Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga #2)(75)

Suleiman wasted no time. The larger galleys pulled in close, the smaller galleys edging between them to get right next to the merchant ships. With no wind, the ships were at the mercy of the water—which was causing them to drift, slowly but surely, across the horn to the Galata shore, where Mehmed already had men waiting.

But the Italian sailors would not go down easily. They lashed the four ships together to prevent them from being separated and picked off. So many of the Ottoman vessels had converged it looked like a sailor could walk from one end of the sea to the other without ever touching water.

The first small galleys to reach the merchant ships never had a chance at boarding. Large stones and barrels of water were dropped by the on-deck loading cranes, damaging some of the galleys and sinking others. The sounds of the battle—the snapping of wood, the shattering of stone, and the clash of steel against steel—rang through the horn.

And always, a sound Radu heard even in his sleep, the screams of men. There was a quality of voice, some subtle shift, that allowed him even at this distance to pick out which screams were screams of killing, and which were those of dying.

When the Ottomans managed to throw ropes up, the ropes were cut down. Hands were sliced off when they tried to find purchase. Burning pitch was thrown, and Radu watched as men fell into the water to be extinguished or onto their own boats, lighting them on fire with their bodies.

The Italians had the advantage of height and weight, but the Ottomans kept coming. For every galley sunk, two more pushed into its place. It was exhausting to watch. The sun, too hot for once, had shifted overhead, marking the endless passage of time. The crowd around Radu and Cyprian had gone quiet except for the occasional prayer or gasping sob. Though the Italians fought bravely, the outcome was inevitable. They drifted ever closer to the shore, where the Ottoman cannons would take them out if the galleys did not manage to first. It was only a matter of time.

Radu closed his eyes in relief as a breeze cut through the sun battering his face. And then he opened his eyes in horror. A breeze from the south that turned into a stiff wind. A ragged cheer went up along the wall as the Italian ships’ sails caught. They plowed through the galleys around them, pushing them aside like branches, moving forward as one. Their escape was unavoidable, unassailable.

Radu looked to the Galata shore and his heart sank. There, astride a beautiful white horse, a tiny figure watched as his navy—more than a hundred ships, the best in the world—was bested by four merchant boats.

Radu’s project. Radu’s navy. He hung his head with shame. Against all odds, they had failed. Mehmed’s horse reared, then he turned it and rode swiftly away. All along the wall the citizens cheered and jeered, ebullient with the miracle of the Italian boats. The chain had been slipped free to allow them through. No galleys could catch up to take advantage before the chain was closed again.

It was over.



For once, Radu was invited to a meeting with the emperor. But this one he wished he could avoid. The humiliation of his navy’s defeat settled in his chest like a sickness. It was a kindness, then, that he was not with Mehmed. He could not bear to think of what Mehmed would say, how disappointed he would be. He had trusted this task to Radu, and Radu had failed utterly.

Though Radu knew he should not, he took some small comfort in Cyprian’s coming with him. He was unmoored, worn down by time and failure. At least with Cyprian he would have to pretend to be okay. That was a good reason. That was the only reason. He would not allow any other reasons to crave Cyprian’s smile or a touch of his hand.

In Constantine’s meeting room, Radu and Cyprian joined Giustiniani, the pretend Ottoman heir Orhan, the Italian commander Coco (whom Radu knew only through Nazira’s stories of the unfortunate Helen), and the emperor. Constantine moved with more lightness than Radu had seen. He was again barefoot, pacing with joyful energy. “Grain, arms, manpower. Two hundred archers! But that is not the true strength. They have brought us hope. More can come. More will come. That wind was the hand of God, delivering a blessing to this city. The first of many.”

Coco nodded, unable to avoid Constantine’s infectious joy. “One good Italian ship is worth a hundred infidel boats.”

Giustiniani laughed, clapping Orhan on the back. “So you see, we Italians can do good things. I hear the sultan is furious. The admiral will pay for his failure.”

“Suleiman?” Radu spoke before he thought better of it. He tried to shift his face into impassivity, but it was impossible. “I knew him. Is he— Will he be killed?” A gentle hand on his back startled him, but he did not turn around. Had Radu’s grief been that obvious to Cyprian?

“He lost an eye in the battle. That alone probably saved him, as testament to how hard he fought.” Giustiniani snorted. “For all the good it did him. Our scouts report he was flogged and stripped of all rank and authority. One of the pashas is in charge of the boats now. Not that it matters. We have nothing to fear from the sea.”

“But do the Venetians know that?” Cyprian asked. “They must have heard of the size of the Ottoman navy. How can we get word to them that they are guaranteed safe passage to the horn?”

Radu wished desperately that Lada were here. She would not be sad; she would not let this failure derail her. She would figure out a way to turn it to her advantage. She would use the enemies’ strength and confidence against them. Just as she had when they snuck into the palace under Halil Pasha’s nose, putting Mehmed in place to take the throne when his father died.