Grimaldi's face lit up. 'A son?'
Longo nodded. 'That is not all. She died in childbirth.'
Grimaldi sank back into his chair. 'I see,' he said, his head down. 'I am sorry, Longo. She was a lovely child.'
'She was,' Longo agreed. He sat across from Grimaldi. 'I have a request to ask of you.'
'What is it?' Grimaldi asked, looking up.
'I want you to take my son. His name is Carlo.' Grimaldi's eyes went wide. 'I have no reason to remain in Genoa,' Longo explained. 'Julia is dead, and I fear there will be more bloodshed between our families if I stay. I am leaving for my lands on Chios. The East is no place for a child. Our merchants returning from Constantinople say that the sultan is preparing for war, building castles and forging cannons. He will strike soon, if not this year then the next. Carlo will be better off here.'
'You are sure of this?' Grimaldi asked. 'You are his father.'
Longo looked away, fighting to keep tears from his eyes. 'Yes,' he said. 'And I will do what is best for my child. The boy has already lost his mother. He should not have to watch his father die as well.'
Grimaldi nodded. 'I will raise him as my own son, signor.'
'Thank you,' Longo said. 'I will return for him once the war is over. If I die…'
'I will see to it that he inherits your lands,' Grimaldi promised. Longo nodded his thanks. 'When do you leave?' Grimaldi asked.
'After the funeral,' Longo said. 'As soon as my household is in order.' Longo scanned the horizon as he paced the deck of la Fortuna, which swayed gently beside the pier, riding low with the ebbing morning tide. All was ready for departure. The ships were loaded, and Longo's men were all aboard with him or on a sister ship, la Speranza. A few wives had joined them, including, to Tristo's chagrin, his wife Maria. Nicolo was on la Fortuna, complaining already of seasickness. The one person who was not yet on board was William. The night before he had gone to bid farewell to Portia. Longo half hoped that he would stay with her. William had grown into a capable young man, and Longo had come to rely on him. But if William stayed in Italy, he could have a better life than that of a soldier. He would be wise to choose love over revenge.
The sun was only minutes from cresting the distant hills. Soon the tide would set against them, trapping them in the harbour. It was time to depart, William or no. Tristo had been standing at the crosstrees, watching the horizon for William, and now he slid down a backstay and on to the deck. 'We can wait a bit longer, I think,' Tristo said.
'No.' Longo turned from the shore to face the sea. 'We should be underway before we miss our tide. Give the orders to cast off and make sail.'
The orders were given, and la Fortuna drifted away from the dock and slowly gathered way. They were gliding towards the centre of the harbor, followed by la Speranza, when the lookout caught sight of a horse charging into the dockyard. He hailed the deck, and Longo turned to look. Two people dismounted, and an argument ensued with a group of sailors on the dock. Finally, a boat shoved off with the two riders in it, rowed by four sailors. Longo ordered the sails slackened, and the boat quickly gained on them. William was one of the passengers sitting in the stern. The other was cloaked against the spray, and Longo could not make him out.
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
SUNDAY 1 APRIL TO THURSDAY 12 APRIL 1453, CONSTANTINOPLE: DAYS 1 TO 12 OF THE SIEGE
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.