Siege

Chapter 1

NOVEMBER 1448: CONSTANTINOPLE

Sofia Dragases, Princess of the Eastern Roman Empire, walked through the dark hallways of the emperor's palace in Constantinople, hurrying to keep up with John Dalmata, the commander of the emperor's guard. As they passed a window, she glanced out to where a full moon hung heavy in the night sky over the waters of the harbour. It was several hours until dawn. The emperor, John VIII, had been ill for weeks, and Sofia would only have been summoned so late if he were on the verge of death.

The antechamber of the emperor's apartments was crowded. Most of those present knelt on the hard stone floor, whispering prayers for the health of their emperor. They spoke in Greek, for although the people of Constantinople still called themselves Romans, Greek had replaced Latin as the language of the empire centuries ago. As she passed through the crowd, Sofia noticed the emperor's mother, Helena Dragases, seated in a corner, speaking with George Sphrantzes, the emperor's most trusted minister. Dalmata led Sofia to the door of the emperor's bedchamber, which was guarded by the praepositus sacri cubiculi, a balding eunuch who controlled access to the emperor. 'He is very weak. Do not stay too long,' the eunuch told Sofia as he ushered her through the door.

The room was lit only by the flicker of a few candles near the entrance. At first Sofia could not see the emperor, but she could hear his laboured breathing — a series of rattling gasps coming from the darkness on the far side of the room. She moved towards the sound, and as she approached, she made out a large, canopied bed and then the emperor himself. John had been a large man, but now he had wasted to the point where she scarcely recognized the skeletal figure before her. His face was waxen and his eyes closed. Were it not for the horrible rasping of his breathing, Sofia would have thought him dead. As she watched him sleep, she fought back tears.

She did not love her uncle. He was temperamental and drank too much. Nevertheless, John had been a good emperor, and he had allowed Sofia her freedom. She was nearly twenty-four, well past the age when a princess of the empire should have been married, yet her uncle had never broached the subject. He had allowed her to study, not just the literature and philosophy normally taught to women of the court, but also mathematics, government and languages — Italian, Arabic, Latin and Turkish. At the urging of the Empress-Mother Helena, he had even allowed her to join him in council meetings, where she had learned the art of politics. Whoever succeeded John, Sofia doubted that he would be so accommodating towards her.

Sofia gently smoothed back the emperor's hair. 'I have come, Uncle,' she whispered.

John opened his eyes. 'Sit beside me, Sofia,' he gasped. 'I want to ask…' John stopped short, his words lost in a long fit of coughing. 'I want to ask your forgiveness,' he continued at last, 'for any wrongs that I have done you.' Such a request was traditional for emperors in their last days. It was clear that John knew his time was near.

'You have no need to ask, Uncle,' Sofia replied. 'You have done me no wrongs.'

He frowned and shook his head. 'No, Sofia. I fear I was wrong to raise you as I did. You reminded me so much of my poor dead wife, Maria. I wished to keep you near me, as a reminder of her, and to give you all you wished, as I failed to give her.' He sighed. 'I did not prepare you to be a princess, to be a wife. You have not learned your place in this world.'

'I wish for no other place than that which I have,' Sofia told him. 'I do not regret what I have learned.'

'Nor do I, Sofia,' John wheezed between ragged breaths. 'These are difficult times, and the empire has need of you. There are those in Constantinople who would sell the city to the Turks to feed their ambition. We must stop them. Our empire has stood for over a thousand years. We are the heirs of Rome. We must not fall!'

'But what can I do?' Sofia asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice. 'I am a woman, Uncle. I will have little influence at Constantine's court.'

John shook his head as he was seized by another fit of coughing. 'No, you are more than that. Look at my mother, Helena. She is a better statesman than any of my councillors. You have her same spirit, Sofia. My brother Constantine is a good man, but he is not a subtle one. When I am gone, he will need your help, even if he does not wish for it.'

'I will do what I can, Uncle.'

'You must swear to me, Sofia,' John gasped. 'Give me your hand…' Sofia placed her hand in his, and the dying emperor gripped it with surprising strength. His eyes burned with urgency as he met Sofia's gaze. 'Swear that when I am gone, you will do all you can to protect this city from those who would destroy it.'

'I swear it,' Sofia replied solemnly. 'I will defend Constantinople with my life.'

John released her hand and lay back, suddenly small and fragile. 'Good. Now go,' he said. 'And send in my mother.' Sofia nodded and left. In the antechamber, she told the empress-mother that John wished to see her, and then knelt, joining the others in silent prayer.

Sofia knew they were praying for themselves as much as for the emperor. John had no sons and three brothers, and the people feared civil war if he died. And with civil war came the threat of another Ottoman invasion. The Eastern Roman Empire was only a shadow of what it had been when Constantine the Great moved the imperial capital from Rome to Constantinople in 330 AD. The current Turkish sultan, Murad II, had taken the great cities of Adrianople and Salonika. Now, nearly all that remained of the once great Empire of the Romans was the imperial city of Constantinople. It was the last link to a glorious history that reached unbroken to the Caesars; the last barrier between the Turks and the rest of Europe. The sultan's armies had already gathered in the north to confront the crusade called by John before he grew ill. News of a battle had not yet reached Constantinople, but if the Turks were victorious, and John died, then there would be little to stop the sultan's armies from marching on Constantinople.

