Longo swung out on one of the ropes, and hanging by his hands and feet, began to crawl between the ships. 'Crazy bastard!' Tristo called after him, and then turning towards the crew, he shouted: 'Well, come on then!' He swung out on the rope, followed by the rest of Longo's men.
Arrows whizzed past Longo, but he managed to reach the far side unharmed. He was about to clamber on to the deck when there was a skirmish at the railing and a Turk appeared at the side above him. The Turk raised his sword to cut the rope that Longo was hanging from but was struck down from behind. Phlatanelas, the transport's captain, appeared at the side and pulled Longo up. The situation on board was desperate: the crowds of Turks at the bow and stern were growing larger by the second.
'Greek fire?' Longo asked as he pulled a winded Tristo up on to the deck.
'We have only one barrel left.' Phlatanelas pointed to the squat barrel in the centre of the ship, standing next to a bucket with a burning torch in it.
'I have an idea for that barrel,' Tristo said.
Longo nodded. 'Concentrate your men on the stern of the ship, Phlatanelas. We'll take care of the bow.' Phlatanelas hurried to the stern, while Longo and Tristo went to the barrel. 'Are you sure this will work?' Longo asked.
'No choice,' Tristo replied. Longo hauled down one of the foresails, while Tristo took the stopper from the top of the barrel. Grunting, he lifted the heavy barrel and poured Greek fire over the sail, while Longo used a rag to spread it about. 'All right,' Tristo nodded. 'Here we go.' Tristo and Longo both took hold of a line and hauled the sail upward. When it was some twenty feet above the deck, they stopped. Longo grabbed the torch and drew his sword.
'Are you sure about this?' he asked Tristo. 'Last time we burned the ship down.'
'If she burns, at least the Turks won't take her,' Tristo replied with a grin.
'God save us!' Longo shouted as he slashed through one of the stays holding up the foremast, then another. The mast fell slowly forward and Tristo let go of his line so that the sail swung forward in front of the mast. Longo yelled at his men in the bow: 'Retreat! To me, to me! Retreat!' Longo's men rushed away from the bow, and the Turks came pouring after them. Longo charged towards them, running after the billowing sail. At the last second, he touched the torch to it, and the sail burst into flames as it swung forward and into the Turks, sweeping them off the deck. As the flaming sail followed the last of the Turks over the side, the foremast came down with a crash next to Longo. At the rear of the ship, Phlatanelas and his men were in control again. Perhaps they would survive this after all.
'I told you it would work,' Tristo said, grinning. As he spoke, the sails on the mainmast filled briefly, and then fell limp again. 'Come on, damn wind, blow!' Tristo growled, and as if in response, another strong gust filled the sails, followed by another.
'Cut us off from l'Aquila,' Longo ordered. By the time he reached the wheel, the gusts had settled into a constant wind from the north, blowing them towards the mouth of the Golden Horn. The crew cheered as the transport gathered way, crashing through the Turkish ships around it. Their cheers were matched by those from the other Christian ships sailing ahead of them, and by the ringing of bells echoing down from the heights of Constantinople above. The great chain protecting the harbour had been drawn back just enough to allow them to pass. 'Thank God,' Longo murmured as they sailed into the Golden Horn. They had made it to Constantinople at last. As evening fell, Sofia stood before the mirror in her chambers, appraising herself in yet another caftan, the third she had tried. The close-fitting caftan of gold-embroidered scarlet silk accented her thin waist and pushed up her breasts, emphasizing her cleavage. She nodded, finally satisfied. She began to apply kohl around her wide, hazel eyes, and noted with disappointment that the faintest traces of wrinkles were beginning to form at their edges. At least she was still fit and graceful. Her skin was healthy, even if it did not approach the pale perfection of an ideal lady. But then, Sofia did not suppose that she would ever be anyone's idea of a perfect lady. She was herself, no more and no less.
When she arrived in the great hall the tables were already crowded. Longo and Phlatanelas sat at the table of honour, to the right and left of Constantine. Sphrantzes and Dalmata also sat to the emperor's left, and Notaras and the Archbishop Leonard sat on his right. A steward guided Sofia to her seat to the right of the emperor, between Archbishop Leonard and the dull Grand Logothete, Metochites. Sofia pretended to listen to their discussion – a heated debate regarding the use of unleavened bread for communion – while trying to catch as much as she could of the conversation at the centre of the table. But she could make out little until late in the meal, when the great hall quieted and the toasts began.
Constantine stood first. 'To Signor Giustiniani and his brave men,' he said, raising his glass. 'May the example they have set today inspire us and lead us to victory!' There was much thumping of tables and hearty shouts of 'Hear! Hear!' as the guests downed their drinks.
Longo stood and offered a toast in return: 'To Constantinople, fairest city in the world, and to the people who have so graciously received us. It is an honour to fight beside you.' Again, there was a great deal of table thumping before glasses were drained.
A variety of toasts ensued: 'To the Turks, may they rot in hell!' 'To the Empire of the Romans!' 'To the Emperor!' 'To the Venetians!' 'To the Genoese!'
Archbishop Leonard, clearly far from sober after the rounds of toasting, stood unsteadily and added, 'To the Union and all that it has brought!' There was an uncomfortable silence, and then a round of mumbled voices echoed: 'To Union.' At least half of the guests did not drink the toast, which proved to be the last of the night. A cloud seemed to have come over the party.
'I only meant to point out that Union has already brought us Signor Giustiniani,' Archbishop Leonard grumbled as he sat down. 'More help is no doubt on the way. Surely that should make even the damned Synaxis happy.'
'What have you heard, Signor Giustiniani?' Notaras asked. 'Has the pope kept his word? Is there more help on the way?'
The hall quieted as all attention focused on Longo. 'The pope has called for a crusade,' Longo began.
'Ah, see!' Archbishop Leonard interjected.
'But the French and English kings refuse to fight, and the Hungarian army is bogged down with troubles of its own. I know of no other forces coming from Genoa or Venice.' The hall was silent. 'I could be wrong. My ships have been storm-bound at Chios for weeks, and we have heard little for some time now. Perhaps matters have changed.'
'Perhaps?' Notaras asked. 'That is all we have heard for months now. Perhaps the West will rally to our cause. Perhaps Venice will send its fleet. Perhaps the Hungarian army is on the move. Perhaps help is almost here. Meanwhile, there is nothing hypothetical about the sultan's army. It is there, just outside the walls, and promises alone will not defeat it!'
'Enough, Notaras,' Constantine said. 'This is a feast of celebration. Whether or not more help comes, Signor Giustiniani and his men are here now, as is the grain sent by the pope. This is cause for rejoicing! Come; bring more wine. Let us have music and dance. For tonight, at least, let us enjoy ourselves.'
The entrance of the musicians and scantily clad dancers was the signal for the women to leave. Sofia did not envy the men their drunken revelry, but she was sorry to go. She had hoped to speak with Longo, although she was unsure what she would say to him. She rose from the table, bowed to the emperor, and exited via the narrow, torchlit hallway leading to her suites.