How young she was, too. She felt it more now, in the three days since she had taken the throne. She had focused for so long on getting here, that she was not quite sure what to do now that her only goal was behind her.
“I doubt there is much to find,” Daciana said. “Would the previous prince have kept his family wealth here? Our boyar”—she turned her head to the side and spit—“and his family kept their wealth on their own land. The Danesti was not always prince. His wealth would be held by his family.”
“You need taxes,” Stefan said. Lada noticed that his right hand and Daciana’s left hand were not on the table. Were they holding hands beneath it?
“You do need taxes,” a man’s voice said. “And for that, you need boyars. And for that, you need me.”
She looked up to see Toma beaming at her, his arms open wide as though expecting her to run to him. At his side was Oana, who shifted away from him with a look on her face like she smelled something foul. Bogdan stood and embraced his mother. She patted his arm, then looked Lada up and down. Nodding, she tightened the apron around her waist and walked toward the kitchen muttering about getting things in shape.
Lada was surprised at how relieved she was to have Oana here again. It felt right.
Toma, on the other hand…
He sat down in the chair Bogdan had vacated, the one to Lada’s immediate right. “Why are you meeting in here?” He looked derisively around the room. “You should be holding court in the throne room, or your chambers. I looked for you there first.”
Lada had been staying in the tiny barracks with her men. That felt more like home than this castle. “I have not taken chambers yet.”
“You must. And stop sitting with your men like a commoner. They should be standing at the ready near the doors, not treated like advisors. Appearances matter, Lada.”
“Speaking of appearances,” Nicolae interrupted—Lada suspected to spite Toma’s pronouncement that her men were merely guards—“why are you here?”
Toma smiled, showing all his stained teeth. “Before I deliver the good news to Matthias, we need to discuss finances. Castles do not run themselves, I am afraid. And we will have to extend quite a few favors to secure the loyalty of the remaining Danesti boyars after what you did to their prince.”
Lada sighed, making herself listen as Toma instructed her. The last time she had been forced to sit through tedious instruction in Tirgoviste, at least she had been able to demand to learn outside. Now she did not have even that luxury.
The castle reminded Lada of a tomb, heavy stones waiting to claim her as they had her father before her. She did not want to live there—already, she craved escape, thinking longingly of the mountain peak in Arges. But she was the prince, and the prince lived in the castle.
She took her father’s old rooms, throwing out everything that had belonged to the dead Danesti. Some of it might have been left over from her father. She did not care either way. Daciana took over after Lada had cleared the rooms, securing enough furnishings for them to feel livable.
“Are you sure you do not want curtains?” she asked, hands on her hips, her belly jutting out.
Lada stared thoughtfully at the empty space above the narrow window. “My brother and I once used a curtain rod to push an assassin off a balcony. Maybe we should add them.”
“Well, I thought they might be pretty. But, certainly, they can double as weapons. You are very practical.”
Lada shook her head. “I hate this castle and every room in it. I do not care what it looks like.”
Daciana nodded, not asking any questions. Lada liked that about her. She asked questions when she needed to and otherwise let memories lie where they would. Lada suspected it was because Daciana was equally reticent to talk about her own past. She seemed quite content in the present. She had appointed herself Lada’s personal maid, but, contrary to convention, she did not sleep in Lada’s rooms. Judging by the new expression of bemused happiness on Stefan’s formerly blank face, Lada knew where Daciana had settled.
Daciana had decided what she wanted and had secured it. In spite of carrying another man’s child, in spite of her circumstances, in spite of everything. Lada felt a pang of jealousy. To be able to want a man and claim him, heedless of anything else? She could have claimed Mehmed. She had claimed him. But it did not satisfy her. Why could Daciana find happiness when Lada could not?
No. That was wrong. Lada had decided what she wanted, and she had secured it. The throne was hers.
