‘Thank you, Signor Longo. Your presence honours me,’ Constantine replied. ‘And thank you for transporting the crown and my mother’s ambassadors aboard your ship. Without you, I would not have been crowned today. You will be my guest at the feast tonight. I shall set a place at my table for you.’
‘You are too kind, Emperor,’ Longo said. ‘But I must decline. I have been too long gone from Genoa, and I am eager to return. I will start back this very day.’
‘Well then, I wish you well on your voyage. You will always be welcome at my court.’
‘Thank you, Emperor,’ Longo replied, bowing low again. ‘My sword will always be at your service. If you are ever in need, I will hasten to you call.’
‘Godspeed, Signor Longo.’
‘And may God protect you, Emperor Constantine.’
JANUARY 1449: NEAR EDIRNE
The Turkish army was on the march, a long, thick column of men that snaked for miles alongside the Maritza river. Mehmed, flanked by Ulu and surrounded by his private guard, rode near the head of the column. It was a glorious, clear winter day, and Mehmed’s spirits were high. After weeks of drilling, of gathering men and supplies, he now rode at the head of over sixty thousand well-equipped men. And it was his army.
His father, Murad, travelled with them for now, sitting in a litter at the heart of the army, but the next day, when they left the Maritza valley and headed east, Murad would return to Edirne. It would be Mehmed alone who conquered Constantinople. After that, there would be no more whispered jibes about ‘Mehmed the Scholar’, no more months spent wasting away in far-off Manisa. He would take his rightful place as the ruling sultan, whether his father agreed or not. With a triumphant army at his back, and Constantinople under his control, no one would be able to stop him. He smiled just to think of it.
The smile turned into a frown as ahead the front ranks stopped suddenly, bringing the entire army to a halt. ‘Ulu, see what has happened,’ Mehmed ordered. Ulu galloped away and returned a moment later, followed by a squat Greek who sat uncomfortably in the saddle. Mehmed examined him carefully. The Greek’s eyes were intelligent and probing, but guarded. Judging from the deep blue, heavily jewelled caftan and thick gold necklace that he wore, he was some sort of councillor, a political creature, and Mehmed held a deep suspicion of all political men.
‘He says he is an ambassador from Constantinople, one Lord Sphrantzes,’ Ulu reported. ‘He rode at the head of a small troop of armed men. He says that he has an urgent message for the sultan.’
‘I am the sultan,’ Mehmed said to Sphrantzes in Greek. ‘You may give me your message.’
Sphrantzes eyed Mehmed sceptically. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘My name is George Sphrantzes,
praepositus sauri cubiculi
of Constantine Dragases, and ambassador of the Roman Empire. I come with a message from the emperor.’
‘The emperor is dead,’ Mehmed replied.
‘True, John VIII, our emperor and your loyal ally, is no more,’ Sphrantzes agreed. ‘I come on behalf of his brother, who has been crowned Constantine XI, successor to the imperial throne.’
‘And what of his two younger brothers?’ Mehmed asked. ‘Will they not challenge for the throne?’
‘Demetrius and Thomas Dragases have both sworn oaths of allegiance to Constantine,’ Sphrantzes said, a bit too smugly for Mehmed’s liking. ‘They are to rule in the Morea, Demetrius from Clarenza and Thomas from Mistra.’
Mehmed could hardly believe the news. The last he had heard, Constantine was in Mistra, a good month’s travel from Constantinople. How had he managed to be crowned so quickly? Mehmed’s spies had assured him that the brothers would contest the throne. He vowed silently to have every last one of them beheaded. ‘And what is this message that your emperor sends?’
‘He has sent me with a tribute of one thousand silver stavratons as a token of his goodwill and desire for continued peace between our nations.’
‘Peace?’ Mehmed laughed. He gestured to the army stretching away behind him. ‘As you can see, it is too late for peace.’ The Greeks might be united, but that would not stop Mehmed’s plans. ‘I have a message of my own for your emperor. Ulu, cut off his head and send it to Constantinople on a platter.’
‘You speak out of turn, Prince Mehmed.’ It was Murad. He was on horseback behind Mehmed, sitting stiffly in the saddle. Mehmed wondered how long he had been there. ‘One should always treat ambassadors with courtesy,’ Murad continued as he urged his horse alongside Mehmed’s. ‘We are not savages, to ignore all laws of civility.’ He turned towards Sphrantzes. ‘Greetings, Lord Sphrantzes. You are welcome in the lands of Osman.’
