely. She is one of the only ones who has never been with child, despite many visits from our boyar, may his soul be damned forever.” Daciana spat on the ground. “She was the lucky one. You will probably have similar fortunes.”
Lada swallowed down some of her fear. It tasted like blood and bile. Daciana turned to go back to camp.
“You may stay with me,” Lada said.
The girl smiled. “I know.”
“You can sleep in my tent, if it makes you feel safer.”
“That is very generous of you. I will be sharing Stefan’s tent soon, though.”
“You will?” She had never known Stefan to take up with a woman. Though, of all her men, he would be most likely to do it without being noticed.
Daciana’s smile grew into something sly and sharp. “He does not know it yet.”
Lada laughed, and then the two women walked back together. It was a pity no one had given Daciana a knife when she was a little girl. Lada suspected she was as formidable as any of the men in camp.
UNWILLING TO SPEND MORE time repairing the wall—a huge section of which had fallen the day before with losses on both sides but no real change—Radu visited Orhan’s tower, where all the Turks in the city were stationed. Here, at least, were Ottomans he did not have to kill.
Radu stopped to sit with the guard. He knew them all by sight, if not by name. They were outsiders here, committed to the city but never truly a part of it. Everyone viewed them with some measure of distrust.
“There is little food,” the guard, Ismael, complained. “And no coin to buy it with. Orhan does as well by us as he can, but it is not easy.”
Radu nodded. “The Venetians tried to flee yesterday. Giustiniani barely stopped them. Men are missing their shifts on the walls, staying in the city to try to find food for their families.”
“Such is the nature of a siege. Death from without, rot from within.” Ismael smiled ruefully. “We may yet make it out of this, though. Back to the way things were before. How I miss walking the streets and having mud thrown at me simply because I am Turkish. Now we cannot leave our tower for fear people will think we are the sultan’s men, inside the city.”
Radu leaned back, the crate he sat on groaning in protest. Something inside caught his eye—an Ottoman flag. The crate held the rest of the flags they had not used for their messenger boat deception. Now, sitting here, useless and abandoned. Radu felt a surge of solidarity with the flags.
“Why did you stay?” Radu asked. If Mehmed won, Orhan’s men were all dead. And even if Mehmed failed, they would still be pariahs in the city. Orhan would never be able to claim the Ottoman throne, not now that Mehmed had heirs. He was useless politically.
Ismael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Orhan is a good man. He has grown up as a pawn, but he never let it turn him cruel or bitter. I have not heard the same of the sultan.” He shrugged. “Either way, my fate was always at this city. Die inside the walls or against them. We chose to stay with a man we respect.”
A few weeks ago, Radu would have wanted to strike Ismael for accusing Mehmed of cruelty. Now every time Radu closed his eyes, he saw a forest of stakes bearing their monstrous fruit.
The two men looked up as a procession of horses trudged through the mud in front of them. In the middle was Constantine. His shoulders drooped and his head hung heavy. The day before it had been his presence at the walls that kept the defenders fighting long enough to repel the attack. But Radu could see he was cracking under the pressure.
Mud flew through the air, landing on the flank of Constantine’s horse. The soldiers at his side were immediately alert, looking for the assailant. Constantine sighed and shook his head.
“Heretic!” someone shouted from an alley. “Our children starve because you betrayed God!”
Constantine glanced to the side and saw Radu. He smiled ruefully. “Our children starve because the only silver left in the city belongs to God himself.”
Once the emperor’s procession had passed, Radu bid Ismael farewell. As he walked back to Cyprian’s house, he saw evidence of suffering everywhere. It was one thing to see men die on the walls, and another entirely to see their children sitting on stoops listless and dull-eyed with hunger. There was food in Galata, and they still traded during the day with Constantinople. But if no one had money, all the food in the world was still out of reach.
Constantine’s words trailed along in Radu’s wake, nagging at him. The only silver left in the city belongs to God himself. Radu could do nothing to force an end to th
e siege. But perhaps he could alleviate some suffering in the meantime. Suffering he had helped cause by destroying food. Perhaps he could still do some good for his own soul.
Cyprian and Nazira were both in the sitting room when Radu burst through the door, reenergized.
“What are you so pleased about?” Cyprian asked.
“There is silver in the churches, yes?”
Cyprian nodded. “The collection plates are all made of it.”
“And they are used to collect money for the poor. I think we should collect those plates to create money for the poor. Surely God would look kindly on such an endeavor.” Radu could not imagine either god—the Christian one or the true God—would frown upon charity, no matter to whom it was given. It was one of the pillars of Islam, after all. He had not felt this genuinely happy about anything since he had come to the city.
Cyprian shook his head. “My uncle cannot take anything from the churches, not with his reputation. They barely let him worship there as it is. If he began demanding holy silver, the city would riot.”
Radu smiled wickedly, holding out a hand to help Nazira up. “Your uncle will not demand anything, nor will he take it. I know my way around a foundry.”
Cyprian bit his lips, his gray eyes dancing in delight. “I know where they mint the royal coins. It has not been in operation much lately.”
“I know someone who is very adept at picking locks.”
Nazira laughed, grabbing a black shawl and draping it over her head. “And I know someone who will be cleaning the churches, should anyone happen upon our merry band of thieves.”
It was foolish, but it felt so good to be doing something other than fighting at the walls or hating himself. Radu practically skipped through the streets. Nazira was on one side, Cyprian on the other, and the night was as sweet as any he had known. They found a dim, unused church not far from Cyprian’s house.
Nazira held her bucket of supplies in plain view, tapping a foot impatiently as though she wanted to get on with her work. The bucket conveniently blocked any view of Radu’s lock picking. The door clicked open and they tiptoed inside. Radu loved churches best when they were dark. The lavish, sumptuous decorations were muted, the silence holier than any liturgy could be.
Now I Rise Page 25