Sofia's thoughts were interrupted by a loud wailing from the emperor's room. It was the Empress-Mother Helena mourning her son. The emperor was dead. The evening sun hung low in the sky when William Whyte reached the top of a long rise and saw Constantinople for the first time. The city was still several miles off, but even at this distance, the majesty of it caused him to stop short. Fields of wheat and herds of roaming cattle lay spread out before him, running right up to the city's towering walls. The walls stretched for miles, from the Golden Horn, its waters glinting to the north, to the Sea of Marmora to the south. Beyond the walls, the city rose high on its seven hills. Squinting, William could just make out a few monuments: domed churches, sprawling palaces and thin columns towering above the city. It was no wonder they called Constantinople the Queen of Cities. William had never seen anything like it.

William took his eyes off the city as the long rope that led from his bound hands to the saddle of the horse before him went taut, jerking him forward so that he stumbled down the far side of the hill. The man riding the horse — a Turk named Hasim, who had rotten teeth and a greying beard — turned back and shouted something in his strange tongue. The man's meaning was clear: speed up, or else. He had already beaten William more than once during the long journey from Ephesus to Constantinople — seven days of hard marching across brutal dry lands, and seven cold nights spent huddled on the ground beneath the unforgiving autumn sky. Thin already, William had lost more weight, and now his ribs showed clearly through his skin. He spat at Hasim but quickened his pace.

It was barely two months since William had joined the crew of the Kateryn, sailing for the East from his home, the English port of Fowey. He had thought he was sailing to riches. An Italian, Carlo Grimaldi, who claimed to be an exile from Genoa, had promised that he could lead the Kateryn safely past the Genoese and Venetian galleys that dominated the eastern spice trade. Captain Smith, William's uncle, had been sceptical, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. If they could make a direct connection with the eastern spice traders, cutting out the Italian middlemen, then they would make a fortune. It had been a kindness of Captain Smith to ask William to join the crew. William's father had died almost ten years ago, when William was only five, and for the past year his mother had suffered from a wasting sickness. The little that William earned as a water-porter, even when combined with his winnings at the knife fights, was barely enough to feed them and pay rent for the draughty, damp room they shared. With the money from the voyage, William had hoped to find proper lodgings so that his mother could spend her last days in comfort.

But his plans had gone awry even before they left port. The day before they sailed, William's mother died. Once in the East, Grimaldi had led them to a small cove south of the Turkish town of Ephesus, where they had found the tents of a Turkish caravan set up on the shore. Smith had anchored far out, and William had watched from his position in the crow's nest high above the deck as Smith, Grimaldi and four heavily armed crewmen had rowed ashore to negotiate. They had hardly stepped out of the boat before archers hidden in the tents cut the crewmen down. Grimaldi had killed Captain Smith himself, striking him down from behind. The remaining crew onboard the Kateryn had hurried to set sail, but two Turkish longboats had cut off their escape. The ship had been boarded, and after a brief, bloody fight they had surrendered. William had been lucky; he was young enough to be sold as a slave. So while the old and injured crewmen were lined up on the beach and executed, William had been given to Hasim, who had set off immediately for the slave markets of Constantinople, where a fair-skinned European like William could be expected to fetch a high price as a house slave for some Turkish or Greek family.

Now, as they covered the last few miles to the city, William kept a careful eye on his captor. Whenever Hasim was not looking, William worked at the bonds that tied his hands. It was nervous work. Just yesterday, Hasim had caught William at it and had whipped him, then tied his hands so tightly that the ropes cut into his skin. William ignored the pain as he continued to work the ropes, pulling this way then that as they slowly loosened. If he did not escape soon, it would be too late. Already the Golden Gate leading into Constantinople was looming before him.

The gate's three archways were each over thirty feet high, and the central gate was wide enough to allow twenty men on horseback to pass through side by side. Beyond the gate was a walled courtyard, filled with pedlars' carts and a milling crowd. William had never seen so many different kinds of people in one place: local peasants in belted tunics and leather breeches; wealthy Greeks wearing wide-sleeved caftans of blue or red silk, embroidered with threads of gold and silver; Turks in turbans; bearded Jews in skullcaps; and olive-skinned Italians in trimmed velvet doublets and tight hose. There were blued-eyed men from the Caucasus, Wallachians with their dark hair, pale skin and pointed features, and Africans as black as the night sky. They spoke a bewildering variety of languages, none of which William could even identify, much less understand. And the goods being hawked were just as varied: exotic spices whose powerful scents competed with the general odour of unwashed humanity and animal excrement; steel swords short and long, curved and straight; nervous horses and camels impassively chewing their cud; meat roasting on spits; and dirty prostitutes caked in unnatural-looking makeup. Hasim did not pause to look. He spurred his horse through the market and into the city.

William found himself on a broad, paved avenue. The street was crowded on either side by low buildings, and looking past them to his left, William could see broad fields where cattle and sheep grazed on the dried wheat stalks left from a recent harvest. To the right, the land sloped down to the sea wall and the Sea of Marmora beyond, blazing red under the setting sun. William watched a ship sail slowly across the water and thought of how it would be to be onboard, tasting the sea spray as he sailed back to England. The ship disappeared from view behind a low but massive church, fronted with fat columns and topped with a broad dome. It was nothing like the tiny chapel at home.

