Longo looked at her, fiery and beautiful, and felt his resistance crumbling. ‘I will come if I am able.’
Sofia rose and kissed him. ‘Then go and be safe. I will see you tonight.’
Longo left through the secret passage and emerged into a dark, empty side street next to the palace. He strode towards his post
on the wall at the military gate of St Romanus, overlooking the Mesoteichion. Once he thought he heard footsteps behind him, but when he turned he saw nothing. It was not the first time in the last five nights that he had suspected he was being followed. He could not forget what William had told him: the Spanish assassin was here in Constantinople. He tightened his grip on his sword and slowed his pace, listening for footsteps, but he reached the wall without further incident.
Longo stood atop the wall as the sky around him lightened, revealing first the stockade below and then the fields beyond, stretching away to the Turkish ramparts and their camp. There was little movement anywhere – even the air was still – and the occasional boom of the Turkish cannons seemed muffled. Looking out over this sleeping world, Longo felt himself at peace. For the first time that he could remember, he cared about something more than revenge. He was not here simply to defeat the Turks. He was here to save the city, and Sofia.
The sun rose fiery orange over the distant hills, giving a pinkish cast to the world. On the walls of Constantinople the guard changed, the night-watch going home to a well-deserved rest. The morning watch replaced them, still bleary-eyed and yawning. Many of the men had come straight from the fields just within the walls of Constantinople, where they had been up late struggling to bring in the crop of winter wheat and to sow their fields for spring. Tristo and William came with them and joined Longo at the wall.
‘You’re up early,’ Tristo said, grinning at Longo. ‘A long night, eh?’ Longo gave Tristo a hard look, and Tristo’s smile faded. ‘Jesus you’re a surly bastard in the morning. I was just asking,’ he said. ‘Anyway, have you heard the commotion coming from the sea walls?’
‘The sea walls?’ Longo asked. ‘What has happened?’
‘We’re not sure,’ William said. ‘But when we were coming to the walls, half the city seemed to be headed down to the Golden Horn. We thought that you might know something about it.’
‘Perhaps he’ll know,’ Tristo said, pointing to Dalmata, who was hurrying towards them along the wall.
‘Longo, you must come quickly,’ Dalmata said as he reached them.
‘What is it? What has happened?’
‘Something that you must see to believe.’
Longo stood on the sea wall, not far from the Blachernae Palace, and watched in amazement. Dalmata, Constantine, Tristo and William stood with him. To either side of them, the entire length of the sea wall was lined with people, all with their eyes focused across the Golden Horn on the stretch of land beyond the city of Pera. There, a forest of masts was slowly rising over the horizon. The Turkish fleet was sailing towards them, sails billowing in the wind, and it appeared to be sailing over dry land.
‘I do not believe my eyes,’ Constantine said. ‘This is not possible.’
‘Is there a river there?’ Longo asked. ‘An inlet of some sort?’
‘There is nothing. Nothing that could explain this,’ Dalmata said, shaking his head. ‘The land there is unbroken between the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn.’
They watched in silence as the masts rose higher and higher above the hills on the horizon. Finally, the prow of the nearest ship appeared. As the hull rose clear of the horizon, they could see that the oars were out, beating in rhythm against the empty air. Then, as it crested the hill, the ship’s mysterious method of progress became clear. It sat suspended above the ground in a huge, wheeled cradle. Teams of oxen were slowly pulling the cradle forward. The enormous wheels of the cradle glinted in the sunlight: they had been cast in bronze to withstand the weight of the ships. Longo and the others stood speechless.
‘Unbelievable,’ Constantine said at last. ‘I would not have thought it possible.’
A huge flag was unfurled from the mast of the ship. Even from this distance, Longo could make it out: golden Turkish lettering on a white-silk background, the standard of the sultan. Now that
the ship was heading downhill towards the water of the Horn, it picked up speed. With each passing minute Longo could make out more details. A dais had been erected on the deck and on the dais a throne. Mehmed sat there, fanned by two slaves as he rode regally over the dry earth.
‘The bastard looks a little too comfortable,’ Tristo growled. ‘We have a cannon that will reach that far, don’t we?’
Dalmata smiled. ‘I think we do.’
