Siege

'I am sure none of us has forgotten, Signor, but we also have a duty to our city and our people,' Fregoso said. 'I propose that we make contact with the sultan…'

'But Signor!' Longo interrupted. 'We cannot abandon Constantinople.'

'We will not,' Fregoso assured him. 'We will seek to learn the sultan's mind, but will enter into no official agreement. Meanwhile, the Emperor Constantine will be given assurances of aid, to be delivered when and if an attack occurs.' In short, Fregoso was proposing that they do nothing. 'All in favour?' the Doge asked. A chorus of ayes settled the matter. Only Longo and Spinola had abstained. 'Very well,' Fregoso concluded, 'the matter is settled and this meeting is at an end.'

Longo rose and marched from the palace without a word to the others. The decision had not surprised him, but he was upset nonetheless. He sent Tristo and his men on ahead to the palazzo. Longo followed on foot, striding ahead as if to outpace his disappointment. William stood in a shadowy alleyway and watched as Longo exited the Ducal Palace and headed on foot towards the centre of town. He followed at a distance. A dense crowd filled the narrow street, circulating between the shops that lined both sides of the road. Above, covered balconies projecting from the buildings nearly met overhead, leaving only a narrow gap for the pale January sunshine. William watched as a house servant came to the window of one of the balconies and dumped a chamber-pot into the street below. William jumped back, narrowly avoiding being doused with filth.

He turned to find Longo standing before him. William froze, his face flushing crimson. 'I didn't mean to disobey, sir,' he explained. 'But I wanted to see the city – it was dark when we arrived, and I didn't think it would do any harm…'

'I am not angry with you,' Longo said, cutting William short. 'I could use your company. We will stop by the market on the way to the palazzo. As long as you are out, I might as well buy you something to wear. Those rags barely cover you.'

They walked through the maze of narrow streets and down to the market. It filled the Piazza San Giorgio, only a few blocks from the port, and overflowed into the surrounding streets. The periphery of the square was lined with booths selling a dazzling array of goods – oriental silks, Indian spices, exotic animals, swords, flowers. Milling between the booths was a thick crowd of people, cut occasionally by a noble on horseback. William stopped and gaped, dazzled by the brightly painted buildings that lined the square, the outlandishly dressed street performers and the sheer liveliness of it all. Longo waded into the crowd, and William hurried after him.

They stopped in front of a stall selling bolts of cloth and well-worked leather in long strips. Longo patted the leather appreciatively, then spoke briefly with the merchant, who offered two long lengths of the leather for Longo's closer inspection. Longo nodded his approval and then moved on to examine a bolt of white cotton.

'But I thought we were buying clothes,' William interrupted.

'These are your clothes: leather breeches and a cotton shirt. Tristo will show you how to sew them. Now come. You look half-starved. I will buy you something to eat. You have never had a fig, I'd wager.'

William had never tasted anything quite so wonderful as a fig. It was so sweet it hurt his mouth, but it also had an exotic, earthy flavour that undercut the sweetness. As he and Longo chewed, they wandered over to watch a fire-eater in one of the streets on the edge of the square. The fire-eater took a flaming sword and slowly inserted the blade – all two feet of it – into his mouth so that only the hilt protruded. When he withdrew the sword, the blade was still burning.

'How does he do that?' William wondered.

Longo reflected, chewing on a fig. 'Maybe he drinks something special to protect him. Or maybe it does burn him, but he has grown used to the pain.'

But William was no longer listening. All his attention was focused beyond the fire-eater, to where an Italian noble was approaching on horseback. He was a thin man, whose otherwise handsome face was marred by a perpetual sneer. William recognized that face; indeed, he would never forget it. It was the face of Carlo Grimaldi, the man who had betrayed William and his crewmates to the Turks.

William surged forward, stepping in front of Carlo's horse. 'It is you, you bastard!' he screamed. 'I am going to kill you!'

The horse reared, almost unseating Carlo. He recovered and stared contemptuously at William. 'You seem to have lost your wits, boy,' he said in accented English. 'I have never seen you before in my life. Now get out of my way.' He slashed his riding whip across William's face, drawing blood.

William drew his dagger and stood his ground. 'You are a murderer,' he spat. 'You stabbed my uncle in the back. You betrayed us to the Turks.'

'I do not take kindly to being insulted, especially by common English scum like you,' Carlo snarled and again sent his riding whip slashing towards William's face. William raised his dagger and sliced the whip neatly in two. 'I will have your head for that!' Carlo roared, drawing his sword.

Longo stepped between Carlo and William. 'I am Longo Giustiniani, and this boy is under my protection. If you have a quarrel with him, then you have a quarrel with me.'

Carlo went white at the mention of Longo's name. 'I did not know the boy was in your service, Signor Giustiniani. But he has insulted me and drawn on me. I demand justice.'

'If you want justice, then you will have to take it from me,' Longo said.

Carlo hesitated. His honour had been challenged, but clearly he did not wish to fight Longo. Finally he nodded. 'So be it. I shall send someone to arrange the details.'

'No,' William insisted. 'I will fight for myself.'

'Quiet, William,' Longo ordered. 'You do not know what you are doing.'

William ignored him. Carlo had killed his friends, and William had sworn to make him pay. He turned to Carlo and said in broken Italian, 'I you fight. I.'

Carlo smirked. 'I would as soon wipe my boots with him as fight this commoner,' he said. 'But the boy seems to need a lesson in manners. I will meet him tomorrow. My man will be at your house presently. Good-day, Signor Giustiniani.' Carlo's second, his portly brother Paolo, arrived at the palazzo no more than an hour later and met with Longo. They quickly agreed to terms: first light, the Piazza di Sarzano, to the death.

Longo found William and Tristo eating at a table in the courtyard, and he stopped to watch them. Tristo was tucking into a heaping plate of vermicelli covered in butter, while William held up a long thin noodle, eyeing it sceptically. 'Looks like a worm,' he noted. 'What do you call it again?'

'La pasta.'

'La pasta,' William repeated and ate the noodle, chewing carefully. 'Not bad.' He reached for a cup and sniffed at the contents.

'Il vino,' Tristo told him.

William took a sip and grimaced. 'Haven't you got any beer?'

Tristo laughed. 'You'll learn to like it, boy. Believe me.' William took another sip and grimaced again.

'Don't go getting him drunk, Tristo. He'll need a clear head tomorrow,' Longo called as he approached. 'William, we have agreed to terms. The duel will be to the death.' Longo studied William's face for any sign of fear, but saw none. 'Have you ever fought with a short sword?' Longo asked him.

'Just daggers, mostly.'

'Take a hold of this, then,' Longo said. He handed William a short sword – a three-foot thin blade with shallow edges, a light sword more for stabbing than for cutting. William took it and slashed the air before him.

'It's so long. Why do they call it a short sword?'

'The sword is named by the length of its handle,' Longo told him.

'Well, so long as it's sharp.' William practised another attack, ducking low and raking his sword through the air, where his foe's knees would be. The boy used the sword like a huge dagger. He had no idea of formal sword fighting.