Now I Rise

by Kiersten White

  Mehmed gave the boys into the care of his guards, promising he would see them again when they had gotten some rest, safe and sound in a real bed. Radu went back to the edge of the roof. Already dawn was approaching. The hours here moved all wrong—some crawling by and lasting days, others slipping like water through his fingers.

  Mehmed joined him again.

  “Will they really be safe?” Radu asked.

  “Why would you ask me that?” Mehmed replied, his tone troubled.

  “That was not an answer.”

  “Of course they will be safe. I will make them part of my household. They will be given the finest tutors and raised to be part of my empire. This is my city now, and they are part of my city. I never wanted to destroy Constantinople, or anything in it.”

  “We cannot always get what we want.”

  Side by side but further from Mehmed than he had ever been, Radu watched as the sun rose on the broken city. He shifted to look at Mehmed. Rather than pride, a slow expression of despair crept across Mehmed’s beloved features. What he had sought for so long as the jewel of his empire was finally laid out before him in all its crumbling, dying glory. Even without the looting, the city was devastated, and had been for generations.

  Perhaps, looking out over it, Mehmed saw what the beginning of his legacy would eventually lead to. Whatever Mehmed did, whatever he built, the greatest city in the world was irrefutable evidence that all things died.

  “I thought this would feel different,” Mehmed said, melancholy shaping his words like a song. He leaned against Radu, finally giving him the contact he had craved for so long.

  “So did I,” Radu whispered.

  After a single day of looting, rather than the traditional three, Mehmed declared an end. He kicked all the soldiers out of the city, banishing them to the camp to go over their spoils and leave what remained of the city unmolested. The camp itself swelled to accommodate the nearly forty thousand citizens taken captive to be ransomed or sold as slaves.

  Most of the churches had been protected by the guards Mehmed sent in, and all the fires that had been set were already extinguished. Mehmed himself had killed a soldier found tearing up the marble tiles of the Hagia Sophia. Then he had brought in his own holy men, and the jewel of the Orthodox religion was gently and respectfully converted into a mosque.

  Orhan had died fighting in his tower, as had all the men who attempted to hold out. One other tower had fought so long and so determinedly, though, that Mehmed visited and granted the soldiers there safe passage out of the city.

  Two communities within Constantinople survived without harm. One was a fortified city within the city that had negotiated its own terms of surrender; the other, the tiny Jewish sector. Mehmed met with the leaders there and asked them to write to their relatives in Spain and invite all the Jewish refugees to relocate and settle their own quarter of the city. He even offered to help them build new synagogues.

  Once the soldiers were back at the camp, word was sent throughout the city that anyone who had not been captured had full amnesty. Whether driven out by hope or starvation or simply exhaustion, slowly the survivors appeared.

  Mehmed vowed to build something better, and Radu knew that he would.

  He simply could not shake the cost of what it had taken to get there.

  In the days that followed, Radu wandered the streets in a daze, listening to Turkish in the place of Greek and finding he missed the latter. Over and over he returned to Cyprian’s house, but he could never bring himself to go inside. It would not be the same. He would never see Cyprian again, and Cyprian certainly would never want to see him again. Not now, not after what he had done.

  In a city filled with the dead, where tens of thousands now suffered horrible fates outside its walls, Radu knew it was horrendous to mourn the loss of his relationship with Cyprian. And yet he could not stop.

  Kumal found him sitting outside the Hagia Sophia. His old friend ran up to him, embracing him and crying for joy. Then he looked around. “Where is my sister?”

  Radu felt dead inside as he answered. “I do not know.”

  Kumal sat heavily next to Radu. “Is she…?”

  “I sent her from the city on a boat with a trusted friend. But whether they got out, and where they went if they did, I do not know.” He had inquired after the boat and received no concrete word of its fate. His only hope was that once news traveled that Constantinople was open to Christian refugees and Ottoman citizens alike, Nazira would return.