Longo shook his head. ‘We would do better to save the powder. It would take a miracle to strike his ship at this distance, and we’re going to need all the gunpowder we have in the days to come. As long as the Turkish fleet is in the Horn, it will be nearly impossible to receive any more supplies from the sea. We will have to fight with what we have.’
‘I shall have to decree a rationing system,’ Constantine said. ‘Without supplies from the outside, food will run short before a month is out.’
‘And with those ships in the Horn, we’ll have to double the number of troops on the sea walls and in the fleet,’ Dalmata added. ‘We’ll need to take men from the main wall.’
‘We have too few men as is, and we’ll have fewer once hunger sets in,’ Constantine said. ‘We must do something about those ships.’
Longo nodded in agreement. ‘Yes. We must burn them.’
Halil stood on the deck of the sultan’s flagship, both hands gripping the rail as he struggled to stand while the ship bounced along, swaying erratically in its huge wooden cradle. Halil would just as soon have stayed in camp, but Mehmed had insisted that he be here, standing next to the throne. ‘Look. They are watching us,’ Mehmed said, pointing across the Horn to the sea walls of Constantinople. ‘I hope they are enjoying the spectacle.’
‘I am sure that they find it quite edifying,’ Halil said, wiping sweat from his brow. Ahead of him, row upon row of sweating men sat rowing their oars through the air, and on the far end of
the boat the stroke was being beaten on a huge drum:
boom
,
boom
,
boom
. The constant beating of the drum, combined with the hot sun overhead, was beginning to give Halil a headache. ‘But is all of this really necessary?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps the ships might move faster were they not weighted down with all of the rowers.’
‘I wish to let the Christians see that I command the land as well as the sea,’ Mehmed replied. ‘I will row my ships wherever I please.’
‘Such foolishness …’ Halil muttered under his breath.
‘Foolishness?’ Mehmed hissed. Halil swallowed, aghast. ‘And what else would you have these men do? Would you prefer that they sit around camp, idle and discontented, stirring up another mutiny? This rowing may look foolish to you, Halil, but it keeps the men occupied. So long as they cannot fight, at least they can row.’
‘Very wise, My Lord,’ Halil said, impressed despite himself. Mehmed was right. Today, at least, these men would be too tired to cause any trouble.
‘Yes, it is,’ Mehmed agreed. ‘And I have more ideas in mind to keep our men busy over the coming days. Tell me what you think of this.’ He handed Halil a weathered sheet of paper. On the paper was a sketch of some sort, a construction plan complete with measurements. Halil made out what he thought were large barrels tied together, and over them a network of planks and boards. The entire structure seemed to be floating on water.
‘What is it?’ Halil asked.
‘A bridge across the Golden Horn. It will stretch from there’ – Mehmed pointed to the shore of the Horn below them – ‘to there’ – a point just past where the wall of Constantinople ran down into the Horn.
The project was ambitious, but the strategic implications were obvious enough. A bridge would allow the Turkish army to threaten the sea walls of Constantinople, forcing the Christians to spread their defences even thinner. It was a stroke of genius, and Halil did not like it. He had counted on a long, difficult siege in order to give his plans time to develop.
‘A brilliant idea, Sultan,’ he said. ‘But dangerous, and perhaps impractical. Surely the Christian fleet would never allow this bridge to be built.’
‘You are right, Halil. The Christians would do anything to prevent it. That is why I am placing you in charge of moving twelve cannons across the Horn to protect the fleet. The Christians would be fools to attack in the face of both our fleet and our cannons. We will build the bridge, and if the Christian fleet tries to stop us, then we will destroy them.’
‘Very clever, My Lord,’ Halil murmured. Indeed, too clever. Mehmed could not be allowed to conquer the city before Gennadius could eliminate him. The monk needed to act fast or else Halil would lose all that he had worked for these many years.
Five days later, Halil returned from overseeing the placement of the first of the cannons across the Horn to find a messenger waiting outside his tent. ‘What is it?’ Halil snapped, irritable after a long day in the burning sun.
‘One of your messenger pigeons returned to the coop in camp this afternoon without any message attached to it, Grand Vizier. You told us to inform you if this happened.’
A pigeon without a message: it was the sign that Halil had been waiting for. He called for a horse and rode straight to the imperial pigeon coop. He found the grey-bearded head keeper pottering amidst the many cages, scattering birdseed.
‘Keeper,’ Halil called. The man turned and upon seeing Halil, dropped his birdseed and prostrated himself on the floor.
