Before she could wonder where he had learned those things—things she had accused him of not caring about aside from his own satisfaction—he moved down her body. Her back arched as his hands slid under her tunic and up her torso. She grabbed his hair, not knowing whether she wanted to pull him away or draw him closer. She feared if he continued, she would lose control. She had never let herself lose control before.
His hands found the space between her legs and she cried out with the shock and intensity of it. He responded with greater eagerness, kissing her stomach, her breasts. He pulled her tunic up higher, and, impatient with his clumsiness, she tugged it off herself. They had done this much before, but absence had made every sensation stron ger. This was where she had always stopped him, where she had always drawn the line so that she stayed in charge of what they did. So that she remained hers, and hers alone.
She did not stop him.
He pulled off his own nightshirt. He wore nothing underneath.
He unlaced her trousers and pulled them off. She thought he would try to put himself inside her, and thought—maybe—she wanted him to.
Instead, he lifted her legs and kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her where she had never imagined being kissed. Lada’s control fled on the wave of pleasure, and she did not miss it. She cried out like a wounded thing, but Mehmed put a hand over her mouth as he shifted on top of her.
She let him.
21
Late March
“HOW MANY ANGELS can dance on the head of a pin?” a man shouted, a sneer deforming his pockmarked face.
Another man jabbed his finger into the first man’s chest, screaming something about the Father and the Son. The pockmarked man threw a punch, and then they were wrestling on the muddy street, biting and kicking.
Cyprian did not even pause as he steered Radu around them.
“People here are very … religious?”
Cyprian laughed darkly. “To all our downfall. There she is.” He pointed. With nothing else to do for the day, Radu had asked to see more of the city. He wanted to see the fabled Hagia Sophia cathedral in particular. Mehmed had told him to visit. It had been his only actual instruction. And until Constantine called for him again, there was not much he could do besides wander with his eyes and ears open.
The street led to a courtyard, where the massive ca thedral loomed. It was darker than Cyprian’s laugh. Everywhere they had passed churches with bells ringing, a near-constant stream of people going in and out. But the Hagia Sophia, the jewel of Constantinople, the church so magnificent that stories said it had converted the entire population of Russia to Orthodoxy, sat cold and empty in the late-afternoon rain.
“Why is no one here?” Radu asked. They walked up to the gate, and Cyprian pushed experimentally against the door. It was locked.
“We had Mass in Latin here a few weeks ago.”
Radu knew that Orthodox services were conducted in Greek, but he did not follow Cyprian’s meaning.
A dog ran past them, followed by a young boy with bare feet. “Rum Papa!” he shouted. “Stop, Rum Papa! Come back right now!”
“Did that boy call his dog the Roman pope?”
Cyprian rapped his knuckles against the beautiful lacquered wood of the Hagia Sophia door. “Yes. Half the dogs in the city are called that. While my uncle appeals to the pope for help, people curse his name. My uncle pushed for union between the two churches, and even held Mass here to celebrate the official reunion, the ending of the schism between East and West. And now the most beautiful church in Christendom is silent and abandoned because it was tainted by watered wine, Catholic wafers, and worship in Latin.” Cyprian sighed, resting the palm of his hand reverently against the door. “And for all her sacrifice, the Hagia Sophia brought us nothing. The pope sends no aid.” He shook his head. “Come. We can see some relics. That is always fun.”
“You and I have different opinions of fun.”
Cyprian laughed, this time a bright sound at odds with the dreary, wet day. “We take our relics very seriously in this city. They protect us.” He winked.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Does it matter? If the people believe it, then it gives them strength, which gives the city strength, which means the relics worked.”
“That is very circular.”
“We Byzantines love circles. Time, the moon, arguments, and, most of all, coins. All good things are circular.”
They passed another empty section of the city. As they walked, Cyprian cheerfully gave the history of this pillar or that crumbling foundation. The whole city was steeped in heritage, and falling down around them.
They were almost to another church when the ground rumbled beneath their feet. Radu stumbled, and Cyprian caught him. A sliding noise came from above. “Run!” Cyprian shouted, tugging Radu away from the walls of a house next to them. Slate crashed down with shattering force where they had just been standing. The two men dove onto the muddy street.
Radu breathed heavily, his arms tangled up in Cyprian’s. Cyprian’s eyes met his own, black pupils nearly swallowing the gray. Then he shook his head and stood. They brushed as much of the mud from their clothes as they could, but it was a lost cause.
“Thank you,” Radu said. “Your quick instincts saved us both.”
Cyprian smiled shyly, reaching out to flick away some mud on Radu’s shoulder. “Consider it partial payment against the debt I owe you.”
Guilt seeped the color from the world. Radu swallowed, turning away. “Does that happen often? The earth shaking like that?”
“More and more lately. We have also had unseasonable storms, and a miserable winter and a torturous spring. You can imagine how much that boosts the morale of people looking for signs and portents in everything around them.”
They heard someone shouting up ahead. Radu wondered if it was another fight, but the cadence suggested a performance. They made their way toward the voice, crossing a couple of streets until they found a crowd gathered around a man standing on the wall outside a shrine.
“Wretched Romans, how you have been led astray! You have trusted in the power of the Franks, rather than the hope in your God. You have lost the true religion, and our city will be destroyed for your sins!” The man, who wore rough-woven brown robes, lifted his arms to the cloud-laden skies and tipped his head back. “O Lord, be merciful to me. I am pure and innocent of blame for the corruption of this city.” He snapped his head upright to stare down at the crowd and swept a hand over their heads. “Be aware, miserable citizens, of what you have done by betraying your faith in God for the promises of the pope. You have denied the true faith given to you by your fathers. You have accepted the slavery of heresy. In doing so, you have confessed all your sins to God. Woe to you when you are judged!”
Women cried out, beating at their chests. Men held children up, begging for blessings. Vicious, ugly shouts against Constantine, the pope, and all of Italy tore through the air.
Cyprian made a rude gesture, then took Radu’s arm and pulled him away. “That fool hates the pope more than he hates the sultan. He would love nothing more than to see the city burn, welcoming hell with open arms as proof that he was right all along.”
“How can they hate Constantine for doing whatever he must to protect them?”
Cyprian rubbed his face wearily, then looked down at his still-muddy hands. “This is Constantinople. We are more concerned with the purity of our souls than the survival of our bodies. Come. There is nothing left worth seeing here.”
After they had washed, and eaten dinner with Nazira, Cyprian excused himself to attend to his uncle. Constantine’s main duties seemed to be an endless campaign of letter writing, his weapon the pen, his ammunition empty promises and desperate pleading. Radu wished that Cyprian had invited him to come along.
“Patience,” Nazira reminded him, squeezing his shoulder as he cleaned the dishes. “You will find ways to help. The best thing we can do now is become a part of the city.”
Radu turned to see her wearing clothes in the style of the women in Constantinople: a stiff and structured bodice, with tight sleeves and excessive skirts. He raised his eyebrows. Twirling in a circle, she smirked. “Do you like it? I feel like a flower in the wrong petals.”