“Bogdan, a rope.”

Bogdan took a rope out of his saddlebag. Lada tied it tightly around the soldier’s wrists. She tossed the free end to Petru. He nodded grimly, then tied it to his saddle.

“What are you going to do to me?” the soldier asked through clattering teeth.

“We are taking you back to Tirgoviste as an example of what happens to those who do not honor the truth.”

“What if he cannot keep up with the horses?” Petru asked.

Lada looked at the open grave of her brother, where his corpse once again faced the dirt that had claimed him. “That is what the rope is for.”

She spurred her horse forward, going too fast for any man to run long enough to keep from being dragged to his death.

She did not look back.

47

May 29

DAWN CAME AT last. Birds circled overhead, dark silhouettes against the sky, drawn by the carnage beneath. Soon they would descend.

Nazira and Radu ran as quickly as they could. The streets had filled with groups of citizens, clustered together and panicking. “Is it true?” a man shouted as they sprinted past. “Are they in the city?”

“Run!” Nazira screamed.

The man dropped to his knees and began praying instead. Behind them, they heard the sounds of conflict drawing closer. There were no Byzantine soldiers in the city—no one left to fight—but the Ottomans surging over the wall did not know that. They would come ready to fight in the streets, and when they realized there was no one left to bar their way …

“We have to get Cyprian out,” Radu said, gasping for air. “Valentin, too.”

“How?”

The way to Galata would be closed. The Ottomans would anticipate that. The bells on the seawall began clanging a warning. If the Ottoman soldiers in the galleys knew the city had been taken, they would be eager to join the pillaging. The seawalls were barely manned now, and with word spreading through the city that the walls had fallen, everyone would abandon their posts, leaving the sailors free to climb over. No one wanted to miss out on the looting. Nothing was off-limits—gold, jewelry, people. Anything that could be moved and sold would be.

But if the seawalls were not manned, and all the sailors rushed into the city—

“The horn,” Radu said. “We make for the horn. There are still the Italian ships. We may even be able to steal one of the Ottoman galleys.”

“Are you certain we will meet no resistance?” Nazira asked.

Radu could not be certain of anything. “It is our best chance.”

“What about Mehmed? You could ride out to meet him.”

They collapsed against Cyprian’s door. His home was deep enough in the city that no sounds of fighting had reached it yet. “I will not leave you and Cyprian here, not for anything,” Radu said. “I can come back when the three days of looting are over and everything has settled.”

Nazira squeezed his hand; then they ran into the house. “Valentin!” Nazira shouted.

The boy rushed down the stairs, nearly falling. “We heard the bells. Cyprian is getting dressed to fight. I told him not to, but—”

Nazira handed Valentin his cloak. “The city is falling. We are running.”

Radu looked up to see Cyprian standing at the top of the stairs. His injury had left him unable to get out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time without becoming dizzy. He was as pale and bleak as the dawn. “My uncle?”

Radu shook his head. “It is over. If we do not run now, we will not get out alive.”

Cyprian closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Then he nodded, resolve hardening all his features. “Where do we go?”

“The horn.” Radu turned to leave, then paused. “Wait!” He sprinted up the stairs, throwing open the chest in the room he had shared with Nazira. At the bottom, carefully folded, were the clothes they had worn on their journey to Constantinople. Radu yanked his robes on over what he already wore, then hastily wrapped a turban around his hair. Better to look like friend than foe to the invading army.

Cyprian nodded. “Like the flags,” he said. For a terrible moment Radu thought Cyprian knew what they had done at the palace. But then he remembered the flags on the boats to help them sneak past the Ottoman fleet.

“Yes. Speak in Turkish,” Radu cautioned. “Valentin, you say nothing.”

The four of them paused on the threshold of the house. They had been happy here, after a manner. As much happiness as could be found in the slow, agonizing death of a city falling around them. Then they ran. Cyprian was in the lead, taking them on a winding route around the edges of the city, skirting populated areas in favor of abandoned ones. They were nearly to a gate on the seawall when they came across the first group of Ottoman soldiers.

A clump of citizens had been caught in the alley, and the soldiers ran at them, screaming and brandishing swords. Half of the group had been cut down before the soldiers realized there was no resistance and stopped. Radu thought nothing could be more horrifying than watching unarmed people hewn down.

Until the soldiers began claiming them. One young woman, her clothes already torn, was being tugged between two men. “I had her first!” one shouted.

“She is mine! Find your own!”

“There will be plenty,” their commander said, going through the bags of the dead. He did not even look at the girl as the soldiers pulled off what remained of her clothes, arguing over who could keep her and how much she would be worth. The girl stared at Radu, her eyes already blank and dead, though she still lived.

If Radu were truly good, if he were not a coward, if he valued all life the same, he would risk drawing the soldier’s attention and kill her right now. But he had to save Nazira, and he had to save Cyprian. “Come on,” Radu whispered. They slipped back the way they had come.

At a gate to the thin shore of the horn, two remaining Greek soldiers huddled, debating whether or not to open it. Cyprian stalked up without pausing. “They are already in the city,” he said.

“We will drive them out!” A small soldier, barely past his youth, stood in Cyprian’s way. “The angel will come! We must hold them off until then.”

“Does he have the key?” Cyprian asked the lanky soldier next to the boy. He nodded. Cyprian punched the boy in the face, then pulled the key from his vest. “The city has fallen. Do what you see best.”

Crying, the young soldier stumbled away. The lanky soldier slipped out the gate as soon as Cyprian unlocked it. They followed him onto a narrow stretch of rocky beach lining the seawall. No boats were docked here. The Venetian boats had not fled yet, but from the movement onboard, they would soon. And, just as Radu had predicted, several Ottoman galleys were drifting not far from shore, completely abandoned. Someone had dumped logs into the water, where they floated by the hundreds, bobbing gently on the waves.

No.

Not logs.

Radu watched as a man who had managed to swim as far as the Venetian ships attempted to climb up the side. A sailor on the deck reached down with a long pole, pushing him off into the water.

“Why? Why not help him?” Nazira whispered, her hands covering her mouth.

Cyprian leaned back against the wall, the hollows beneath his eyes nearly as gray as his irises. “They fear being swamped. There are too many people trying to get on the boats.”

Valentin shook his head in disbelief. “All these people. They could have saved them.”

Many of the bodies in the water had wounds no pole could cause, though. The Ottomans must have gotten here at the same time as those people who had figured out the horn was a means of escape. The delay to get Cyprian and Valentin had likely saved all their lives.

“What do we do?” Nazira asked, turning to Radu.

“Can you swim?”

“A little.”

He looked at Cyprian, who nodded. Valentin nodded, too, eyeing the corpse-strewn water with resigned weariness that had no place on such a young face.

“The smallest galley. We can row it out until we catch the wind. Once we have that in our sails, we can slip down and away.”

“And then?” Cyprian asked.

“And then we keep going.”

The bells of the Hagia Sophia, deeper and older than any others in the city, began clanging. Radu bade the church a silent farewell. Valentin slipped his hand into Radu’s.