Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga 2)

“Did that boy call his dog the Roman pope?”

Cyprian rapped his knuckles against the beautiful lacquered wood of the Hagia Sophia door. “Yes. Half the dogs in the city are called that. While my uncle appeals to the pope for help, people curse his name. My uncle pushed for union between the two churches, and even held Mass here to celebrate the official reunion, the ending of the schism between East and West. And now the most beautiful church in Christendom is silent and abandoned because it was tainted by watered wine, Catholic wafers, and worship in Latin.” Cyprian sighed, resting the palm of his hand reverently against the door. “And for all her sacrifice, the Hagia Sophia brought us nothing. The pope sends no aid.” He shook his head. “Come. We can see some relics. That is always fun.”

“You and I have different opinions of fun.”

Cyprian laughed, this time a bright sound at odds with the dreary, wet day. “We take our relics very seriously in this city. They protect us.” He winked.

“Do you really believe that?”

“Does it matter? If the people believe it, then it gives them strength, which gives the city strength, which means the relics worked.”

“That is very circular.”

“We Byzantines love circles. Time, the moon, arguments, and, most of all, coins. All good things are circular.”

They passed another empty section of the city. As they walked, Cyprian cheerfully gave the history of this pillar or that crumbling foundation. The whole city was steeped in heritage, and falling down around them.

They were almost to another church when the ground rumbled beneath their feet. Radu stumbled, and Cyprian caught him. A sliding noise came from above. “Run!” Cyprian shouted, tugging Radu away from the walls of a house next to them. Slate crashed down with shattering force where they had just been standing. The two men dove onto the muddy street.

Radu breathed heavily, his arms tangled up in Cyprian’s. Cyprian’s eyes met his own, black pupils nearly swallowing the gray. Then he shook his head and stood. They brushed as much of the mud from their clothes as they could, but it was a lost cause.

“Thank you,” Radu said. “Your quick instincts saved us both.”

Cyprian smiled shyly, reaching out to flick away some mud on Radu’s shoulder. “Consider it partial payment against the debt I owe you.”

Guilt seeped the color from the world. Radu swallowed, turning away. “Does that happen often? The earth shaking like that?”

“More and more lately. We have also had unseasonable storms, and a miserable winter and a torturous spring. You can imagine how much that boosts the morale of people looking for signs and portents in everything around them.”

They heard someone shouting up ahead. Radu wondered if it was another fight, but the cadence suggested a performance. They made their way toward the voice, crossing a couple of streets until they found a crowd gathered around a man standing on the wall outside a shrine.

“Wretched Romans, how you have been led astray! You have trusted in the power of the Franks, rather than the hope in your God. You have lost the true religion, and our city will be destroyed for your sins!” The man, who wore rough-woven brown robes, lifted his arms to the cloud-laden skies and tipped his head back. “O Lord, be merciful to me. I am pure and innocent of blame for the corruption of this city.” He snapped his head upright to stare down at the crowd and swept a hand over their heads. “Be aware, miserable citizens, of what you have done by betraying your faith in God for the promises of the pope. You have denied the true faith given to you by your fathers. You have accepted the slavery of heresy. In doing so, you have confessed all your sins to God. Woe to you when you are judged!”

Women cried out, beating at their chests. Men held children up, begging for blessings. Vicious, ugly shouts against Constantine, the pope, and all of Italy tore through the air.

Cyprian made a rude gesture, then took Radu’s arm and pulled him away. “That fool hates the pope more than he hates the sultan. He would love nothing more than to see the city burn, welcoming hell with open arms as proof that he was right all along.”

“How can they hate Constantine for doing whatever he must to protect them?”

Cyprian rubbed his face wearily, then looked down at his still-muddy hands. “This is Constantinople. We are more concerned with the purity of our souls than the survival of

our bodies. Come. There is nothing left worth seeing here.”

After they had washed, and eaten dinner with Nazira, Cyprian excused himself to attend to his uncle. Constantine’s main duties seemed to be an endless campaign of letter writing, his weapon the pen, his ammunition empty promises and desperate pleading. Radu wished that Cyprian had invited him to come along.

“Patience,” Nazira reminded him, squeezing his shoulder as he cleaned the dishes. “You will find ways to help. The best thing we can do now is become a part of the city.”

Radu turned to see her wearing clothes in the style of the women in Constantinople: a stiff and structured bodice, with tight sleeves and excessive skirts. He raised his eyebrows. Twirling in a circle, she smirked. “Do you like it? I feel like a flower in the wrong petals.”

“You always look lovely. Are you going somewhere?”

“Oh, yes. I met the wife of one of Emperor Constantine’s advisors today in the market. She felt very sorry for me when I confessed I did not know how to cook with the food here. I am invited to supper with her.”

“But we just had supper—and it was very good.”

Nazira’s smirk grew. “But she does not know that. And at this supper, I will meet all the other wives of important men, and they will gossip about all the mistresses of the important men, and in such a way I will soon have a larger net than you.”

“I did not realize it was a competition.”