Siege (26 page)

‘What do you want me to say?’ William asked her.

‘You know what I want.’

William swallowed hard. ‘Will you marry me?’

Portia turned, a smile lighting up her face, and threw herself upon William. ‘Yes,’ she whispered between kisses. ‘Yes, yes.’

The stable door creaked open and they both froze. ‘My father!’ Portia whispered. ‘He’ll kill us!’ She rolled off William and began to lace up her dress.

William crawled to the edge of the hayloft and peeked down. It was not Portia’s father. A man dressed in black stood in the shadowy light, a sword hanging from his waist. He was small with dark features. He looked up, and his eyes met William’s. William caught a flash of steel and a second later a dagger embedded itself in the wood of the loft just in front of William’s face. He scrambled back.

‘Stay here!’ he told Portia. He grabbed his sword and swung over the edge of the loft, dropping to the stable floor below. He rolled as he landed and sprang to his feet just in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his heart. His attacker lunged again, his movements quick and graceful, and William skipped away
backwards, stepping behind one of the wooden posts that held up the loft. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I am Carlos, and I am the last man you will ever meet,’ the man said in Italian with a heavy Spanish accent.

The man lunged past the post, forcing William back. He pressed the attack, and William gave ground as he struggled to parry the Spaniard’s lightning moves. William had received endless hours of sword lessons from Longo, but he was no match for this man. Carlos swung high, and as William ducked, Carlos’s knees came up to catch him in the chin. William stumbled backwards and his back slammed into the wall of the barn. He parried a blow from Carlos, and their swords locked, bringing them close together. Carlos head-butted William, stunning him, and then slashed across his sword arm. William dropped his sword. There was nowhere for him to retreat.

Carlos lunged, and his sword dug into the wall as William twisted out of the way. Then the Spaniard stumbled back cursing as something made of glass shattered against his head with a flash of light. William swung out, catching his adversary in the chin and dropping him. He looked up and could make out Portia standing in the loft. She had thrown the lamp at Carlos, but the burning oil had sprayed across the floor, and the trampled straw had caught flame. Chickens in their coops began to squawk and the cows snorted and rolled their eyes. The fire was spreading quickly, filling the barn with smoke. Flames began to run up the wall of the barn towards the loft.

‘Jump!’ William called to Portia. She leapt from the loft, and he caught her, falling as he did so. They scrambled to their feet and ran out leaving the prone form of Carlos behind.

William put his arm around Portia and pulled her close to him as they stood in the cold night, watching as the flames engulfed the building. Behind him, William heard the thunder of hooves and turned. It was Longo and Tristo. They reined in, and Longo leapt from the saddle. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Both of you?’

William nodded. ‘There was a man, Carlos. He tried to kill
me,’ William said. He pointed to the barn. ‘He’s in there.’ Just then, the roof of the burning structure gave way and collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the sky. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Paolo,’ Longo explained. ‘I fear we have not seen the end of this.’

A long wail of pain reached Longo where he stood at the low wall that surrounded his villa, waiting for the birth of his child. Julia’s birth pains had started the previous night, shortly after Longo had returned with Tristo and William. After hours of waiting, Longo had finally fled his quarters to the wall, where the cold rain was preferable to Julia’s terrible screaming.

The news of Paolo’s betrayal had upset her, and she had entered labour early. Longo was worried for her, but even more for the child she carried. Ever since his childhood, he had been tormented by dreams of the scar-faced Turk who had murdered his family, but now when he dreamt, he often dreamt of a son. He knew that his child might well be a girl, but in his dreams the child was always a boy. Longo would teach him to read or to ride, or they would fish or walk the vineyards together. The boy would have a good life, the life that Longo had not had.

A particularly loud, anguished cry from Julia drew Longo from his thoughts. And then there was silence, broken almost immediately by the loud bawling of an infant. A moment later, Tristo’s wife Maria and the midwife emerged from the villa. The midwife was covered in blood; she cradled a wailing infant in her arms. There were tears in her eyes.

‘What has happened? Is it a boy?’ Longo asked.

The midwife nodded, and showed Longo the bundle she held. It was a boy, with fine blond hair and Longo’s blue eyes. The child cried in the cold, and Longo took him and held him close.

‘Julia asked that he be called Carlo, after her brother,’ Maria said.

Longo nodded. ‘How is Julia?’