Mehmed’s face and the feeling of his hands on her body still haunted her, though. She wished she could carve out his memory with a knife. Trace the lines of him that would not leave her, then cut them free. She would bleed, but she would not die. Still, he lingered in places no knife could ever reach.
Daciana gasped, bringing Lada back to the present. She was bent over, hands on her belly.
“Are you ill?” Lada asked.
“I think the baby is coming.”
Lada was struck with a terror deeper than any battlefield could have presented. The need to flee was overwhelming. “I will go get the nurse. Oana, I mean.”
Daciana nodded, breathing deeply against some internal pain Lada did not want to imagine.
The nurse was easy to find. After laughing at Lada’s obvious horror, Oana escorted Daciana to another room. Lada waited outside with Stefan, who paced with nerves as though the child were his. Lada wondered idly what they would do with the newborn bastard. That was none of her business, though.
The hope on Stefan’s face grew increasingly pained. It was obvious he loved Daciana. Lada wondered what that must feel like, to know someone loved you enough to take everything you were. To wait. To hope.
She wondered what it would feel like to be the person who loved that much, too.
She found Bogdan and invited him to her bedroom, but it did nothing to take the ache away from the edges of her memory of Mehmed. After, Bogdan wanted to linger. Lada dressed hurriedly and left her rooms. She did not have space in her heart for that. Not after last time. Not after loving Mehmed so much, and being so deeply betrayed by him.
No. Bogdan was safe. Bogdan was steady. And she did not and would never love Bogdan as she had Mehmed, which was both a relief and an agony.
When Oana told her that Daciana had safely delivered a little girl, Lada was unmoved. “They want to see you,” the nurse said.
Lada did not want to see them. But Stefan was one of her oldest and most trusted men. So she entered the room, ready for the scent of blood and sweat and fear. Instead, she found a cozy, warm space. Daciana was curled in a nest of blankets, the babe at her breast. Stefan sat next to them, gazing in wonder at the tiny, mewling creature. Daciana looked up, beaming.
“Thank you,” she said.
Lada frowned. “For what?”
“For giving me a world where I can raise my daughter how I wish. For giving us this Wallachia.”
Lada felt something tender and sweet unfurling in her chest. It was a vulnerable feeling. A dangerous one. She cleared her throat. “Well. I guess I will have to find another maid.”
Daciana laughed. “There is a boyar woman who has already hired me on as a wet nurse. It is amazing what they will pay for. But as soon as I am able, I will be back to fill your room with deadly curtains. You will help me, right, my little Lada?”
The endearment was very confusing. Stefan smiled up at her, nodding toward the baby. “We wanted to give her a name of strength.”
Lada’s face flushed. She had to clear her throat again. She leaned closer, trying to see the little bundle. “Is she pretty?”
Daciana held out the baby. Her face was red, squished and bruised from its violent entrance into the world. Dark hair sprouted from the top of her head, and one tiny fist was balled tightly and raised in the air. She was not pretty. But she screamed, and the sound was piercing and strong. “Do you want to hold her?”
“No!” Lada put her arms behind her back just in case Daciana and Stefan t
ried to force the baby on her. But Daciana seemed content to hold the baby herself. Lada tentatively smiled. “When she is old enough, I will give her a knife.”
Daciana and Stefan both laughed, and though Lada had been serious, she laughed, too. But watching the tiny life, she promised herself she would do exactly that for this little girl and every other Wallachian under her rule.
She would make them strong.
THE LITURGY WAS PUNCTUATED by the ceaseless bombardment strikes. Radu wished they could have coordinated with Mehmed somehow, so that the distant sound and vibration of rock meeting stone could have matched up perfectly. As it was, the beats fell too soon or too late, a jarring mess guaranteeing no one could truly lose themselves to the worship service.
But that was never a possibility, anyway. Not tonight.
For the first time since Constantine had attempted to unite the churches, the Hagia Sophia was lit up. All their angry clinging to dogma and notions of religious purity had been abandoned, and they appealed to every icon, every relic, every link to God they had. If the Hagia Sophia could save them, they were finally ready to try it.
