'And I am most grateful for your loyalty, Ishak Pasha. As for the conspiracy that Halil told you of, never fear: it does not exist.' That night, Halil sat alone, reading by candlelight in his private study — a secure, thick-walled room for which only he had the key. He held in his hands a coded letter from the Greek monk Gennadius. The letter represented the opportunity that Halil had been waiting for. The relationship that he had been cultivating with the rebellious monk had now paid off twofold. Originally, Halil had sent his poisons to Gennadius merely to facilitate the death of the Greek Empress-Mother Helena, and he had expected nothing more. But now Gennadius was offering up Constantinople to him on a platter, going so far as to guarantee the fall of the city so long as Halil assured Gennadius that he would be made patriarch and there would be no union between the Orthodox and Catholic churches.
The offer was too good to pass up. With Gennadius's assistance, perhaps conquering Constantinople would be possible after all. Yes, Halil decided, he would agree to Gennadius's proposal, but on one condition: the monk must see to it that Mehmed died during the siege. The task would not be too difficult for a man of Gennadius's cunning. Mehmed's spies, careful as they were, would not be able to watch over the monk. And Halil would provide Gennadius with enough information to ensure his success. Once Mehmed was dead and Constantinople had fallen, it would be Halil, as grand vizier and regent, who would rule the greatest empire in all the world. He would then gladly turn over the patriarchy to Gennadius.
His decision made, Halil burned Gennadius's letter, stamping the ashes out on the stone floor, and then took up a quill to write his coded response. He would have Isa deliver the letter to Gennadius, along with enough gold to facilitate Mehmed's death. Halil grinned wickedly to himself. How amusing, he mused, that Mehmed's dream to conquer Constantinople would actually succeed, and the success would cost the sultan his life.
Chapter 12
DECEMBER 1451 TO JANUARY 1452: GENOA
L ongo stood at the pier as the ship that bore Sofia glided to a stop before him. He did not know why she had returned to Genoa, nor did he care. She was here now, beautiful in a simple white cotton robe as she stepped off the ship. He hurried to greet her, and to his surprise, she threw her arms around him.
'I am so glad you have returned,' he told her. 'But why are you here? Are you not needed in Constantinople?'
'I came for you,' Sofia told him.
'You are too late,' Longo said, pulling away. 'I am married.'
'No, it is never too late.' Sofia kissed him and her mouth opened to his. 'Come with me.' She led him to his palazzo and then to his chambers, stopping before his bed and turning to face him. 'I've been thinking of you, of our kiss,' she told him.
'As have I. It is foolish, I know.'
'No, it is not.' She untied her robes and they slipped to the floor, leaving her naked. Longo's eyes moved down from the curve of her delicate collarbone, to her small but firm breasts, to the nest of auburn hair that began below her flat stomach.
He shook his head. 'But I am married. We cannot.'
'We can,' Sofia said. She stepped towards him, and Longo pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard. But something was wrong. A thin layer of smoke had filled the room. Through the window beyond Sofia, he could see that the city was aflame, overrun by the Turks. The room was filling with smoke and fire, and suddenly the scar-faced Turk who had killed his parents was there. He pointed at Sofia and ordered his men to gut her. Longo drew her to him, ready to defend her with his life, but Sofia dissolved into flames, her mouth open in a silent scream as she vanished from his arms. The flames spread over him and the air filled with choking smoke… Longo awoke to the sweet, acrid scent of burning grapevines. He rubbed his face and looked about him. He was in his villa, and the woman lying next to him was not Sofia but Julia, his wife of nearly two years. He had been dreaming, another nightmare. Longo rose and went to the window that looked out over his vineyards. The sun had risen, and his men were already busy, pruning the leafless vines. The cuttings were being burned in small piles. Behind him, Julia stirred in bed.
'Come back to bed,' she pleaded. 'I'm cold.'
'There is work to be done,' he replied.
'Let Tristo and William deal with it. That is what servants are for,' Julia whined. 'Don't leave.' She sat up in bed, her swollen, pregnant belly extending before her. 'Come. Feel this,' she said, placing her hand on her stomach. 'He's kicking.'
Longo sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand gently on his wife's stomach. His eyes widened as he felt a slight movement. He took Julia's hand. 'I must go,' he told her. 'Your brother Paolo has invited me to a reading this evening, and I have much to do first. After the pruning, I have a new horse to break.' In truth, Longo was happy for an excuse to be away from his young wife. She was spoiled, moody and demanding, and had become more so since the start of her pregnancy.
'A reading?' Julia asked, brightening. 'I want to come.'
'You know you cannot travel,' Longo said. Julia pouted. 'And anyway, you could not come. The piece is by a young Neapolitan named Guardarti, and apparently it is not appropriate for ladies.' Longo was not particularly interested either. However, Paolo had remained aloof, even hostile, since Longo's marriage to Julia, and Longo was eager to repair their relationship.
'But I want to come,' Julia insisted, frowning in a manner that portended a tantrum. 'I am so bored here in the country.'
'You will give birth soon enough. You can visit your family in town then.' Julia's frown deepened. She turned her back to him and pulled the covers over herself without speaking. Longo breathed a guilty sigh of relief. He knew that some servant would bear the brunt of her frustration later that day. 'I will return late tonight,' he told her and left. Longo was in a foul mood when he reached the Grimaldi palazzo that evening. Just before he had left his estate, a fire had begun in his vineyards, spreading from one of the piles of cuttings to the rows of vines. Longo had left William and Tristo to handle it while he rode into Genoa accompanied by six of his men. He would have liked to stay and deal with the fire himself, but he did not wish to spurn Paolo's invitation.
He was soon glad that he had come. Paolo greeted him warmly, embracing him and calling him brother, and throughout the evening he treated Longo with unusual courtesy. Longo also found the proceedings more interesting than he had anticipated. A Spanish noble, one Carlos de Sevilla, was present. He was an elegant man, short and spare with close-cropped black hair and darkly tanned skin, and after the reading he discussed the recent Portuguese discoveries in Africa and the possibility of reaching the Indies by sailing west. As the guests began to depart, Paolo took Longo aside to speak with him.
'I wish to be frank,' he told Longo. 'I regret if I have been less than welcoming since you joined my family. There are those in my father's household who blame you for my brother's death. I fear that I listened too closely to their complaints, and I wish to apologize. There should be no grudge between us.'
'I am glad to hear you speak so,' Longo said. 'And there is no need to apologize. Your goodwill is all I ask.'
'Excellent,' Paolo said, smiling broadly. 'Now come. It is nearly midnight, high time that you return to my sister.'
Longo entered the Grimaldi stables to find his men hopelessly drunk. Judging by the number of empty wine bottles lying about, it looked as if Paolo's men had treated them to free wine, and they had drunk more than their fill. Two were slumped unconscious over a table, a forgotten game of cards between them. Three more lay on the floor, snoring loudly. Only one was awake, lying in a pool of his own vomit. He tried to rise, swayed unsteadily and then collapsed. Longo vowed to have words with his men, when they were sober enough to understand him. Paolo offered to let Longo's men sleep off their debauchery at the Grimaldi palazzo, and Longo accepted. He would ride to his palazzo, he decided, instead of his country estate.