Past the church, the road began to climb, passing a sprawling monastery and several more churches. At the crest of the rise, they came to a gate set into the crumbling ruins of an ancient city wall. Past the gate, William was assaulted by a nauseating odour. The city was denser here, with houses built one upon the other, and the streets ran with filth — a foul mixture of emptied chamber-pots, animal manure and offal from a nearby butchery, all draining away towards the sea. At intervals, narrow alleyways led away from the main road. In one of them, William saw wild dogs snapping at each other as they tore at an animal carcass.

The road emptied into a wide square crowded with shouting merchants and squealing pigs packed into pens. In the middle of the pig market, a column soared high above even the tallest trees in the square, its entire length decorated with spiralling bands of stone-carving depicting battles and ceremonies, their meanings long lost. Hasim did not pause. He rode on, pulling William behind him, deeper into the city. They climbed another hill to a square that looked out over a valley spanned by a monumental aqueduct, well over a hundred feet tall. At the square, they turned right. On the distant hills before him, William saw a massive church, its many domes gilded by the last rays of the setting sun, and to the church's right the crumbling ruins of a huge Roman arena.

As the twilight gloom began to settle around them, they turned on to a wide street that ran down towards the Golden Horn, the inlet that bordered Constantinople to the north. The street was lined on both sides by columns that supported sheltered promenades. After a short time, Hasim dismounted and occupied himself with his horse's saddle, unknotting the rope that had pulled William across Anatolia to Constantinople. He took the rope and pulled William after him into the dark shadows under the promenade on the right. Before William's eyes could adjust to the dark, he found himself shoved forward, and he stumbled until he ran hard into a stone wall. The lead-rope landed next to him, and he heard the clang of an iron gate as it slammed shut behind him. William turned and slumped to the ground with his back to the wall. He was sitting in a small cell, no more than three feet deep and three feet wide and closed off by iron bars.

Peering through the bars, he could just make out Hasim as he walked out of sight. From the darkness to either side of his tiny cell, William heard hushed noises — muffled crying, whispers, scuffling feet, occasionally punctuated by a loud curse in some foreign tongue, or, further off, the baying of dogs. William drew his knees to his chest and sat shaking. Cold had descended along with night, and with it fear. Yet, even as he shook, he permitted himself a smile. After hours of struggle, he had finally managed to slip the bonds that tied his hands. The sun had only just risen, casting the world in a grainy golden light, when Longo splashed across a ford on the Lycus river and Constantinople came into view. He reined in his horse on the far bank and breathed a sigh of relief. He had caught up with his men several miles from the battlefield, but it had been a tense journey from Kossova. They had passed through the heart of the Ottoman Empire, travelling within fifty miles of the Turkish capital at Adrianople. It was land that held bad memories for Longo — dangerous land, too, overrun with bandits and thieves, not to mention Turkish troops. Longo had pushed his men hard, avoiding towns and driving them as far and as fast as their horses would allow. Now that they had reached Constantinople, they were as safe as they would be anywhere. But how long Constantinople would remain a safe haven, Longo could only guess. In Selymbria, he had heard that the emperor, John, was dead. If his brothers fought over the throne, then the ensuing civil war would leave Constantinople an easy target for the Turks.

Longo's men came up behind him, joining him on the river-bank. He had taken over one hundred men from Italy to the fields of Kossova, and just over fifty remained. Their armour was battered and dented. Many were wounded and some might not survive the sea voyage back to Genoa. Most were long-standing veterans of Longo's campaigns; a few, like Tristo, had fought alongside him since they were boys. Longo had led the survivors safely out of the Turkish lands, but he knew that would be little comfort to the wives and children of the men who had died. They would blame him, and he did not begrudge them their anger. He blamed himself as well.

Tristo interrupted Longo's sombre thoughts. 'It's good to see the old city again, eh friend?' he said. A notorious joke-teller and wit even in the midst of battle, Tristo could always be counted on to brighten Longo's mood. 'We'll finally have some easy living after all these months of war,' Tristo continued with a grin. 'No more stale bread and dried meat.'

Longo eyed Tristo critically. He was a huge bear of a man — a good two hands taller than Longo and almost twice his weight, and Longo was not small. 'Easy living is the last thing you need,' Longo told him. 'I should put you on half rations.'

'Nonsense,' Tristo replied. 'I need to keep up my strength. I have a duty to the women of Constantinople.'

'I thought you had a duty to your wife.'

'I do, indeed. That's why I need the practice: to make sure I get the rust off before we return to Genoa.'

'We'd best hurry then,' Longo said with a grin. 'I'm sure you're very rusty.'

'I am indeed,' Tristo said and spurred his horse down the hill and towards Constantinople. Longo shook his head and galloped after him. William woke with a start to find the day already bright and the street before him bustling with life. Outside his cell, a stooped Greek in a dirty linen caftan had begun loudly hawking a collection of clay pots.

William stood gingerly, stretched his stiff legs, and peered out of the cell. To his left, other merchants lined the street, peddling their wares to passers-by. Far to his right, the street opened into a small square, where a large crowd had gathered around a raised platform. A portly Turk wearing a blue silk caftan and a towering turban stood on the platform, and as William watched, he hauled up a dazed, naked young boy to stand beside him. Immediately, men in the crowd began pointing and shouting. It was a slave auction, William realized. The boy sold quickly to a Greek and was dragged off. William turned away and sat down. If he did not want to share that boy's fate, then he would have to be ready when Hasim came.