‘Many thanks, honoured Sultan,’ Sphrantzes replied with feeling and bowed. ‘I bring you greetings from My Lord Constantine, newly crowned Emperor of the Romans, who offers you a gift as token of his goodwill.’
‘This is joyous news indeed,’ Murad said. ‘I approve of Constantine’s coronation and thank him for his gift. I, of course, desire nothing but peace between our two great empires. Tonight I shall hold a feast at my palace in honour of the new emperor, and you shall be our guest of honour.’
‘You are most kind, Your Highness.’
‘Now, Lord Sphrantzes, I beg your leave. I shall see you tonight.’
Sphrantzes bowed and was led away. ‘But what of our army?’ Mehmed asked as soon as he was gone. ‘We should strike now, while we are ready.’
‘Silence, my son,’ Murad replied. ‘My decision is made, and I will not be swayed. A wise sultan knows the value of peace.’
‘And a wise sultan is not afraid to strike when the time is right,’ Mehmed insisted. ‘They will not expect our attack, even less so now that an emperor has been crowned, and you have promised peace.’
‘I will not attack after I have given my word. Striking now would be foolish. I had hoped for a swift campaign, to take advantage of the fighting amongst the Greeks. Our army is not strong enough to take a united Constantinople, nor is it prepared for a long winter siege. This campaign is over, Prince Mehmed. Disband the army. You may return to Manisa.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Mehmed said, his voice thick with disappointment. He sat dejected as the long column of the army reversed direction and began the short march back to Edirne. Silently, he cursed his father’s cowardice. He cursed the new emperor as well. They had ruined his plans, taken his army from him. They had stolen his chance for glory, his chance to be the true sultan once more. Mehmed spurred his horse to a gallop, streaking past the long line of troops, flying back towards Edirne as if he could outrun his disappointment. But he could not, and as he rode his eyes stung with bitter tears.
Chapter 4
FEBRUARY 1449: GENOA
L
a Fortuna
arrived in Genoa in the evening, gliding across the smooth waters of the bay and tying up at one of the Giustiniani family piers. Beyond the pier, the city rose before Longo, densely packed buildings huddled beneath the steep hills that encircled the city. The tops of the hills were lightly dusted with snow, glowing crimson in the evening light. Longo left his men to unload the ship while he, Tristo and William walked through the city’s narrow, winding streets and to the nearby Giustiniani palace. In the courtyard of the
palazzo
, the steward of the house greeted Longo with a mixture of joy and surprise.
‘Welcome home, Master Longo – praise God that you are alive! We had feared the worst after your long absence. Will you be staying the night? May I bring you food, wine?’
‘No, Jacomo, thank you,’ Longo said. ‘Bring me a horse, and two more for Tristo and William. We will be riding on to the villa immediately.’
‘To the villa!’ Jacomo’s eyebrows rose in alarm. ‘Shall I send a messenger ahead of you so that all will be ready when you arrive?’
‘That will not be necessary. I expect we will ride faster than any messenger.’ Jacomo wrung his hands. He was obviously anxious to warn the villa chamberlain, Nicolo, of Longo’s arrival. Longo wondered what Nicolo was up to. Making trouble as usual, no doubt.
The villa lay just three miles outside the city, set in the foothills
overlooking Genoa and surrounded by fields and vineyards. They reached Longo’s lands shortly after nightfall and tied their horses off in the vineyards behind the villa. The vines, to Longo’s satisfaction, had thrived while he was away, but they occupied only a small portion of his mind now. ‘Quiet,’ Longo warned Tristo and William. ‘Let us see what my good chamberlain Nicolo has been up to in my absence. Tristo, I give you leave to stay in your cottage tonight. I will see you on the morrow.’ Tristo moved away quietly towards his cottage, while Longo and William proceeded on foot towards the villa.
The villa was well lit, and as they approached, Longo and William could hear laughter and music. They saw no one as they crept through the vineyard, save for one drunken reveller stumbling off into the vines to urinate and singing loudly:
Give me a girl to call my own,
Yes give me a girl I pray.
Give me a wench to ply my bone,
For which I’ll gladly pay!