Outside the walls, the Ottoman camps were quiet. The bombardment had increased, everything they had left being flung at the city in anticipation of one final burst. Arrows came over the walls with scrawled warnings from sympathetic Christian soldiers:
The end is coming.
But they did not need the information written on arrows. It was already written in the massive stone cannonballs hitting the walls, in the day of rest and prayer Mehmed had given his men. One last assault, one last chance to defend or attack, to stand or fall, to live or die.
And so the people of the city came to church. The Hagia Sophia was packed, claustrophobic; people stood shoulder to shoulder. Radu breathed the same air as everyone around him. They exhaled terror and resignation, and he inhaled it until he could not catch his breath. He much preferred the Hagia Sophia dark, with the sound of birds fluttering near the roof. That had felt closer to worship than this.
Constantine stood at the front, looking upward as though he were already an icon himself. Nearby, Giustiniani stood, pale and sweating. He should have been sitting, but appearances were everything. He had been injured in the bombardment yesterday. The panic that spread through the city at the idea of losing him had been more dangerous than any cannon. And so Giustiniani stood when he should have been resting, prayed when he should have been sleeping, all so the people could see their emperor and their military commander and have some semblance of hope.
When the service ended, no one moved. Radu was desperate to get outside, to be away from all this. A hand tugged on his vest and he whirled around, ready to strike.
He looked down into the eyes of the little heir, Manuel. “Where is my cousin?” Manuel asked. Something in the way his lip trembled but his chin stayed firm stabbed Radu to the core. Manuel was expecting to hear that Cyprian was dead, and he was preparing himself not to cry over the news. Radu dropped into a crouch so he was face to face with the boy.
“Cyprian is resting at home. He was hit on the head with some rocks, but he will get better.”
Manuel let out a breath of relief, grinning to reveal his first few lost teeth. “He promised to take me fishing when the siege is over.”
“Well then, there you have it. He will heal quickly, because he would never break a promise like that.”
Manuel nodded, quick to accept comfort. He slipped his tiny hand into Radu’s hand, anchoring Radu with the weight of his innocence. John and their nurse soon joined them, the older boy solemn and ashen-faced. He nodded to Radu and Radu formally dipped his head.
“You will protect us,” he said. Radu wanted to sink into the ground. John nodded again, and Radu realized the boy was reassuring himself. “The men and the walls will protect us.”
Everyone turned, watching as Constantine, stately and regal, marched out of the church. As the door closed behind him, there was a whoosh of collectively held breaths released, along with wails and cries of despair. People scattered in every direction. Radu overheard snatches of plans to hide, places that might be safe, cisterns underground that no Turk would think to look in. At least they knew the limits of their faith.
Radu grabbed the nurse’s arm as she tried to herd the boys away. “Stay here,” he said.
She scowled in offense. “I am to take the boys back to the palace.”
“If the walls are breached, the palace will be the first place the soldiers go looking for loot.”
She lifted her nose defiantly in the air as though Radu’s dour prediction were foul to smell. “Those filthy Turks cannot come past the columns. The angel of the Lord will descend from heaven and drive them away with a flaming sword.”
Radu held back an exasperated huff, though it cost him dearly. Instead he smiled encouragingly. “Yes, of course. Which is why you should stay here. The Hagia Sophia is farther in the city than the angel will let the Turks get, so you will be safest here.”
She frowned, weighing his words.
“And it will do the boys good to pray more.”
No Byzantine nurse could resist the lure of forcing her charges to pray. She took both boys’ hands and marched back into the center of the Hagia Sophia. Radu wished he could do more. But he knew Mehmed would want the Hagia Sophia intact, and would send soldiers to protect it if and when they breached the walls. It was safer than anywhere else in the city.
