The boy rushed down the stairs, nearly falling. “We heard the bells. Cyprian is getting dressed to fight. I told him not to, but—”
Nazira handed Valentin his cloak. “The city is falling. We are running.”
Radu looked up to see Cyprian standing at the top of the stairs. His injury had left him unable to get out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time without becoming dizzy. He was as pale and bleak as the dawn. “My uncle?”
Radu shook his head. “It is over. If we do not run now, we will not get out alive.”
Cyprian closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Then he nodded, resolve hardening all his features. “Where do we go?”
“The horn.” Radu turned to leave, then paused. “Wait!” He sprinted up the stairs, throwing open the chest in the room he had shared with Nazira. At the bottom, carefully folded, were the clothes they had worn on their journey to Constantinople. Radu yanked his robes on over what he already wore, then hastily wrapped a turban around his hair. Better to look like friend than foe to the invading army.
Cyprian nodded. “Like the flags,” he said. For a terrible moment Radu thought Cyprian knew what they had done at the palace. But then he remembered the flags on the boats to help them sneak past the Ottoman fleet.
“Yes. Speak in Turkish,” Radu cautioned. “Valentin, you say nothing.”
The four of them paused on the threshold of the house. They had been happy here, after a manner. As much happiness as could be found in the slow, agonizing death of a city falling around them. Then they ran. Cyprian was in the lead, taking them on a winding route around the edges of the city, skirting populated areas in favor of abandoned ones. They were nearly to a gate on the seawall when they came across the first group of Ottoman soldiers.
A clump of citizens had been caught in the alley, and the soldiers ran at them, screaming and brandishing swords. Half of the group had been cut down before the soldiers realized there was no resistance and stopped. Radu thought nothing could be more horrifying than watching unarmed people hewn down.
Until the soldiers began claiming them. One young woman, her clothes already torn, was being tugged between two men. “I had her first!” one shouted.
“She is mine! Find your own!”
“There will be plenty,” their commander said, going through the bags of the dead. He did not even look at the girl as the soldiers pulled off what remained of her clothes, arguing over who could keep her and how much she would be worth. The girl stared at Radu, her eyes already blank and dead, though she still lived.
If Radu were truly good, if he were not a coward, if he valued all life the same, he would risk drawing the soldier’s attention and kill her right now. But he had to save Nazira, and he had to save Cyprian. “Come on,” Radu whispered. They slipped back the way they had come.
At a gate to the thin shore of the horn, two remaining Greek soldiers huddled, debating whether or not to open it. Cyprian stalked up without pausing. “They are already in the city,” he said.
“We will drive them out!” A small soldier, barely past his youth, stood in Cyprian’s way. “The angel will come! We must hold them off until then.”
“Does he have the key?” Cyprian asked the lanky soldier next to the boy. He nodded. Cyprian punched the boy in the face, then pulled the key from his vest. “The city has fallen. Do what you see best.”
Crying, the young soldier stumbled away. The lanky soldier slipped out the gate as soon as Cyprian unlocked it. They followed him onto a narrow stretch of rocky beach lining the seawall. No boats were docked here. The Venetian boats had not fled yet, but from the movement onboard, they would soon. And, just as Radu had predicted, several Ottoman galleys were drifting not far from shore, completely abandoned. Someone had dumped logs into the water, where they floated by the hundreds, bobbing gently on the waves.
No.
Not logs.
Radu watched as a man who had managed to swim as far as the Venetian ships attempted to climb up the side. A sailor on the deck reached down with a long pole, pushing him off into the water.
“Why? Why not help him?” Nazira whispered, her hands covering her mouth.
Cyprian leaned back against the wall, the hollows beneath his eyes nearly as gray as his irises. “They fear being swamped. There are too many people trying to get on the boats.”
Valentin shook his head in disbelief. “All these people. They could have saved them.”
Many of the bodies in the water had wounds no pole could cause, though. The Ottomans must have gotten here at the same time as those people who had figured out the horn was a means of escape. The delay to get Cyprian and Valentin had likely saved all their lives.
“What do we do?” Nazira asked, turning to Radu.
“Can you swim?”
“A little.”
He looked at Cyprian, who nodded. Valentin nodded, too, eyeing the corpse-strewn water with resigned weariness that had no place on such a young face.
“The smallest galley. We can row it out until we catch the wind. Once we have that in our sails, we can slip down and away.”