The villa was surrounded by a wall some six feet high. Longo mounted it and pulled William up after him. From there, they could see the run of the gardens: fountains, carefully tended paths, hedges and people everywhere. Longo’s servants were stumbling about the grounds, singing bawdy songs and entertaining a host of overly made-up, buxom women in garish clothes – many of them whores, no doubt. Here and there men were slinking off into the hedges, pulling women after them. The festivities extended to the villa proper, where Longo’s personal musicians had been recruited to provide music and were busy churning out local folk tunes on their viols, lutes and recorders.
Longo and William dropped to the ground, and Longo led the way through the drunken revellers. At the steps of the villa, one of the musicians recognized Longo and, turning palest white, dropped his instrument and hurried off into the darkness. One
by one, the other musicians also stopped playing, and as the music faded, all eyes turned to Longo. Gasps filled the silence. One of the more drunk men bent over and vomited. A portly man carrying a bottle of wine exited the villa singing and, upon seeing Longo, froze. ‘
Merda
!’
‘Good-evening, Anselmo. I see you are having quite a celebration.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ Anselmo mumbled. ‘It is Candlemas, My Lord. And, and …’ A flash of inspiration came into the drunken man’s eye. ‘And, we were drinking to your safe return!’
‘Of course. Where is Nicolo?’
Anselmo swallowed hard. ‘I believe he’s in your bedroom, My Lord.’
Longo nodded. ‘Anselmo, clean this mess up. William, stay here and keep an eye on him and the others. Don’t let them drink any more wine. Feel free to carve up any man who disobeys you.’ William drew his dagger and leered wickedly at Anselmo. Longo strode into the villa entrance hall, up the curving marble staircase and into his bedroom. He found Nicolo in bed, naked, with two equally naked, voluptuous young women feeding him grapes.
‘Who dares disturb me!’ Nicolo roared as he sat up. Then, upon seeing Longo, he swallowed a grape whole and choked on it. The women took one glance at Longo’s glowering face and sword and hurried from the room. Longo remained silent while Nicolo struggled with the grape, his face turning first red, then faintly purple. Finally, the chamberlain coughed out the grape and immediately burst into speech, forcing words out between giant, heaving breaths. ‘So good to see you, My Lord …’
Gasp
. ‘Had feared you dead …’
Gasp
. ‘Apologize for the mess …’
Gasp
. ‘Such an unexpected pleasure …’
‘I see you have been taking good care of my home,’ Longo interrupted. ‘Tell me, was the wine good this year?’ He picked up one of a score of empty bottles at the foot of the bed and sniffed at the dregs. ‘Surely you must be thoroughly familiar with last year’s vintage. Did the nebbiolo take?’
‘Yes, My Lord, most magnificently. You must have a taste.’ Nicolo looked about him for a full bottle, but finding none, continued, ‘The harvest was excellent. I doubled the size of the herd and have acquired an adjoining vineyard from … my good God!’ Nicolo was cut short in his account by the distant, wailing scream of a woman who was either terribly frightened or extremely happy. The scream rose to an unbelievably high pitch and then stopped abruptly.
‘You were saying?’ Longo prompted.
‘Yes, a vineyard,’ Nicolo mumbled. ‘It was from a merchant. Ridolfi was the name.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes. But you have said nothing of these, uh, these festivities. You are not angry with me, My Lord?’
‘Why would I be angry with you, Nicolo?’ Longo asked. He tossed the bottle he held aside, and Nicolo jumped as it shattered on the floor. ‘You seem to have everything well in hand. Now come, you must show me the grounds. I am particularly interested to see the fields. I noticed they have not yet been ploughed. We shall see to that tomorrow.’
The scream Longo and Nicolo had heard had come from Tristo’s cottage, where his wife, Maria, was both terribly frightened and extremely happy. Tristo had crept silently to the door of the tiny, one-room dwelling, and pausing there, he was not surprised to hear two voices inside instead of one. A man was saying soft and low, ‘Magnificent, beautiful. I shall buy you ten more,’ while a woman answered with delighted laughter. Tristo screwed his face up into an expression of righteous indignation. He tested the latch, and finding the door unlocked, allowed it to swing open. On the table before him lay a partially eaten feast: a roasted pheasant, various cheeses and three bottles of wine. A fire was crackling in the hearth. And there on the bed lay his wife, partially dressed in a frilly, silken dress, and laying
in flagrante delicto
with a half-naked man that Tristo had never seen before. It was
upon seeing Tristo looming in the doorway, his face a mask of outrage and anger, that Maria had begun to scream. Taking her outburst as a sign of unparalleled delight, the strange man, his back to Tristo, increased his efforts with renewed vigour.