William took the rope that had bound his wrists and wrapped it around both arms so that it appeared as if he were still bound. Last night, he had made a noose of the long rope that Hasim left behind, and now he placed the noose in his lap, hiding it from view under his hands. He did not have to wait long before Hasim arrived, accompanied by the portly man from the auction and a large, well-muscled Turkish guard. Hasim and the slave-trader were arguing loudly. Hasim smiled and pointed repeatedly at William, and each time he did so, the slave-trader frowned and shook his head. William's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay still. Finally, an agreement was reached. The slave-trader produced a pouch and carefully counted out a dozen coins.

Hasim pocketed the coins, then unlocked and opened the cell door. As he turned his back, William sprang up, dropped the noose around his neck and pulled it tight. As Hasim clawed at the rope that was strangling him, William took the dagger from Hasim's belt and cut his throat. Hasim slumped to the ground, blood pouring from him. The slave-trader, white with shock, had recovered from his initial surprise and drawn his sword. He swung for William's head. William ducked the blow and slashed out with Hasim's dagger, opening a long cut along the slave-trader's cheek. Grabbing his face, the trader staggered back as his burly guard surged forward. William threw his dagger, catching him in the throat and dropping him. Then he turned and ran, dodging between people and around pedlars' carts. He could hear the shrill voice of the slave-trader calling for someone to stop him. A Greek merchant tripped him, and William went sprawling. But when the merchant tried to grab him, William slipped away and dashed to his right down a wide avenue. There were fewer people here, and he sprinted unimpeded. He ran until he reached a large square, where he paused, bending over to catch his breath. Looking back, he saw the slave-trader some fifty yards back, now accompanied by two more guards. William straightened and ran on.

Past the square, he left the main avenue, turning off into a maze of narrow alleyways. His pursuers' footsteps echoed between the tall buildings so that they seemed to be everywhere at once. William ran hard, turning frequently until he was completely disoriented. He kept running even as the guards' footsteps faded and his lungs began to burn. Finally, he turned a corner and found himself facing a dead end. He slumped against the wall and then sank to the ground, breathing heavily. He listened intently, straining to hear approaching footsteps over the drumming of blood in his ears, but all was silent. William offered up a prayer of thanks to Saint William of Bury, his patron saint. He had escaped.

A mangy dog entered the alley where William sat and sniffed cautiously at him from a distance. William thought of the carcass he had seen yesterday being torn apart by wild dogs. A night spent alone on these streets, and he too might end up prey to the dogs. He would have to find some place to sleep and food, too. He thought of the monastery he had seen upon entering the city. They might take him in, if only for the night.

He rose and made his way through the warren of small streets to a broad avenue, pausing in the shadows of an alleyway until he was certain that there was no sign of the slave-trader or his brawny Turkish guards. Then he set out in what he hoped was the direction of the monastery. He had only walked for a few minutes when he came to the square with the towering column that he remembered from the day before. Fortune was with him. He quickened his pace, but just then, on the far side of the square, he spied the slave-trader on horseback. William froze, but it was too late. Turning to flee, he ran straight into one of the Turkish guards.

The guard grabbed William's right arm and twisted it behind his back, while with his other hand he held a knife to William's throat. William struggled briefly, but the knife dug in, drawing blood, and he stopped. As a crowd of onlookers gathered, William watched the slave-trader canter up to them and dismount. He said something to the guard, who twisted William's arm further back, forcing his head down. William looked up to see the slave-trader standing above him, a dagger in his hand. William spat at the trader, who slapped him and then put the dagger to William's nose.

'Serbest birakmak onu!' someone shouted at the trader in Turkish, and he pulled the dagger away. William twisted around to see a lean, square-shouldered man striding through the market towards them. The man wore dark chainmail, and at his side swung a sword that, judging from his strong hands and thickly muscled forearms, he knew how to use. He was strong-jawed and handsome, although the deep creases on his forehead told of a life that had been far from easy. His hair was a sandy colour, surprising for the East, and his eyes were a piercing blue. The slave-trader looked at him for a moment, then spat and put his dagger back to William's nose. Longo looked from the well-dressed Turk to the bone-thin boy with fair skin, reddish-brown hair and not the first hint of a man's beard. He looked no older than fifteen, and he was certainly not from the East. Whoever he was, Longo was not about to let this fat Turk torture and kill him in public.

'Please, sir. Help me!' the boy pleaded in English.

'I said, release him,' Longo said again in Turkish and drew his sword.

'The boy is a slave, bought and paid for,' the fat Turk replied. 'I will do with him as I wish.'

'Then I will buy him from you.' Longo took a pouch from his belt and tossed it so that it landed heavily at the Turk's feet. A few gold coins flashed in the sun as they rolled free from the bag. 'I trust that will be more than sufficient.'

The Turk lowered his dagger as he glanced at the pouch — easily four times what the boy was worth. He touched the long gash that William had opened on his cheek. 'The boy has drawn my blood. He has killed one of my men. His life is forfeit.' He raised his dagger, preparing to strike.

'My name is Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, and if you kill that boy, then you will have a quarrel with me.'

The blood drained from the Turk's darkly tanned face, leaving it a sickly yellow colour. He stared from the sword to Longo's worn chainmail and then to Longo's hard face. 'Katil Turkin,' he whispered. He lowered his dagger and shoved the boy roughly towards Longo. 'The boy is yours, effendi. Take him!' The Turk scooped up the pouch, not even bothering to collect the loose coins, and hurried off down the street, followed by his guard.

Longo looked at the boy. 'Well boy, what did you do to make him so angry?' he asked in English.