  “God will protect her.” Kumal took Radu’s hand and squeezed it. “We have fulfilled the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Her work in helping us will not be forgotten, nor go unrewarded by God.”

  “How can you say that? How can you be so sure of the rightness of this? Did you not see what it cost? Were you not at the same battles I was?”

  Kumal’s kind smile was sad. “I have faith because I must. At times like this, it is only through God that we can find comfort and meaning.”

  Radu shook his head. “I despair that my time here has cost me even that. I do not know how to live in a world where everyone is right and everyone is wrong. Constantine was a good man, and he was also a fool who threw away the lives of his people. I have loved Mehmed with everything I am since I was a child, and I have longed to enter this city triumphant with him. But now that we are here, I cannot look at him without hearing the cries of the dying, without seeing the blood on my hands. Nazira and I—we ate and dreamed and walked and bled with these people. And now they are gone, and my people are here, but I do not know who I am anymore.”

  Kumal said nothing, but he held Radu close as Radu cried.

  “Give yourself some time,” Kumal whispered. “All will come right in the end. All these experiences will lead you to new ways to serve God on earth.”

  Radu did not see how that was possible. He loved Kumal for trying to comfort and guide him, but he was no longer a lost little boy in a strange new city. Now he was a lost man in a broken old city, and no amount of prayers and kindness could undo what had been done.

  Two weeks after the city fell, Mehmed asked Radu to meet him in the palace. He had set up a temporary residence there, already beginning construction on what would be his grand palace. A home to rival all others, a refuge from the world.

  Radu passed a woman in the hallway.

  “Radu?”

  He blinked, focusing on her. “Urbana? I thought you were dead!”

  Half her face was shiny with new scars, but she smiled. “No. And I got the forges at Constantinople, after all. I won!”

  Radu tried to meet her happiness, but it was too large a task for him. “I am glad for you.”

  “You are welcome to help me any time you want.” She patted his arm, already distracted and doubtless planning her next cannon. Radu watched her walk away, glad she had survived.

  Then he saw two other familiar faces. Aron and Andrei Danesti. “Radu,” Andrei said. “I know you now.”

  Radu did not bother bowing or showing respect. He was too tired for pretense. “Yes.”

  “It is good to see you,” Aron said. “Will you take a meal with us later?”

  “Do you mean that, or do you want something from me?”

  Aron’s face and voice were soft. “Only the company of someone who speaks Wallachian and understands some of what we have been through these last months. And I want to apologize for our youth together. We were cruel. There is no excuse for that. It does my heart good, though, to see the man you have grown into. I would like to get to know you.”

  Radu thought he would like to know himself, too. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. Sighing, he nodded. “Send word when you want me to come.”

  Andrei nodded silently, and Aron clasped Radu’s hand. Then there was no one between Radu and the room that held Mehmed.

  “Ah, Radu!” Mehmed stood when Radu entered, embracing him. Radu noted that they were alone. No stool bearer, no guards.

  “What can I do
for you, my sultan?”

  Mehmed drew back, frowning. “Your sultan? Is that all I am to you?”

  Radu passed a hand over his eyes. “I do not know. Forgive me, Mehmed. I am tired, and I have been pretending for so long, I can no longer remember what I am supposed to be and whom I am supposed to be it for.”

  Mehmed took Radu’s hand and led him to sit in his own chair. “Well, that is part of what we are doing today. I know who you are, and you need a new title to reflect it. How do you feel about Radu Pasha?” Mehmed grinned. He was making it official that Radu was someone important in the empire.

  Before he could think better of it, Radu answered, “I thought I was known as Radu the Handsome.”

  In the shadow that passed over Mehmed’s face and the way he immediately looked away, it was confirmed. Mehmed had known about the rumors. He had known, and he had said nothing to Radu.

  “Is that why you sent me away? To kill the whispers about us?”

  “No! I never sent you away. You were always close to me. Every day I looked at the city and trained my thoughts on you, wishing you well and worrying for you. I am so sorry that your time in the city was terrible. Soon it will be as a dream.”

