‘And what about me?’ Nicolo asked. Longo’s portly chamberlain stood awkwardly in a bulky suit of armour, wringing his hands as he stared at the approaching Turkish ships.
‘First of all, take off that armour. You can hardly move in it,’ Longo told him. ‘Then go below and help the men bring up ballast stones from the hold.’
‘But why? Are they not needed for … for ballasting?’
‘Take them to the rail and drop them on any Turkish ship that comes alongside. Their ships have thin hulls. God willing, the stones will go right through them.’
‘How clever,’ Nicolo murmured, but Longo was no longer paying attention to him. The first Turkish ships were closing in and had
begun firing flaming arrows at the ship. Most of those that hit sputtered out, but a few caught. The firemen hurried about the deck, dousing the flames with buckets of water. Shortly after the arrows hit, the first Turkish boat reached them. It rammed the side of the ship with a solid thump that knocked several of Longo’s crew off their feet. The thick sides of
la Fortuna
absorbed the blow with no damage, but the bow of the ramming ship was splintered and crushed on impact. The Turkish soldiers aboard could not swim in their heavy armour. Their panicked cries were drowned out one by one as the ship sank quickly beneath the waves.
Three more Turkish ships came alongside, followed by dozens more. Within seconds
la Fortuna
was surrounded and engulfed in chaos. Turks swarmed the ship from all sides, yelling like demons and fighting desperately to board. Longo’s men fought them back, their heavy axes severing the hands and heads of would-be boarders. Tristo wielded a massive axe, protecting a full five feet of railing by himself as he took off head after head. On the opposite side of the ship, William had eschewed an axe for his sword. He slipped in and out of his men, striking where needed and dispatching Turks with ruthless efficiency. Above, the twang of bowstrings could be heard from high in
la Fortuna
’s rigging, and arrows filled the air, whizzing into the Turks below. Nicolo stumbled past Longo carrying a huge ballast stone. The chamberlain dropped it over the side and then clapped his hands with glee as the stone crashed through the deck of a Turkish ship below. Water bubbled through the ragged hole, flooding the deck, and the Turkish soldiers began to strip off their armour and abandon the sinking ship. And all this time, flaming arrows continued to rain down on the deck of
la Fortuna
.
Longo was kept busy, rushing to help wherever one of his men fell or gave ground. He was at the stern, pushing back a fresh wave of attackers when the Turks managed to force their way on deck at
la Fortuna
’s bow. ‘To the bow!’ Longo yelled to his men as he rushed across the deck to where more than a dozen Turks had already gathered. Moving at a full sprint, Longo hurled his axe at the nearest Turk, catching him square in the chest and knocking
him off his feet. Longo drew his sword on the run and slammed into the rest of the Turks. He fought with a savage abandon, spinning, twisting and slashing his way through the boarders, forcing his way to the railing at the bow, where he confronted a final Turk. He parried the attacker’s thrust, lowered his shoulder, and slammed into him, knocking him over the rail and into the sea below. More Turks were clambering up the side, and Longo cut the ropes that they were using to climb aboard. As they fell into the sea below, Longo looked around him.
The bow of the ship was clear. His men had followed his charge and had swept the Turks aside. Around them, the sides of the ship were holding, and the initial ferocity of the Turkish attack had abated. Longo looked to the other Christian ships.
La Speranza
was closest and seemed to be holding its own.
L’Aquila
also appeared to have weathered the storm, but the transport, furthest away from Longo, was in trouble. Their small crew was under heavy pressure from more than a dozen Turkish ships. The Turkish flagship was still alongside, and men continued to pour out of it and up the sides of the transport. Without help, the transport would be lost, and with it enough grain to feed all of Constantinople for several days.
Longo looked again at the other Christian ships. The current had brought them closer together, so that there was no more than thirty feet between each of them. Longo realized that with some rope and a little luck, there was still a chance that they could save the transport.
‘Rope!’ he yelled to his men. ‘Bring me four lengths of rope, and grappling hooks. Tristo and William, get over here!’ While his men prepared the rope, Longo explained his plan. ‘Tristo, do you think that you can reach
la Speranza
with a rope?’ Tristo nodded. ‘Good. Then I want you to throw three ropes between our two ships. Once they have tied off the ropes on
la Speranza
, the men can pull the two ships together. We’ll board
la Speranza
, then pull
l’Aquila
to us, then the transport. William, you’ll stay in charge of the ship here. If we act fast, we can still reach the transport in time.’
Longo went to shout his plan to the captain of
la Speranza
, while Tristo took a coil of rope with a hook tied to the end and moved to the rail of the ship. While the other men kept the Turks at bay, Tristo stood on the rail and began to swing the hook, letting out rope until it was swinging in a large circle. Finally, he let it fly. The hook arced through the air as the rope uncoiled by Tristo’s side, but it came up short, bouncing off the side of
la Speranza
and sinking into the sea. There was a disappointed silence on the ship, interrupted by Tristo roaring, ‘Give me another!’ He took another hook, and this time let it go with a slightly higher arc. The hook soared through the air and landed with a thud in the middle of
la Speranza
’s deck. The men on both ships cheered. Tristo threw two more ropes over, and the crews began pulling the ships together. Within a few minutes, they were close enough for Longo and Tristo to leap from
la Fortuna
to the deck of
la Speranza
, and the whole process was started over again, this time with
l’Aquila
.
By the time they latched on to the transport and began to pull it close, the fighting there had become truly desperate. Pockets of Turks had forced themselves on to the transport’s deck at various points, and the Christian crew was beginning to give ground. The heavy transport was proving very difficult to pull close, and if help did not come soon, Longo feared that the lines between
l’Aquila
and the transport would be cut and the ship lost. ‘There is no time to wait,’ Longo told Tristo. ‘We must go now.’
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.’