The boy spat after the retreating figure of the slave-trader and then turned to face Longo. 'He wished to sell me as a slave. I did not wish to be sold.' He looked at Longo suspiciously. 'What did you say to him that made him leave? What does Katil Turkin mean?'

'It means "Scourge of the Turks". It is what I am known as amongst their kind.'

'What are you going to do with me?' the boy asked.

'I have no need for slaves,' Longo told him. 'You are free to go.'

The boy did not move. 'I have nowhere to go. I have no money, no food. At least give me a weapon so that I can defend myself.'

Longo looked hard at the boy. Something about him, perhaps the flash in his eyes or his belief that with a weapon in hand he could make his way in the world, reminded Longo of himself at that age. 'What is your name, boy?'

'William, sir.'

'And how old are you, William?'

'Sixteen,' William replied. Longo eyed him sceptically. 'Fifteen, sir. Fifteen next month.'

'You are very far from home, William. How is it that you came to be in Constantinople?'

'We sailed looking for spices, but our ship was captured by Turks. I was brought here to be sold as a slave.'

'I see. Can you fight?'

William nodded. 'I can hold my own with a dagger.'

'Can you, now?' Longo pulled a dagger from his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it deftly.

'The life of my men is not an easy one, William,' Longo warned him. 'We fight many battles, and we are often on the move. I will not lie to you: you are not likely to live to an old age. But if you do live, then there is glory to be won in battle against the Turks. What do you say?'

'I hate the Turks. They killed my uncle and my shipmates. They beat and sold me. I will fight them gladly.'

'Very well.' Longo took William's arm and clasped him by the elbow. 'You are my man.' Longo turned to shout to Tristo, who was standing some twenty feet away, his arm around a rather buxom woman selling bread. 'Tristo! Come here.'

Tristo kissed the woman he was holding on the cheek, while his hand slipped from her waist to her bottom. 'Sorry, love,' he told her. He gave her bottom a squeeze, and then ducked away before she could slap him. He approached Longo with a grin on his face. 'What is it? She was just about to ask me home.'

'Tristo, this is William, a new recruit.'

'Glad to have you with us, boy,' Tristo said, and he slapped William on the back so hard that the boy stumbled and almost fell.

'Tristo will take care of you, William,' Longo said. 'And your task is to keep Tristo out of trouble. He's a little too fond of women and dice. Can I rely on you?' William nodded, and Longo turned back to Tristo. 'Take him to the ship and prepare to sail. We leave tonight.'

'Where will you be?'

'At the royal palace. I should pay my respects to the empress-mother. With the emperor dead, she may have need of our services.' Sofia stood at the window of her bedroom within the women's quarters of the Blachernae Palace and looked out at the market square beyond the palace courtyard. The view — normal people going about their lives — had always comforted her, but it could not do so now. Many of the people she saw were dressed in black, returning her thoughts to the grim events of the past few days. It was less than a week since the funeral of Emperor John VIII, and her future and the future of the empire were both uncertain. Constantine, the eldest of John's brothers, was far away in Mistra, at the heart of the Peloponnesian peninsula. The second brother, Thomas, was rumoured to be closer. As for Demetrius, the youngest and most ambitious of the three, nobody knew where he was.

The sound of a horse's hooves interrupted Sofia's thoughts, and she looked out to see a man approaching the palace. He was tall and rode with a warrior's ease, a sword swinging at his side. His hair was light and even from a distance Sofia could see that he was not Greek. He was a Latin, perhaps northern Italian, Sofia guessed as the man drew nearer. He was strikingly handsome, but hard, too. There was something about his face, the grim set of his lips… her uncle's face had been like that.

Who was he? she wondered. The Italian ambassadors had already been to the palace, expressing their grief at the death of the emperor and making empty promises of assistance. This Italian would not be coming on behalf of Genoa or Venice. Why, then? Sofia watched him enter the palace courtyard and dismount. She prayed that he was not bringing more bad news.

The Italian looked up suddenly, and his gaze landed on Sofia in her tower room. Their eyes met, and he did not look away. Sofia stepped back from the window and drew the curtain shut. When she looked out again, the Italian had gone. 'Count Giovanni Giustiniani Longo of Genoa and Chios.'

Longo followed the herald's voice into the great octagonal hall of the palace. Its bright interior was ringed with high windows and the walls were lined with Varangian soldiers — the royal family's private guard. Before him, the Empress-Mother Helena sat upon an ornate throne, the back styled as a lion's head, the arms its clawed feet. Over seventy, white-haired and wrinkled, Helena nevertheless held her head high and sat straight, conveying an air of command. To her left and right stood members of the royal court. Longo recognized the Patriarch of the Orthodox Church by his tall conical hat, and the captain of the Varangian guard, a stern, square-built man bearing the insignia of the emperor's personal bodyguard. Near the empress-mother stood the woman that Longo had seen in the tower as he arrived. She was slim and carried herself with a dancer's grace. Her olive skin was flawless, and she had wavy chestnut brown hair, and bewitching eyes of light brown shot through with flecks of gold and green. Longo realized that he was staring at her and turned his attention back to the empress-mother.

'Your Highness,' he said in Greek and bowed with a flourish, his right foot forward and his head lowered to his knee. With a wave of her hand, Helena bade him stand. 'I am honoured to be allowed into you august presence,' Longo continued. 'My condolences on the death of your son, God rest his soul.'