  “It was not all terrible,” Radu said. Something in the way Mehmed’s expression shifted to deliberate casualness made his next question anything but innocent.

  “The ambassador, you mean? He quite liked you. I could see it at Edirne.”

  Radu realized with a sickening lurch of his stomach that Mehmed was dancing around a question, trying to determine whether or not Radu cared for Cyprian in the same way. Which meant that Mehmed knew Radu had the feelings for men that he was supposed to have for women.

  Which meant Mehmed could not possibly be unaware of the feelings Radu had nurtured for him all these years.

  Shame welled up in him, but a new feeling came, too. Radu felt…used. If Mehmed had known all this time, but had never acknowledged it, not even to gently tell Radu it was impossible…Nazira had said Mehmed would never fail to pursue an advantage. And having a friend so deeply in love with him that the friend would do anything in his service was certainly useful to any leader.

  But even now, as angry and hurt as he was, Radu could not look on Mehmed’s face without love. He was still Mehmed, Radu’s Mehmed, his oldest friend. And in spite of everything, Radu would not give him up. Radu had made his choice. He had chosen to save Mehmed at the expense of an entire city.

  Mehmed smiled, and it was the sun. Nazira was right. Mehmed was both more and less than a man. He was the greatest leader of generations, he was brilliant, he was a man other men would follow to their deaths.

  And because of that, just like Constantine, he was a man who would leave death in his wake as he built greatness around himself.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Mehmed said, his eyes dancing.

  Radu had one last dark spike of hope that finally, finally he could have what he wanted. They were reunited. The city was Mehmed’s, and Radu had given it to him. They both knew how Radu felt. Maybe if Radu could have Mehmed, he could forget everything it took to get there. The same way Mehmed could forget what it took to get Constantinople, now that he had it.

  Radu leaned forward. Mehmed turned, clapping his hands together. A guard opened the door. “Bring him in!” Mehmed said, his tone and expression gleeful.

  Halil Vizier entered the room, the hems of his robes betraying the trembling of his knees. He bowed deeply. “How can I serve you, my sultan?”

  “Not merely sultan anymore. Caesar of Rome. Emperor. The Hand of God on Earth.”

  Halil bowed deeper. “All this and more is your right.”

  Mehmed winked at Radu, then began pacing in circles around Halil, prowling like a cat. “You asked how you can serve me. I have an idea. I would like a member of your family for my harem.”

  Halil straightened, swallowing so hard Radu heard it. Even now Radu could see the wheels turning in the man’s head. He nodded eagerly. “I have two daughters, both lovely, and—”

  “No,” Mehmed said, holding up a hand. “Not that harem. The other one.”

  Halil turned pale. “I do not understand.”

  “Yes, you do. My other harem. The one you were so fond of telling people I had. The one that would ask for sons instead of daughters. I heard all about that harem. Didn’t you, too, Radu?”

  Radu had so long nurtured a hatred of the detestable man now visibly shaking in the middle of the room. He had devoted so much time to defeating him, had played a game in which Halil was the spider and Radu the valiant friend protecting Mehmed from the spider’s web. But now, seeing Halil finally fall, Radu felt neither pleasure nor triumph.

  “Halil Vizier,” Mehmed said, not waiting for an answer from Radu, “you have worked against me from the beginning. I sentence you to death for your crimes. I will grant you this one kindness: you may choose whether your family dies before you, or whether they watch you die before dying themselves.”

  Halil hung his head, then lifted it, his eyes staring straight ahead. “Please kill them first so they have less time to be afraid.”

  Mehmed nodded in approval. “A noble choice.” He gestured and the guards moved forward, taking Halil away. Mehmed watched until the door closed, and then he spun around, robes and cape flaring. “One more enemy defeated! Your reputation is restored, Radu Pasha!” He beamed with pride, waiting for Radu to thank him.

  “No,” Radu said.

  “What do you mean?” Mehmed’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at Radu as though looking upon a stranger. And perhaps he was. Radu was not the same person Mehmed had sent into the city.