The midwife turned away, choking back tears. Maria placed her hand on Longo’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry. She died giving birth.’

Longo held his child closer as he turned away and looked out over the rows of pruned vines. He had not loved Julia, but he had grown fond of her, and he felt for his newborn child, who would never know his mother. Carlo was only a babe, and already his life was marked by loss.

‘We are in mourning,’ Longo said. ‘Cover all the mirrors and close up the shutters of the house. I will ride to town to inform her father.’

Longo rode into the Grimaldi
palazzo
and was shown immediately to Grimaldi’s private quarters. Grimaldi sat at a small table, drinking coffee. He rose when Longo entered. ‘If you have come about Paolo,’ Grimaldi began, ‘then I must again apologize for my son.’

‘It is not that,’ Longo told him. ‘Julia has given birth.’

Grimaldi’s face lit up. ‘A son?’

Longo nodded. ‘That is not all. She died in childbirth.’

Grimaldi sank back into his chair. ‘I see,’ he said, his head down. ‘I am sorry, Longo. She was a lovely child.’

‘She was,’ Longo agreed. He sat across from Grimaldi. ‘I have a request to ask of you.’

‘What is it?’ Grimaldi asked, looking up.

‘I want you to take my son. His name is Carlo.’ Grimaldi’s eyes went wide. ‘I have no reason to remain in Genoa,’ Longo explained. ‘Julia is dead, and I fear there will be more bloodshed between our families if I stay. I am leaving for my lands on Chios. The East is no place for a child. Our merchants returning from Constantinople say that the sultan is preparing for war, building castles and forging cannons. He will strike soon, if not this year then the next. Carlo will be better off here.’

‘You are sure of this?’ Grimaldi asked. ‘You are his father.’

Longo looked away, fighting to keep tears from his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I will do what is best for my child. The boy has already lost his mother. He should not have to watch his father die as well.’

Grimaldi nodded. ‘I will raise him as my own son, signor.’

‘Thank you,’ Longo said. ‘I will return for him once the war is over. If I die …’

‘I will see to it that he inherits your lands,’ Grimaldi promised. Longo nodded his thanks. ‘When do you leave?’ Grimaldi asked.

‘After the funeral,’ Longo said. ‘As soon as my household is in order.’

Longo scanned the horizon as he paced the deck of
la Fortuna
, which swayed gently beside the pier, riding low with the ebbing morning tide. All was ready for departure. The ships were loaded, and Longo’s men were all aboard with him or on a sister ship,
la Speranza
. A few wives had joined them, including, to Tristo’s chagrin, his wife Maria. Nicolo was on
la Fortuna
, complaining already of seasickness. The one person who was not yet on board was William. The night before he had gone to bid farewell to Portia. Longo half hoped that he would stay with her. William had grown into a capable young man, and Longo had come to rely on him. But if William stayed in Italy, he could have a better life than that of a soldier. He would be wise to choose love over revenge.

The sun was only minutes from cresting the distant hills. Soon the tide would set against them, trapping them in the harbour. It was time to depart, William or no. Tristo had been standing at the crosstrees, watching the horizon for William, and now he slid down a backstay and on to the deck. ‘We can wait a bit longer, I think,’ Tristo said.

‘No.’ Longo turned from the shore to face the sea. ‘We should be underway before we miss our tide. Give the orders to cast off and make sail.’

The orders were given, and
la Fortuna
drifted away from the dock and slowly gathered way. They were gliding towards the centre of the harbor, followed by
la Speranza
, when the lookout caught sight of a horse charging into the dockyard. He hailed the deck, and Longo turned to look. Two people dismounted, and
an argument ensued with a group of sailors on the dock. Finally, a boat shoved off with the two riders in it, rowed by four sailors. Longo ordered the sails slackened, and the boat quickly gained on them. William was one of the passengers sitting in the stern. The other was cloaked against the spray, and Longo could not make him out.

Within minutes the boat pulled alongside
la Fortuna
. William clambered aboard first. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said.

Tristo laughed and engulfed him in a hug. ‘Nonsense. We’re just glad you made it.’

‘We are indeed,’ Longo said, taking William’s hand.

