Outside the church, Longo followed the shuffling crowd back to the courtyard of the palace. Through the thick crowd he could just make out Constantine, sitting on a throne placed in the centre of the courtyard. He sat straight-backed, smiling often, as a continual stream of men passed before him, kissing his knees and pledging their fealty. Longo joined the procession, and soon he stood before Constantine. He stepped forward and bowed low before the emperor. 'Congratulations, Emperor Constantine. On behalf of the people of Genoa, allow me to be the first to offer our friendship and goodwill.'
'Thank you, Signor Longo. Your presence honours me,' Constantine replied. 'And thank you for transporting the crown and my mother's ambassadors aboard your ship. Without you, I would not have been crowned today. You will be my guest at the feast tonight. I shall set a place at my table for you.'
'You are too kind, Emperor,' Longo said. 'But I must decline. I have been too long gone from Genoa, and I am eager to return. I will start back this very day.'
'Well then, I wish you well on your voyage. You will always be welcome at my court.'
'Thank you, Emperor,' Longo replied, bowing low again. 'My sword will always be at your service. If you are ever in need, I will hasten to you call.'
'Godspeed, Signor Longo.'
'And may God protect you, Emperor Constantine.'
JANUARY 1449: NEAR EDIRNE
The Turkish army was on the march, a long, thick column of men that snaked for miles alongside the Maritza river. Mehmed, flanked by Ulu and surrounded by his private guard, rode near the head of the column. It was a glorious, clear winter day, and Mehmed's spirits were high. After weeks of drilling, of gathering men and supplies, he now rode at the head of over sixty thousand well-equipped men. And it was his army.
His father, Murad, travelled with them for now, sitting in a litter at the heart of the army, but the next day, when they left the Maritza valley and headed east, Murad would return to Edirne. It would be Mehmed alone who conquered Constantinople. After that, there would be no more whispered jibes about 'Mehmed the Scholar', no more months spent wasting away in far-off Manisa. He would take his rightful place as the ruling sultan, whether his father agreed or not. With a triumphant army at his back, and Constantinople under his control, no one would be able to stop him. He smiled just to think of it.
The smile turned into a frown as ahead the front ranks stopped suddenly, bringing the entire army to a halt. 'Ulu, see what has happened,' Mehmed ordered. Ulu galloped away and returned a moment later, followed by a squat Greek who sat uncomfortably in the saddle. Mehmed examined him carefully. The Greek's eyes were intelligent and probing, but guarded. Judging from the deep blue, heavily jewelled caftan and thick gold necklace that he wore, he was some sort of councillor, a political creature, and Mehmed held a deep suspicion of all political men.
'He says he is an ambassador from Constantinople, one Lord Sphrantzes,' Ulu reported. 'He rode at the head of a small troop of armed men. He says that he has an urgent message for the sultan.'
'I am the sultan,' Mehmed said to Sphrantzes in Greek. 'You may give me your message.'
Sphrantzes eyed Mehmed sceptically. 'Very well,' he said at last. 'My name is George Sphrantzes, praepositus sauri cubiculi of Constantine Dragases, and ambassador of the Roman Empire. I come with a message from the emperor.'
'The emperor is dead,' Mehmed replied.
'True, John VIII, our emperor and your loyal ally, is no more,' Sphrantzes agreed. 'I come on behalf of his brother, who has been crowned Constantine XI, successor to the imperial throne.'
'And what of his two younger brothers?' Mehmed asked. 'Will they not challenge for the throne?'
'Demetrius and Thomas Dragases have both sworn oaths of allegiance to Constantine,' Sphrantzes said, a bit too smugly for Mehmed's liking. 'They are to rule in the Morea, Demetrius from Clarenza and Thomas from Mistra.'
Mehmed could hardly believe the news. The last he had heard, Constantine was in Mistra, a good month's travel from Constantinople. How had he managed to be crowned so quickly? Mehmed's spies had assured him that the brothers would contest the throne. He vowed silently to have every last one of them beheaded. 'And what is this message that your emperor sends?'
'He has sent me with a tribute of one thousand silver stavratons as a token of his goodwill and desire for continued peace between our nations.'
'Peace?' Mehmed laughed. He gestured to the army stretching away behind him. 'As you can see, it is too late for peace.' The Greeks might be united, but that would not stop Mehmed's plans. 'I have a message of my own for your emperor. Ulu, cut off his head and send it to Constantinople on a platter.'
'You speak out of turn, Prince Mehmed.' It was Murad. He was on horseback behind Mehmed, sitting stiffly in the saddle. Mehmed wondered how long he had been there. 'One should always treat ambassadors with courtesy,' Murad continued as he urged his horse alongside Mehmed's. 'We are not savages, to ignore all laws of civility.' He turned towards Sphrantzes. 'Greetings, Lord Sphrantzes. You are welcome in the lands of Osman.'
'Many thanks, honoured Sultan,' Sphrantzes replied with feeling and bowed. 'I bring you greetings from My Lord Constantine, newly crowned Emperor of the Romans, who offers you a gift as token of his goodwill.'
'This is joyous news indeed,' Murad said. 'I approve of Constantine's coronation and thank him for his gift. I, of course, desire nothing but peace between our two great empires. Tonight I shall hold a feast at my palace in honour of the new emperor, and you shall be our guest of honour.'
'You are most kind, Your Highness.'
'Now, Lord Sphrantzes, I beg your leave. I shall see you tonight.'
Sphrantzes bowed and was led away. 'But what of our army?' Mehmed asked as soon as he was gone. 'We should strike now, while we are ready.'
'Silence, my son,' Murad replied. 'My decision is made, and I will not be swayed. A wise sultan knows the value of peace.'
'And a wise sultan is not afraid to strike when the time is right,' Mehmed insisted. 'They will not expect our attack, even less so now that an emperor has been crowned, and you have promised peace.'
'I will not attack after I have given my word. Striking now would be foolish. I had hoped for a swift campaign, to take advantage of the fighting amongst the Greeks. Our army is not strong enough to take a united Constantinople, nor is it prepared for a long winter siege. This campaign is over, Prince Mehmed. Disband the army. You may return to Manisa.'
'Yes, Father,' Mehmed said, his voice thick with disappointment. He sat dejected as the long column of the army reversed direction and began the short march back to Edirne. Silently, he cursed his father's cowardice. He cursed the new emperor as well. They had ruined his plans, taken his army from him. They had stolen his chance for glory, his chance to be the true sultan once more. Mehmed spurred his horse to a gallop, streaking past the long line of troops, flying back towards Edirne as if he could outrun his disappointment. But he could not, and as he rode his eyes stung with bitter tears.
Chapter 4
FEBRUARY 1449: GENOA
La Fortuna arrived in Genoa in the evening, gliding across the smooth waters of the bay and tying up at one of the Giustiniani family piers. Beyond the pier, the city rose before Longo, densely packed buildings huddled beneath the steep hills that encircled the city. The tops of the hills were lightly dusted with snow, glowing crimson in the evening light. Longo left his men to unload the ship while he, Tristo and William walked through the city's narrow, winding streets and to the nearby Giustiniani palace. In the courtyard of the palazzo, the steward of the house greeted Longo with a mixture of joy and surprise.