'I have had enough of condolences, Signor Longo,' Helena replied in flawless Italian. Longo was surprised, as much by her directness as by her command of his language. 'You speak Greek well,' Helena continued, this time in Greek.

Longo bowed again in recognition of the compliment. 'Thank you, Your Highness. I spent my childhood in Thessalonica.'

'Ah, yes, before the wars no doubt,' Helena murmured, her eyes closed in memory. When she opened them again, they were cold and stern. 'But you did not come here to discuss your childhood.'

'No, Your Highness. I come bearing important news and to offer you my services, if you have need of them.'

'Very noble of you, Signor Longo,' Helena said. 'What then is your news?'

'Forgive my presumption,' Longo replied. 'But I wish to speak to Your Highness privately.'

Helena studied him closely, her eyes narrow. She nodded, satisfied with the results of her inspection. 'Leave us,' she ordered. The courtiers and soldiers filed quietly from the room. Only the captain of the private guard and the beautiful young woman stayed. Who was she?

'The Princess Sofia is very wise,' Helena said, answering his unspoken question. 'You may speak freely in her presence.' She gestured to the captain of the private guard. 'And I would trust John Dalmata with my life. Your secrets are safe here.'

'Of course, Your Highness,' Longo replied.

'Very good,' Helena said. 'You may proceed, Signor Longo.'

'I come bearing unwelcome news, Your Highness. The crusade led by King Ladislas and John Hunyadi of Hungary is no more. Their armies were surprised and routed by the Turks at Kossova. King Ladislas is dead, and Hunyadi has returned to Hungary to rule as regent. He will no doubt be forced to make peace with the sultan.'

Helena was silent. To her left, Sofia's eyes were wide with disbelief. It was Dalmata, the captain of the guard, who spoke first. 'Hunyadi defeated? We have heard nothing of this.'

'I witnessed the defeat with my own eyes,' Longo responded. 'My men rode hard to reach Constantinople. We arrived only today.'

'If Hunyadi has been defeated,' Sofia began, 'then there is no one left to stand between us and the Turkish army. They will not be quick to attack so soon after a major campaign, but if they sense any weakness — a struggle for succession, civil war — then they will strike.' Longo nodded. The girl's grasp of the situation was perfect.

'And Constantinople would fall,' Helena concluded. Good, Longo thought. They understand the danger. 'I will see to it that the succession is handled swiftly,' Helena continued. 'My oldest son, Constantine, shall be named emperor, and there will be no dissension, no civil war. I thank you for your news, Signor Longo. We are in your debt.'

'You do me too much honour, Your Highness,' Longo said. 'But I have one more piece of news to deliver. My men and I passed through Selymbria on our way to Constantinople. Your son, Demetrius, was there. He will arrive before Constantine even knows of the emperor's death.'

'Of course,' Helena replied coolly. 'We are expecting Demetrius any moment now. But do not fear. I will deal with my son when he arrives, and I will send a messenger to Constantine informing him that he is now the emperor.'

'Demetrius will no doubt arrive with force, Your Highness,' Longo said. 'My men are at your disposal, if you have need of us when he arrives.'

Helena shook her head. 'Thank you, Signor Longo, but I believe I know how to handle my son.'

'Then may I offer the services of my ship? She is fast, and Mistra is on the way to Italy. Allow me to carry your message to Constantine.'

'I accept your gracious offer,' Helena replied. 'John Dalmata will travel with you. Constantine trusts him. I will send two officials, Alexius Philanthropenus and George Sphrantzes, with the crown. Constantine shall be crowned emperor as soon as you arrive.'

Longo nodded his agreement. 'I will await Lord Dalmata and the officials at my ship. It is harboured in the Golden Horn, at the Port of Pera. We will set sail this very night.'

'Very well,' Helena said. 'May God go with you, Signor Longo.' The sun had set by the time Longo's ship, la Fortuna, got under way. Tristo and the other soldiers were already below decks, drinking and playing dice. The ship's crew scurried about the deck, preparing the rigging. The two ambassadors from Constantinople were in their cabin, suffering from seasickness. Longo had stayed on deck to talk with Dalmata. He was a man of few words, but forthright and intelligent. Like all of the Varangians, Dalmata's ancestors were Saxon nobles who had come to Constantinople generations ago, after King William conquered England, and Dalmata retained the brown hair, grey eyes and lighter skin of his kinsmen. He had been raised in the imperial household and trained in combat by his father, the emperor's personal bodyguard before him. Dalmata told Longo that Constantine was a strong man and would be a good emperor. They had grown up together in the palace, and Dalmata counted Constantine as a friend. Longo was glad to hear that Constantine was capable. He would need to be if his empire were to survive.

Dalmata excused himself to see after the two ambassadors, and Longo was left alone on deck. He stood near the rail, alone with his thoughts as a strong westerly wind hurried la Fortuna across the Sea of Marmora. Longo had been campaigning with Hunyadi for nearly a year, and it had been much longer since he had last set foot in Italy. He was eager to feel the warm sunshine of his homeland, eager to walk his fields once more and to watch his grapes as they ripened in the sun. But looking towards Constantinople, dark on the horizon with lights shining here and there, Longo felt something pull at him. A part of him always felt more at home in the East, far from the shores of Italy and the squabbles of his countrymen. Perhaps things would be different if he married, as his chamberlain Nicolo had been urging him to do for years. He thought of the Princess Sofia, with her bright, intelligent eyes, and then laughed at himself. He would never see her again, and he knew better than to wish for things he could never have. He had learned that lesson long ago.

