Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga #2)(80)

Just as Radu began to fear that Amal had not made it, a light answered him. It flashed three times in quick succession, then went dark. Radu blew his own light out. He did not know what, if anything, he had accomplished.

Then a shooting star, burning brightly, moved slowly across the sky. It left a trail of light in its wake, like a signal to him from the heavens themselves. Radu lifted a hand toward it, remembering that night so long ago when he had watched stars fall with Mehmed and Lada. He closed his eyes, gratitude and warmth filling him. Perhaps the superstitious city was finally getting to him, but he could not help but see this as a sign. He had done a good thing. He had helped Mehmed.

He went to the wall near the Romanus Gate, sliding among the men as though he had been there all night. He made certain to say a few words to some of them, taking a place in their memories. Although he faced out toward the Ottomans, all his thoughts were focused on the horn at his back and the city between them.

The bells began ringing an hour before dawn. Radu acted as surprised as everyone, looking up and down the wall as though he, too, suspected the attack was on this side.

As soon as relief came, Radu joined the other men heading to the seawall. Brief flashes of cannon fire illuminated the end of a battle. A small galley burned. Radu’s stomach dropped. But as the galley drifted slowly in the water, its flames revealed one of the big merchant ships half sunk and listing heavily. The merchant ship dragged itself away, flanked by two others.

“What happened?” Radu asked a guard on the wall. “Did they try an attack?”

The man shook his head. “We did. Somehow they knew we were coming, started firing before our ships had gotten close enough to surprise them. They sank one of our small ships.”

Radu could have laughed with relief. Mehmed would know now that Radu still had use. The Italians would not risk another attack on the galleys, not after this. The Golden Horn was effectively neutralized.

Dawn broke, illuminating the remains of the battle. Though several galleys smoked, there were no significant losses on the Ottoman side. Radu saw more masts than should have been in the water though.

And then he realized they were not masts. The wooden poles reaching up to the sky to greet the dawn were stakes. And on each of them, slowly revealed as the light touched them, an Italian sailor was impaled. In the middle, on the highest stake, Radu recognized Coco himself.

On the hill above them, surrounded by Janissaries, a white-turbaned figure in a purple cloak sat on a horse.

Radu could not understand the scene in front of him. The Ottomans had won! They had decisively defeated the sneak attack. There was no reason for this, none, except to torment the city. It felt needless.

It felt … cruel.

Troubled, Radu watched the bodies as though his vigil could bring them peace. Or bring him peace. This seemed less like war and more like murder. And it was all because of him.

A commotion farther down the wall finally drew his attention away from the stakes. He leaned out just in time to see the first battered Ottoman prisoner dropped over the side. A length of rope secured around the prisoner’s neck went taut, and the body swung limply.

Before Radu could shout, another prisoner had been hanged. And then another. And then another. He watched in horror as Ottoman prisoners were dropped like decorations, a tapestry of terror along the wall in response to the brutality across the horn.

Unable to stand it, he ran toward the hanging men. Someone had to end this. These soldiers would be held accountable for such cruelty to prisoners.

He stopped, though, when he saw the line of Ottoman prisoners waiting their turn. They were on their knees, some praying, some weeping, some too bloody and broken to do either. And standing behind them, staring out as tall and still as a pillar directly across from Mehmed, was Constantine.

Radu had been wrong. There were no good men in this city.

And there were no good men outside of it, either.





36





Mid-April




LADA EMERGED FROM her tent to find her fire already lit and a pot of water boiling. She had forced Oana to stay behind to help run their base at Toma’s estate, in part because she trusted Oana to do it well, and in part because she did not want anyone fussing over her wretched hair. Since then, Lada had not woken to a fire.

“What are you doing?” Lada asked Daciana.

Daciana pointed to the pot. “Your options are weak pine tea or weak pine tea. You really need better provisions.”

“You know what I meant.” Lada sat, taking a cup of blisteringly hot pine tea. It was weak, as promised. “I am not riding through the country, charitably adopting all those who want to join my merry band. I am taking men who can fight. Besides, it is important that the land be tended to.”

“Why do you care so much about the land?”

“Because it is mine. I have no desire to be prince of a country with no crops. People need to eat.”

Daciana laughed. “You will be prince, then?”

Lada did not share her mirth. “There is no other title. I will be vaivode, prince of Wallachia. And I will make the land into the country my people deserve.”

Daciana eased herself down, moving awkwardly with her swollen belly. “Very well, then. You take the men for soldiers and you leave the women to plant so that we do not all starve. And what will you do with the boyars?”

As though summoned, a letter from Toma Basarab was delivered at that moment by a smooth-faced boy.