He walked out the doors, breathing the evening air with relief. Another little hand tugged on his shirt. He glanced down to see Amal. Taking a coin—his last—he placed it in the boy’s palm. “Tell him to look to the gates at the palace wall. I will—”
“Where is my nephew?”
Radu whirled around. Constantine stared wearily back at him. Radu stammered in surprise and guilt. “He—he—he is resting. I think he will recover, but he is not fit to fight.” He glanced to the side. Amal was gone.
Constantine nodded, something like relief in his eyes. “Take his place at my side, then.”
Radu was swept along with Constantine’s party. Stuck in the middle next to Giustiniani, he was unable to slip free. This was not where he wanted to be tonight. He had planned to position himself at the Circus Gate—a small gate opening into Blachernae Palace. He needed to be there. But there was nothing he could do to get away without looking suspicious. Constantine led them through the city, past the inner wall, and to the masses of soldiers clustered in front of the Lycus River section of the wall. It was here and at the Blachernae Palace section that their final stand would be made. The palace was visible in the distance. Nazira was there, as planned, and he was stuck here.
Constantine climbed onto a pile of rubble, looking out in the twilight over the heads of his men. “Do not fear the evil Turks!” His booming voice was punctuated by a distant impact. “Our superior armor will protect us. Our superior fighting will protect us. Our God will protect us! Their evil sultan started the war by breaking a treaty. He built a fortress on the Bosporus, on our land, all while pretending at peace. He looked on us with envy, lusting after the city of Constantine the Great, your homeland, the true homeland of all Christians and the protection of all Greeks! He has seen the glory of our God and wants it for himself. Will we let him take our city?”
The men shouted no angrily.
“Will we let the call to prayer corrupt the air good Christians have breathed for more than a thousand years?”
Another roar, even louder.
“Will we let them rape our women, murder our children and elders, and profane the sacred temples of God by turning them into stables for their horses?”
This time the roar of anger was accompanied by the slamming of spear butts into the ground and the pounding of fists on shields. Radu could not point out that it had been a Christian crusade two hundred years before that had been guilty of all the above.
Constantine continued on. “Today is your day of triumph. If you shed even one drop of blood, you
will prepare for yourself a martyr’s crown and immortal glory!” He raised a fist in the air. “With God’s help we will gain the victory! We will slaughter the infidels! We will bear the standard of Christ and earn our eternal rewards!”
The sound of the cheering and screaming was almost enough to drown out the bombardment. Constantine held his arms in the air, then lowered them and turned. His face was haggard and drawn, losing light as quickly as the day turned to night around them. “We lock the gates back into the city,” he said quietly to Giustiniani. “We stand or fall where we are. No one gets out. If the wall falls, we all die together.”
Giustiniani nodded grimly.
Radu watched the two men with a disconnected sense of farewell. In his time here, he had seen them be truly great, holding together a city against impossible odds. And he had seen them commit atrocities while doing it. He respected them, and he hated them, and he knew the world would be lesser for their deaths.
If they died.
He both hoped for and dreaded that outcome, impossible to reconcile, just like everything else in this accursed city. He took a place on the wall next to Giustiniani. Although it was night, the Ottomans had lit so many fires the light bounced off the low clouds, creating an ominous orange haze everywhere. The defenders could not repair the walls, because there was no cover of darkness.
From his vantage point Radu could see the mustering area for the Ottoman troops. Somewhere nearby, Mehmed waited to find out whether his grand design would succeed or fail, whether he would fill the prophecies of generations. Maybe if Radu were out there with Mehmed, this would have all been exciting. It made him ill to think of it, to imagine who he could have been. How easily he could have wanted the end of this city and everyone in it.
It also filled him with longing, knowing it could have been simple. But he released that thought to the night, too, along with everything else. He would die on the wall tonight, between his brothers and his enemies, because he could no longer distinguish between the two. They had finally come to the end. Whichever side won, neither would triumph.
Now I Rise Page 31
