Within minutes the boat pulled alongside la Fortuna. William clambered aboard first. 'Sorry I'm late,' he said.
Tristo laughed and engulfed him in a hug. 'Nonsense. We're just glad you made it.'
'We are indeed,' Longo said, taking William's hand.
'I still have a score to settle with the Turks,' William said. 'When the war comes, I will be there.' He withdrew his hand and turned to help the other passenger into the boat. 'And now, the reason for my tardy arrival. May I present my fiancee, Portia Fiori.' Portia stepped on to the deck and pushed back the hood of her cloak, freeing her hair to stream in the gusting wind. A few low whistles of appreciation were heard from the hands on deck. Portia blushed.
Longo bowed. 'My Lady,' he said, 'you are most welcome aboard my ship.' Portia blushed an even deeper shade of crimson and curtsied. 'William, show her to her quarters. She can sleep with Maria and the other women. Tristo, give the order to make all sail. Let's take advantage of what little tide remains while we can.'
The ship moved ahead once more, and Longo walked aft to stand at the rail. The sun finally crept over the mountains, transforming the sea into molten gold. The wind teased his hair, and Longo breathed deeply of the tangy ocean air. For the first time since Julia's death, he permitted himself to smile. Love and revenge. There was, Longo supposed, room in the world for both after all. Part II
Chapter 13
Sofia prayed silently as she knelt on the stone floor of the Haghia Sofia. It was Easter but the great church was not even half full. Ever since Union had been declared the previous December, the Haghia Sofia had been avoided by the populace. Few had come today to listen to the mass performed by the official papal delegate, Archbishop Leonard. Sofia was not listening either. In her late-night snooping about the palace, she had heard reports of tens of thousands of Turkish soldiers massing on the Bosphorus. She had also seen the official estimate of soldiers in Constantinople. They numbered less than seven thousand. A few Italians and Spanish had come to defend the city, but no new troops had arrived for weeks. Despite his promise to Constantine, Longo had not come. So while Leonard preached, Sofia prayed for Western aid.
Archbishop Leonard began the Easter communion and Sofia stepped forward to receive the sacrament. She had just knelt before the altar when a dust-covered messenger entered the sanctuary and hurried to Constantine's side. The messenger whispered in Constantine's ear, and the emperor rose immediately. 'My apologies, Archbishop,' he said, before striding from the church. As he went, he called to Dalmata: 'Send messengers to the other commanders. Have them meet me at the gate of Charisius.'
The service faltered as rumours spread like a wildfire through the congregation. Cries of 'The Turks are here!' were heard, and men began to leave in ever greater numbers. Sofia took advantage of the confusion to slip out of the sanctuary, leaving her escort behind. She caught up to Constantine and followed discreetly behind him. Outside, she took the horse of one of the emperor's guardsmen without asking, simply hauling herself into the saddle and riding away with the emperor's party. The dumb-founded guardsman said nothing. Sometimes, Sofia reflected, royalty had its advantages.
They took Constantinople's main thoroughfare, the Mese, to the gate of Charisius, and climbed to the top of the gate tower, some seventy feet above the surrounding countryside. Notaras was there waiting for them. He noticed Sofia and raised his eyebrows questioningly, but said nothing. Taking care to stay out of Constantine's sight, Sofia got as close to the edge of the tower as she could. She need not have worried: the emperor's attention was fixed elsewhere. He stood gazing into the distance, his knuckles white as he gripped the wall. Sofia followed his eyes but saw nothing, just fields and scattered villages stretching across the rolling hills to the empty horizon.
'Where are they?' Constantine asked.
'They will be here soon enough,' Notaras replied.
As they watched, a thin, dark line appeared on the horizon and spread quickly, like ink spilled on parchment. Soon, the distant hills were covered with men on horseback – a solid wave of motion that turned the hills black. The line of men stretched for miles across the horizon.
'My God,' Constantine whispered. 'There are so many.'
'That is just the advance guard,' Notaras said. 'The main body is still several days behind them.'
'The time has come, then,' Constantine said. 'Dalmata, have the bridges across the moat burned and close the gates. Notaras, have the great chain put in place to seal off the Golden Horn. No one leaves the city without my permission. Is that understood?' The two men nodded and hurried away. Constantine remained on the wall with a few guards and Sofia. Below them, men set fire to the bridge leading to the gate of Charisius, and the black, acrid smoke reached to the tower, stinging Sofia's eyes. In the distance, men continued to pour over the horizon. 'We are at war,' Constantine murmured. 'God save us.' Mehmed arrived at Constantinople four days later with the last detachment of the Turkish army. By this time the Turkish camp had already been laid out and the sprawling red and gold tent of the sultan had been erected on a hill beside the Lycus river. From it, Mehmed could see almost the entire stretch of Constantinople's walls, running in an unbroken line for over two miles from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmora. The defences were three-tiered. First there was a ditch, or fosse, some sixty feet across and flooded in places, with a low breastwork immediately behind it. Past the fosse, an outer wall rose some twenty-five feet high, studded with towers. Beyond that was the inner wall, which had never been breached. It was forty feet high and up to twenty feet thick in places, with towers reaching as high as seventy feet. The walls had turned back many an invader, including Mehmed's father. But Mehmed was not his father.
Mehmed had spent his entire life preparing for this siege. He knew the walls' weaknesses, and he would exploit them. From his tent he had an excellent view of the Mesoteichion – the weakest part of the walls, where they crossed the Lycus valley. This would be the focus of his attack, and he wanted it constantly under his eye.
He looked away from the walls, allowing his eyes to drift over the field before him. Some two hundred yards from the walls, his men were busy building their own fortifications – a deep ditch backed by an earthen rampart, topped with a wooden palisade. The fortifications would discourage any night-time raids by the Christians, and they would provide a platform for the cannons. Between the fortifications and Mehmed's tent lay the tents of the janissaries. And finally, surrounding Mehmed's tent, were the tents of his own private guard.
Mehmed's generals and advisors were making their way through the tents towards him. Ishak Pasha and Halil were at their head. After them came Baltoghlu, a Bulgarian-born pirate, famed for his raids against Venetian and Genoese merchant ships. Mehmed had appointed him admiral of the Turkish fleet. Next to him waddled the bazibozouks' short, fiery commander, Mahmud Pasha, and Kardja Pasha, the commander of the over ten thousand European troops provided by Mehmed's vassals and allies. Bringing up the rear was the brilliant Hungarian cannon maker, Urban. He had worked for the Greek court until Mehmed had lured him away, offering him four times the pay. Ulu already stood beside Mehmed. The huge supreme aga of the janissaries rarely left the sultan's side. When the men reached Mehmed at the entrance to his tent, they all bowed.
'We have much to discuss,' Mehmed said and led the way inside. A table covered with maps, diagrams and lists of figures stood in the centre of the tent. Mehmed shoved these papers aside to reveal a large, detailed map of Constantinople. He pointed to the long line of walls drawn on the map. 'I have heard grumbling in the camp that these walls are impenetrable, that they cannot fall,' he said. 'That is nonsense. I want any man heard to utter such talk punished with a whipping. Each of you, gather your men tonight. Tell them that Allah is on our side, and that their sultan has perfected a plan to bring down the walls of Constantinople. Tell them of the riches and glory that will be theirs, that the first man over the walls will not only win a special place in paradise, but also a fortune to last a lifetime.'