Siege

'Please, sir. Help me!' the boy pleaded in English.

'I said, release him,' Longo said again in Turkish and drew his sword.

'The boy is a slave, bought and paid for,' the fat Turk replied. 'I will do with him as I wish.'

'Then I will buy him from you.' Longo took a pouch from his belt and tossed it so that it landed heavily at the Turk's feet. A few gold coins flashed in the sun as they rolled free from the bag. 'I trust that will be more than sufficient.'

The Turk lowered his dagger as he glanced at the pouch — easily four times what the boy was worth. He touched the long gash that William had opened on his cheek. 'The boy has drawn my blood. He has killed one of my men. His life is forfeit.' He raised his dagger, preparing to strike.

'My name is Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, and if you kill that boy, then you will have a quarrel with me.'

The blood drained from the Turk's darkly tanned face, leaving it a sickly yellow colour. He stared from the sword to Longo's worn chainmail and then to Longo's hard face. 'Katil Turkin,' he whispered. He lowered his dagger and shoved the boy roughly towards Longo. 'The boy is yours, effendi. Take him!' The Turk scooped up the pouch, not even bothering to collect the loose coins, and hurried off down the street, followed by his guard.

Longo looked at the boy. 'Well boy, what did you do to make him so angry?' he asked in English.

The boy spat after the retreating figure of the slave-trader and then turned to face Longo. 'He wished to sell me as a slave. I did not wish to be sold.' He looked at Longo suspiciously. 'What did you say to him that made him leave? What does Katil Turkin mean?'

'It means "Scourge of the Turks". It is what I am known as amongst their kind.'

'What are you going to do with me?' the boy asked.

'I have no need for slaves,' Longo told him. 'You are free to go.'

The boy did not move. 'I have nowhere to go. I have no money, no food. At least give me a weapon so that I can defend myself.'

Longo looked hard at the boy. Something about him, perhaps the flash in his eyes or his belief that with a weapon in hand he could make his way in the world, reminded Longo of himself at that age. 'What is your name, boy?'

'William, sir.'

'And how old are you, William?'

'Sixteen,' William replied. Longo eyed him sceptically. 'Fifteen, sir. Fifteen next month.'

'You are very far from home, William. How is it that you came to be in Constantinople?'

'We sailed looking for spices, but our ship was captured by Turks. I was brought here to be sold as a slave.'

'I see. Can you fight?'

William nodded. 'I can hold my own with a dagger.'

'Can you, now?' Longo pulled a dagger from his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it deftly.

'The life of my men is not an easy one, William,' Longo warned him. 'We fight many battles, and we are often on the move. I will not lie to you: you are not likely to live to an old age. But if you do live, then there is glory to be won in battle against the Turks. What do you say?'

'I hate the Turks. They killed my uncle and my shipmates. They beat and sold me. I will fight them gladly.'

'Very well.' Longo took William's arm and clasped him by the elbow. 'You are my man.' Longo turned to shout to Tristo, who was standing some twenty feet away, his arm around a rather buxom woman selling bread. 'Tristo! Come here.'

Tristo kissed the woman he was holding on the cheek, while his hand slipped from her waist to her bottom. 'Sorry, love,' he told her. He gave her bottom a squeeze, and then ducked away before she could slap him. He approached Longo with a grin on his face. 'What is it? She was just about to ask me home.'

'Tristo, this is William, a new recruit.'

'Glad to have you with us, boy,' Tristo said, and he slapped William on the back so hard that the boy stumbled and almost fell.

'Tristo will take care of you, William,' Longo said. 'And your task is to keep Tristo out of trouble. He's a little too fond of women and dice. Can I rely on you?' William nodded, and Longo turned back to Tristo. 'Take him to the ship and prepare to sail. We leave tonight.'

'Where will you be?'

'At the royal palace. I should pay my respects to the empress-mother. With the emperor dead, she may have need of our services.' Sofia stood at the window of her bedroom within the women's quarters of the Blachernae Palace and looked out at the market square beyond the palace courtyard. The view — normal people going about their lives — had always comforted her, but it could not do so now. Many of the people she saw were dressed in black, returning her thoughts to the grim events of the past few days. It was less than a week since the funeral of Emperor John VIII, and her future and the future of the empire were both uncertain. Constantine, the eldest of John's brothers, was far away in Mistra, at the heart of the Peloponnesian peninsula. The second brother, Thomas, was rumoured to be closer. As for Demetrius, the youngest and most ambitious of the three, nobody knew where he was.

The sound of a horse's hooves interrupted Sofia's thoughts, and she looked out to see a man approaching the palace. He was tall and rode with a warrior's ease, a sword swinging at his side. His hair was light and even from a distance Sofia could see that he was not Greek. He was a Latin, perhaps northern Italian, Sofia guessed as the man drew nearer. He was strikingly handsome, but hard, too. There was something about his face, the grim set of his lips… her uncle's face had been like that.

Who was he? she wondered. The Italian ambassadors had already been to the palace, expressing their grief at the death of the emperor and making empty promises of assistance. This Italian would not be coming on behalf of Genoa or Venice. Why, then? Sofia watched him enter the palace courtyard and dismount. She prayed that he was not bringing more bad news.

The Italian looked up suddenly, and his gaze landed on Sofia in her tower room. Their eyes met, and he did not look away. Sofia stepped back from the window and drew the curtain shut. When she looked out again, the Italian had gone. 'Count Giovanni Giustiniani Longo of Genoa and Chios.'

Longo followed the herald's voice into the great octagonal hall of the palace. Its bright interior was ringed with high windows and the walls were lined with Varangian soldiers — the royal family's private guard. Before him, the Empress-Mother Helena sat upon an ornate throne, the back styled as a lion's head, the arms its clawed feet. Over seventy, white-haired and wrinkled, Helena nevertheless held her head high and sat straight, conveying an air of command. To her left and right stood members of the royal court. Longo recognized the Patriarch of the Orthodox Church by his tall conical hat, and the captain of the Varangian guard, a stern, square-built man bearing the insignia of the emperor's personal bodyguard. Near the empress-mother stood the woman that Longo had seen in the tower as he arrived. She was slim and carried herself with a dancer's grace. Her olive skin was flawless, and she had wavy chestnut brown hair, and bewitching eyes of light brown shot through with flecks of gold and green. Longo realized that he was staring at her and turned his attention back to the empress-mother.

'Your Highness,' he said in Greek and bowed with a flourish, his right foot forward and his head lowered to his knee. With a wave of her hand, Helena bade him stand. 'I am honoured to be allowed into you august presence,' Longo continued. 'My condolences on the death of your son, God rest his soul.'

'I have had enough of condolences, Signor Longo,' Helena replied in flawless Italian. Longo was surprised, as much by her directness as by her command of his language. 'You speak Greek well,' Helena continued, this time in Greek.