“This is absurd,” Lada said. “Why do they stay with us?” Her men, she understood. They had nothing better, nowhere else to go. They were loyal to her, and to the hope that perhaps she would find them a place in the world. They were soldiers, too, used to travel and hardship. But these people, they…
They had nothing better, nowhere else to go. They were loyal to her, and to the hope that perhaps she would find them a place in the world, too.
An hour later Lada sat in a pleasantly furnished room, drinking hot wine, and warm for the first time since her mother’s stifling sitting room. Bogdan was on one side, Nicolae the other. Petru and Stefan stood at the door, casually intimidating. Against the opposite wall, Toma Basarab’s guards stood with snide confidence.
“The letter I received from Matthias Corvinas was…interesting.” Toma Basarab’s hair and beard were silver. He wore velvet and silk as dark as his wine, his buttons shining silver beacons that matched his hair.
“I want to be prince,” Lada said.
Toma Basarab laughed, his mirth as bright as his buttons. “Why would you want that?”
“Our princes fail Wallachia. They are too busy appealing to foreign powers, pandering to boyars, desperately going over their own coffers. Meanwhile our country rots around them. I will change that.”
Toma leaned back, tapping his fingers on his glass. “The system is what it is. It has worked for this long.”
“Worked for whom?”
“I know you have big dreams, little Draculesti. But Wallachia is as Wallachia was and will ever be. What can you offer it?”
Lada understood immediately his true question was “What can you offer me?” She wished Radu were here. He would have this old fox eating out of his hand. Lada fixed a cold glare on him. “Your mistake is in thinking I care one whit about offering anything. The system is broken. I am going to change it.”
“People who agitate for change end up dead.”
Lada bared her teeth at him in a smile. “We will see who is dead at the end of all this.”
Toma smiled, a slow spread of his mout
h and ending with his dark eyes. “I think I see what you have to offer, then. Matthias was right to send you here. You have much potential. I will advise you. There are many boyars I can sweep into your support. A few will need…aggressive persuasion. But I suspect you excel at that. Under my guidance, you will get your throne in Tirgoviste. I would be proud to be at your side, serving a Draculesti prince.” He held out his hands in offering, the fire in the hearth burning behind him.
Lada remembered her joke about making camp with the devil, and a sudden revulsion seized her. She did not want to have his help, or anyone’s. But she needed it.
“Thank you.” The words grated against her teeth like sand.
“My men will show yours where they can stay. Let us take a meal while we discuss the surrounding regions. Many of these boyars have done simply horrendous things to their people.” He clucked his tongue in pity, but his eyes looked like they were tallying encouraging financial ledgers as he considered Lada.
RADU’S INFORMATION HAD LED to more successful cannon fire, and he paid the price. Every day he watched as the adjusted bombardment targeted the walls with more devastation, and every day he stumbled home, exhausted from trying to fix the holes. His aid to Mehmed put his own life in constant danger. Did Mehmed worry about that? Was he sorry?
Nazira’s work was equally exhausting, but in other ways. “Helen cries constantly,” she said in the morning, the only time they saw each other. “I have to spend half our time reassuring her that Coco, the Italian captain she is mistress to, really does love her and that when this is all over he will leave his wife in Venice for her. It is all I can do not to slap her and tell her she is wasting her life. The other women mostly spend their time in church praying. And when they are not there, they are complaining of how hard it is to get food and how they had to donate their tapestries to the walls. How is your work?”
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.