  “Do not kill his family. They should not be held accountable for his guilt.” Radu knew Halil’s second son, Salih. Had used him. Had taken advantage of Salih’s attraction to him to get what he needed. He looked at the floor in deepest shame. He was no better than Mehmed in this matter.

  “But if I kill Halil, his family will be against me.”

  “Send them away. Banish them. Strip them of their titles and forbid anyone in power to marry into that family. But if you do this for me, spare them.”

  “If that is what pleases you,” Mehmed said, waving his hand with a puzzled expression. He spared their lives as easily as he had condemned them.

  Radu bowed to hide his expression of sorrow. Sorrow for Halil’s family. Sorrow for Constantine and Constantinople. Sorrow for the person he had left behind when he crossed the wall for the first time. Sorrow for leaving Lada to pursue her own fate, while he stayed with someone who saw it as a gift to protect Radu’s “reputation” against the truth of his actual affections.

  Mehmed put his hand on Radu’s head, like a benediction. Then with one finger under Radu’s chin, Mehmed lifted Radu’s face to look searchingly in his eyes.

  “Do you still believe in me?” he asked, suddenly the boy at the fountain again. His brown eyes were warm and alive, the cold distance of the sultan gone.

  “I do,” Radu answered. “I always will.” It was the truth. He knew Mehmed would build something truly amazing. He knew that Constantinople needed to fall for Mehmed to hold on to his empire. He knew that Mehmed was the greatest sultan his people had ever known. But, like his love for Mehmed, it was no longer simple.

  Radu had seen what it took to be great, and he never again wanted to be part of something bigger than himself.

  “LET ME HANDLE ANY talk of the prince,” Toma Basarab said. He eyed Lada critically.

  Lada had dressed for battle. Over her black tunic and trousers, she wore chain mail. It rippled down her body, the weight familiar and comforting. At her waist, she buckled the sword she had ripped free from the wall. On her wrists, she slid knives into her cuffs. The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.

  She shuddered. She was not her father. She would not become him.

  Her only concession to finery was a bloodred hat in the style of the courts. In the center of it, she pinned a glittering star, with a single fea
ther sticking up from it. Her comet. Her omen. Her symbol.

  Her country.

  “Do you have a dress?” Toma asked.

  She did not answer him, so he continued. “They will demand reparations, and of course we will make them. Every Danesti boyar will be at this meal. It may be overwhelming for you. I will handle everything.”

  “I do not need you to do that.”

  He smiled and set his dry, warm hand on hers. Lada pulled her hand away. “I have also had word from Matthias. He is very pleased with your success. The king of Hungary has taken ill, and Matthias has stepped in to make all decisions.”

  Lada felt a small stab of guilt. She had promised Ulrich that the boy would have a quick and painless death. Another promise broken.

  “I am drafting our letter to the sultan right now. We feel it is best to continue in the vassalage—appraising Matthias of any developments or troop movements.”

  “Continue in our vassalage? I have no intentions of paying anything to Mehmed, or anyone else.”

  “Oh, that will not work. We already owe money to the throne of Hungary and several Transylvanian governors. They will expect to collect soon.”

  “Do you have debts to them?” Lada raised an eyebrow. “You keep saying ‘we,’ but I have no debts to those countries.”

  “I believe you burned a church and slaughtered sheep? If you want good relations with our neighbors, we must make amends. Just like tonight is for making amends to the Danesti families.” Toma opened the door. “Come, they should be eating now. We cannot keep them waiting.”

  Toma insisted a show of wealth was as necessary as a show of strength, and so the food they served was finer than any Lada had swallowed since Edirne. Finer than any her starving people ate. She resented every mouthful she imagined going into the boyars’ privileged bellies. The smells of roasted meat and sour wine assailed her as she walked into the room. Somehow Toma had managed to enter before her.

  The massive table, lined with Danesti boyars, stretched from one end of the room to the other.