‘How may I serve you, great Vizier?’
‘Get up,’ Halil told him. The keeper scrambled to his feet. ‘A pigeon returned this afternoon without any message. Do you remember which one it was?’ The keeper nodded. ‘Good. Take me to it.’
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’ The keeper showed Halil to a cage where a single pigeon sat. Halil took it from its cage and examined it. Sure enough, there was a dark spot just behind the pigeon’s head.
There could be no doubt now. There would be a meeting with Gennadius this very night.
Not an hour later, Halil stood in a dark tunnel, fingering the jewelled handle of his sword as he waited impatiently for Gennadius to arrive. After finding the agreed meeting point, Halil had extinguished his torch, and he now stood in absolute darkness, listening keenly for any sound. He was sure that he had not been followed, but nevertheless, he was edgy. He did not like putting himself at risk like this. Still, with Isa gone to Edirne, he did not trust anyone else to meet with Gennadius. And this was a meeting that Halil could not afford to miss.
Footsteps echoed down the dark passage – the sound of sandals slapping against stone. The footsteps grew louder, and then a light came into view – a torch flickering in the distance. Halil studied the monk as he approached. Gennadius was compact and thin. His face was lined, but he walked with the erect, determined stride of a much younger man. He wore the simple black cassock of a monk, garb which matched his tonsured black hair. Gennadius slowed as he reached the meeting point. He still had not seen Halil.
‘Where is the answer?’ Halil asked, stepping out of the shadows and into the light cast by Gennadius’s torch. Surprised, Gennadius took a step backwards, and his hand dropped to the dagger tucked into his belt.
‘Who are you?’ Gennadius asked. ‘Where is Isa?’
‘First, answer the question,’ Halil insisted. ‘Where is the answer?’
‘Edirne.’
‘Good. Edirne is also the answer to your question. Isa is there.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I am Halil.’
‘Halil?’ Gennadius asked, looking more closely at the vizier. ‘Why are you here? I thought that we had agreed that the less contact there was between us, the safer we would both be.’
‘Yes,’ Halil agreed. ‘But Isa is gone, and I do not trust anyone
else. I am glad that you sent the bird; I need to speak with you. The siege is progressing faster than I had expected. We must act soon, or we will lose our chance.’
‘I do not think so,’ Gennadius replied. ‘Moving a fleet into the Golden Horn is one thing; moving an army over the walls another. Constantinople has not stood for a thousand years only to fall easily now.’
‘All the same, the time for action is now,’ Halil insisted. ‘I have paid you well, Gennadius. I hope for your sake that it was not money wasted.’
‘Do not threaten me, Halil. You will find me decidedly harder to dispose of than one of your Turkish lackeys,’ Gennadius warned, his voice low and hard. ‘But we are not here to waste our breath on threats. In fact, I have information for you: an attack on the Turkish ships in the Golden Horn is planned for tomorrow night, under the darkness of the new moon.’
‘Tomorrow night?’ Halil’s mind was racing. If the Turkish ships were destroyed, then perhaps it would buy him more time. ‘What is their plan? How will they attack?’
‘A fleet of small ships will sail after nightfall,’ Gennadius told him. ‘They plan to use Greek fire to burn the Turkish fleet.’
‘You have done well, Gennadius. This is valuable information. I will see to it that the Christian fleet succeeds.’
‘No, that is not why I have told you this,’ Gennadius said. ‘You must tell the sultan. In order for my plan to assassinate Mehmed to work, he must know that you have a contact within Constantinople, and he must see that the information from that contact is valuable.’
‘I see,’ Halil said. He thought he was beginning to understand Gennadius’s plan, but Halil knew that the less he knew of the assassination, the safer he would be. ‘You need say no more. I will do as you say. Is that all that you have to tell me?’
‘That is all.’
‘Very well,’ Halil said. ‘Do not contact me again unless it is absolutely vital. These meetings are too dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’ Gennadius snorted. ‘I have little enough to fear
from my fellow Greeks. The people trust me more than the emperor, and those that oppose me are fools.’
‘Let us hope that you are correct,’ Halil said. ‘Regardless, I do not wish to risk my life to prove your point. There will be no more meetings. The next time we meet, I expect that the sultan will be dead, and you will be the patriarch of a Turkish Constantinople.’