Longo turned away and made his way to the ladder leading below decks, but before he could descend he was stopped by a noise so unexpected that it took him a moment to identify it. Floating in and out of the myriad noises of a ship at sea — the creaking of wooden planks, the slap of waves and the constant roar of wind in the sails — was the barely audible sound of someone crying. Longo looked around him, but saw only a few sailors coiling ropes. He listened more carefully. The sound was coming from above him.

Curious, Longo mounted the ratlines and climbed up to the crow's nest, high above the deck. He hauled himself over the side and found himself face to face with William, who looked away as he wiped the tears from his eyes. 'Why aren't you below with the others, William?' Longo asked.

William wiped away a last tear. 'I was just watching the city, the lights,' he said, struggling to master his quavering voice. 'It's like nothing I've ever seen.'

Longo looked out to where the city was still floating past, visible only as a million flickering flames from torches lining streets or fires burning in hearths. Its sea walls rose abruptly from the waves, giving it the look of an island, or some fantastic city afloat at sea, another Atlantis. 'Constantinople is magnificent, isn't she?' Longo reflected.

William nodded. 'Why do they call themselves Romans? They don't live in Rome.'

'They are the heirs to the Roman Empire, with an unbroken line of emperors all the way back to Augustus,' Longo explained. 'In some ways, they have a greater claim to the name Romans than the people of Rome themselves.'

'Is Rome like Constantinople?' William asked.

'Like Constantinople? No,' Longo laughed. 'But it is a magnificent place. It is filled with palaces, fountains, markets where you can buy whatever your heart desires, and beautiful women. I will take you there someday. You will like it.'

'I know I will. And yet…' William looked at Longo steadily, and Longo was surprised to see that the young man's eyes were filled not with sadness, but with anger. 'Part of me does not want to leave this place. The Turks killed my crewmates, my friends. It is my duty to avenge them. I owe them that.'

The blazing eyes, the hatred, William was so much like Longo at that age. 'Do you know, William,' Longo said, 'that I too took up the sword looking for vengeance? Do you know how many Turks have died at my hand? I have killed more men than I can count, more than I dare remember. War is all I know.' He looked closely at William. 'Vengeance will not bring your friends back, nor will it bring you peace.'

'You don't understand,' William snapped, shaking his head. 'The Turks betrayed us. They cut my friends down in cold blood. They killed my uncle, my last family in this world, but they let me live.' William fought back tears. 'I cannot live in peace until they are dead. All of them.'

'I do understand, William,' Longo said. 'Better than you know. I was only nine when a Turkish raiding party came to my family's home outside Salonika. The sultan had claimed Salonika, and I was to be forcibly recruited into the janissaries as part of the devshirme, the gathering. My older brother fought, hoping to save me. He was killed, and as punishment for his defiance, the Turkish commander had my parents gutted and left for the wolves to finish. I took up my brother's sword, thinking I could save them. I surprised the Turkish commander, and had I not been so clumsy, I would have killed him. Instead, I left an ugly gash on his face. In his rage, he beat me almost to death. When I came to, I swore that someday, somehow, I would kill that man. I still see his face in my dreams.'

Longo paused. The lights of Constantinople had been swallowed by the darkness and grey, barely visible land rose from the sea on either side of them — the walls of the Dardanelles Strait. 'But my vengeance had to wait,' Longo continued. 'I was taken to Edirne, the Turkish name for Adrianople, and placed in the acemi oglan, the school for young janissaries.' Longo fell silent. He had never told his story to anybody. He rarely allowed himself to think of it. Now, he gazed into the darkness beyond the reach of the ship's lamps and battled with old memories.

'You were a janissary?' William asked. 'What did you do? How did you get out?'

'Three years after my capture, when I was twelve, I escaped. I tried to reach Constantinople, but I never made it. I lost my way and spent nearly a year wandering the countryside, stealing food and sleeping in barns. I passed through Athens, Kossova, Thebes. Eventually, I stowed away on a ship and ended up on the island of Chios. I lived on the streets until one of the Italian families that rule the island — the Giustiniani — took me in. My parents were Venetian and I could speak Italian, so they made me a house servant. Eventually the head of the family, who had no children of his own, adopted me.'

'And the man who killed your family, did you ever find him?'

'Yes, I found him,' Longo replied quietly. He thought again of the battle of Kossova, of how close he had come to the scar-faced man, of how he had failed. Longo closed his eyes against the pain of the memories. 'Get below,' he told William. 'That is enough talk for one night.' Later that night, long after the streets of Constantinople had been abandoned to thieves and packs of wild dogs, a lone traveller dressed in black spurred his horse along the deserted avenue that wound up the fourth hill, high above the waters of the Golden Horn. The traveller's face was invisible, swallowed up in the shadows of his hood. He kept to the darkness, carefully skirting the intermittent pools of light that spilled on to the road from open windows. At the top of the hill the Church of Saint Saviour Pantocrator came into view, its many domes rising high above the road. The traveller quickened his pace, riding at a gallop into the church courtyard.

Two monks in long, black cowls stood waiting. One took the traveller's horse and led it away to the stables. The other led the traveller into the monastery, along dim passages and down a short flight of stairs to a low-ceilinged cellar, where they stopped at a heavy, wooden door. The monk took a lantern from the wall and opened the door, leading the traveller into the catacombs beneath the church. The catacombs had been built above an ancient cistern, and the air was cold and wet, thick with the smells of rock and decay. Their path twisted and turned amongst the crypts before coming to an end at another thick, wooden door. The monk knocked, twice slowly and then three knocks in rapid succession. Then he pushed the door open, and the traveller stepped inside. The monk closed the door behind him.