‘I still have a score to settle with the Turks,’ William said. ‘When the war comes, I will be there.’ He withdrew his hand and turned to help the other passenger into the boat. ‘And now, the reason for my tardy arrival. May I present my fiancée, Portia Fiori.’ Portia stepped on to the deck and pushed back the hood of her cloak, freeing her hair to stream in the gusting wind. A few low whistles of appreciation were heard from the hands on deck. Portia blushed.

Longo bowed. ‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘you are most welcome aboard my ship.’ Portia blushed an even deeper shade of crimson and curtsied. ‘William, show her to her quarters. She can sleep with Maria and the other women. Tristo, give the order to make all sail. Let’s take advantage of what little tide remains while we can.’

The ship moved ahead once more, and Longo walked aft to stand at the rail. The sun finally crept over the mountains, transforming the sea into molten gold. The wind teased his hair, and Longo breathed deeply of the tangy ocean air. For the first time since Julia’s death, he permitted himself to smile. Love and revenge. There was, Longo supposed, room in the world for both after all.

Part II

Chapter 13

SUNDAY 1 APRIL TO THURSDAY 12 APRIL 1453,
CONSTANTINOPLE: DAYS 1 TO 12 OF THE SIEGE

S
ofia prayed silently as she knelt on the stone floor of the Haghia Sofia. It was Easter but the great church was not even half full. Ever since Union had been declared the previous December, the Haghia Sofia had been avoided by the populace. Few had come today to listen to the mass performed by the official papal delegate, Archbishop Leonard. Sofia was not listening either. In her late-night snooping about the palace, she had heard reports of tens of thousands of Turkish soldiers massing on the Bosphorus. She had also seen the official estimate of soldiers in Constantinople. They numbered less than seven thousand. A few Italians and Spanish had come to defend the city, but no new troops had arrived for weeks. Despite his promise to Constantine, Longo had not come. So while Leonard preached, Sofia prayed for Western aid.

Archbishop Leonard began the Easter communion and Sofia stepped forward to receive the sacrament. She had just knelt before the altar when a dust-covered messenger entered the sanctuary and hurried to Constantine’s side. The messenger whispered in Constantine’s ear, and the emperor rose immediately. ‘My apologies, Archbishop,’ he said, before striding from the church. As he went, he called to Dalmata: ‘Send messengers to the other commanders. Have them meet me at the gate of Charisius.’

The service faltered as rumours spread like a wildfire through
the congregation. Cries of ‘The Turks are here!’ were heard, and men began to leave in ever greater numbers. Sofia took advantage of the confusion to slip out of the sanctuary, leaving her escort behind. She caught up to Constantine and followed discreetly behind him. Outside, she took the horse of one of the emperor’s guardsmen without asking, simply hauling herself into the saddle and riding away with the emperor’s party. The dumb-founded guardsman said nothing. Sometimes, Sofia reflected, royalty had its advantages.

They took Constantinople’s main thoroughfare, the Mese, to the gate of Charisius, and climbed to the top of the gate tower, some seventy feet above the surrounding countryside. Notaras was there waiting for them. He noticed Sofia and raised his eyebrows questioningly, but said nothing. Taking care to stay out of Constantine’s sight, Sofia got as close to the edge of the tower as she could. She need not have worried: the emperor’s attention was fixed elsewhere. He stood gazing into the distance, his knuckles white as he gripped the wall. Sofia followed his eyes but saw nothing, just fields and scattered villages stretching across the rolling hills to the empty horizon.

‘Where are they?’ Constantine asked.

‘They will be here soon enough,’ Notaras replied.

As they watched, a thin, dark line appeared on the horizon and spread quickly, like ink spilled on parchment. Soon, the distant hills were covered with men on horseback – a solid wave of motion that turned the hills black. The line of men stretched for miles across the horizon.

‘My God,’ Constantine whispered. ‘There are so many.’

‘That is just the advance guard,’ Notaras said. ‘The main body is still several days behind them.’

‘The time has come, then,’ Constantine said. ‘Dalmata, have the bridges across the moat burned and close the gates. Notaras, have the great chain put in place to seal off the Golden Horn. No one leaves the city without my permission. Is that understood?’ The two men nodded and hurried away. Constantine remained
on the wall with a few guards and Sofia. Below them, men set fire to the bridge leading to the gate of Charisius, and the black, acrid smoke reached to the tower, stinging Sofia’s eyes. In the distance, men continued to pour over the horizon. ‘We are at war,’ Constantine murmured. ‘God save us.’