The small, brightly lit room was dominated by a rectangular table of rough-hewn stone. Around the table stood three men. To the traveller's left was the rotund Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, Gregory Mammas, a nervous man with small, darting eyes. He had only been named Patriarch after the more influential bishops had refused, not wanting to be associated with Emperor John VIII's policy of unifying the Greek and Catholic churches. The two churches had been separate since 1054, when the pope and the Greek patriarch had excommunicated one another, and the rift between them had only deepened over time.

To the traveller's right stood Lucas Notaras, a tall man with chiselled features and dark, brilliant eyes. Only forty, Notaras had shown himself both an able warrior and an implacable foe of union. John VIII had placed him in charge of the city's defence, a position he had filled capably. As megadux of the empire he was second in power only to the emperor.

George Scholarius Gennadius, a small, wiry man with bright, penetrating eyes, stood across the table from the traveller. Gennadius wore the simple black robe of a monk, his mode of dress ever since he had rejected the patriarchy and retired to the monastery of Saint Saviour Pantocrator. He was the leader of those who opposed union, and he commanded the support of nearly all the Orthodox clergy. From his small cell in the monastery, he wielded far more power than the actual patriarch and almost as much as the emperor himself. It was Gennadius who had called this meeting. He spoke first.

'Welcome to Constantinople, Prince Demetrius,' he said. 'You honour us greatly by accepting our invitation.'

'The honour is mine, Gennadius,' Demetrius replied, pushing back his hood. He had dark black hair, cropped short, and a small beard, immaculately groomed. 'Forgive the late hour of my arrival, but you all understand the importance of my entering the city unseen.'

'Of course,' Gennadius agreed. 'None can know that our next emperor has already arrived in Constantinople.'

Demetrius's eyes glittered. 'So it is true. You wish to offer me the crown.'

Gennadius nodded. 'There are conditions.'

'I expected as much. What are they?'

Lucas Notaras leaned forward, his hands gripping the table. 'We all know your brother, Constantine, wants union with the Catholics. He would have us licking the pope's feet the day after he took the throne. Union is a fool's dream. We will make you emperor, Demetrius, but you must swear on your life to never accept union with the Catholic Church.'

Demetrius looked at their expectant faces. He had never shared this religious fervour, this blind faith that led men to such foolish acts. Still, if religion would make him emperor, then he would embrace it. 'I swear on my life, on the blood of the Saviour himself, that as emperor, I will never allow union with the Catholics.'

Gennadius's lips pulled back in a predatory smile. 'Very good,' he said. 'But I believe Mammas has one more condition.'

Mammas nodded and licked his lips. 'There are many in the Church who wish to see me removed for having supported union.' He glanced at Gennadius, then back to Demetrius. 'You must promise to maintain my position as patriarch, and in return, I will crown you emperor.'

'Very well,' said Demetrius. 'It shall be as you say.'

'Then you shall be emperor,' Gennadius confirmed. 'It will take several days to gather all of the nobles who are loyal to you. In one week's time, Patriarch Mammas will proclaim you emperor in the Forum of Theodosius. From there, you will parade to the Blachernae Palace, where you will take the crown.'

'What of my mother?' Demetrius asked. 'Constantine is her favourite. Surely she will not accept me as emperor.'

'She will have no choice,' Notaras replied. 'Helena is only a woman. She thinks the palace guard can protect her, but in a week we will have gathered over five hundred nobles to support you. If it comes to a fight, we will win.'

'And Constantine?' Demetrius pressed. 'He will not sit idly by in Mistra after I take the throne. He will bring an army against me.'

'The walls of Constantinople have stood for over a thousand years, they have defeated Huns and Turks alike. They will defeat Constantine and his army, too.'

Demetrius nodded.

'Until next Sunday then, when we shall greet you as emperor,' Gennadius said. 'In the meantime, I suggest you stay here, out of sight. Nobody must know that you are in the city.' He pulled a long bell rope that hung from a hole in the ceiling. They heard no sound, but a second later the door to the room opened to reveal the monk who had led Demetrius into the catacombs. 'Eugenius,' Gennadius called to the monk. 'Lead Demetrius to the guest quarters. He will be staying with us.'

Demetrius followed the monk out of the cell, and the two disappeared into the darkness of the catacombs. Patriarch Mammas hurried to close the door behind them. 'Do you think supporting Demetrius is still wise?' he asked, turning back to Gennadius and Notaras. 'You have heard the news that the Turks have defeated Hunyadi. If we put Demetrius on the throne, then we will have civil war. The Turkish army will come for us. Demetrius is no leader. The Turks will push him over like a toy.'

Gennadius and Notaras exchanged a glance. 'Better the sultan's turban than the cardinal's hat,' Notaras said.

Gennadius nodded in agreement. 'My thoughts exactly. Leave politics to others, Mammas. You are a man of God. These matters are not your concern. Simply do as we ask, and you shall keep the patriarchy. Otherwise, we are prepared to act without you.'

Mammas stood silent, wringing his hands. 'I will do it, but with a troubled conscience,' he said at last. 'I fear that we are inviting our destruction at the hands of the Turks.'