Cyprian laughed. “They do not even care about scaring us. They are here to impress each other.” He sighed, finally turning and sinking down to sit with his back against the stones. Radu knew Mehmed was not here yet, that the tent was empty. Still, it was all he could do to look away and sit next to Cyprian.
“If they have all that—if they can do this much on a military campaign—why do they even want our city? That camp is nicer than anything we have in here.”
Radu sighed, resting his head against the cold limestone that stood between him and his people. “They think Constantinople is paved in gold.”
“They are two hundred years too late. How can the sultan not know that?”
“He knows.” Radu was certain of it. Mehmed was too careful, too meticulous not to know the true state of the city. “He lets them believe the city is wealthy so they are willing to fight. But he wants the city for itself. For its history. For its position. For his capital.”
“And so he will take it.”
Radu nodded, echoing Cyprian. “And so he will take it.”
“What is life like under the Ottomans? For the vassal states and conquered people?”
Radu closed his eyes and saw a red and gold tent in the darkness. Saw the face of the man who would be there, so soon. Saw himself, where he should have been, in the tent next to Mehmed.
To impress his loyalty on Cyprian, he should probably talk of horrors. But the look of despair in Cyprian’s eyes haunted him. There was comfort in the truth, so Radu extended it. “Honestly? It is better than many other things.” Radu blinked away the images of what would not be, focusing on the city on a hill in front of him. “The Ottomans do not believe in the feudal systems. People are far freer under their rule. Industry and trade flourish. They let their vassal subjects continue to worship how they wish, without persecution.”
“They do not force conversion?”
“Christians are free to remain Christians. The Ottomans actually prefer it, because they have to tax Muslims at a lower rate.”
Cyprian laughed, surprising Radu. “Well, that is very … practical of them.”
Radu smiled grimly. “I do not know if it will comfort you, but when I compare the people in Wallachia to the people in the Ottoman Empire, the Ottomans have it better.”
Cyprian swallowed, his throat shifting with the movement. He looked down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him. “But it was not better for you.”
Radu turned his head away as though struck, remembering what they thought he was to Mehmed. What shame and pain they must think he carried over what he was rumored to be. What he would gladly have been, had Mehmed so much as hinted that it was a possibility.
“No,” Radu said, his voice a cold shadow in the clear sunlight. He stood just in time to see Mehmed’s procession arrive, the walls of the city the least impossible barrier between Radu and his heart’s desire. “Not for me.”
28
Mid-April
LADA STOOD, PARALYZED with rage and grief, next to the bed where Hunyadi lay dying.
Three weeks ago when she left him, he had been robust and thick with power. Now he was a wasted shadow of himself.
Mehmed had managed to kill him after all.
Hunyadi wheezed a laugh. “He sends any men with the plague to the front lines. It is clever, really. He could not get me with a sword, but he got me with—” His words were cut off as he struggled to breathe, gasping.
Lada had never before felt so powerless. She wanted to kill something.
She wanted to kill Mehmed.
“Where is Matthias?” she asked the girl attending Hunyadi in the dark, cramped room in a humble home a good distance from the castle.
The girl kept her eyes averted, tending the fire as though keeping it alive would do anyone any good. “He does not come.”
“His father is dying. Send someone to fetch him.”
The girl shook her head, locks of hair falling in front of her face. “He will not come.”
“It is better,” Hunyadi said, finally able to speak again. He smiled. His gums were pale, his lips cracked. “I was gone when my father died. Too busy fighting to watch a sick old farmer die. And now my son is too busy in the castle to watch a sick old soldier die. It is good.”
Lada hated this talk. She wanted more time with Hunyadi. She wanted back the time she had squandered that had cost them both so dearly. She could still learn so much from him. She helped him sip some water, then adjusted his pillow. “How did you manage it? How did you come so far from such a humble start?”
“I always chose the path of most resistance. Did things no one else was willing to. Took risks no one else dared take. I was smarter. More determined. Stronger.” He lifted one shaking hand in the air and wheezed a laugh. “Well, some things change. But I was always brutal. I was the most brutal. When you start lower, you have to fight for every scrap of space you occupy in the world.” He patted Lada’s cheek, his palm too warm, and thin like parchment. “Even starting from nothing, I had more luck than you. If you had been born a boy, the whole world would tremble before you.”
Lada scowled. “I have no wish to be a man.” Then she cringed, the memory of Mehmed’s hands and tongue and lips on her body. She had never been happier to be a woman than she had been in that falsely precious space. Her body had not felt like a stranger to her then. She wanted to reclaim that feeling.
Hunyadi’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “No. You are right. I think if you had been born a boy, perhaps you would have been satisfied with what the world offered you. That is how we are alike. We saw everything that was not ours, and we hungered. Do not lose that hunger. You will always have to fight for everything. Even when you already have it, you will have to keep fighting to maintain it. You will have to be more ruthless, more brutal, more everything. Any weakness will undo everything you have accomplished. They will see any crack as evidence that they were right that a woman cannot do what you do.”
Hunyadi knew what he spoke of. Her merits, her accomplishments, her strength would never speak for themselves. She would have to cut her way through the world, uphill, for the rest of her life. She showed all her small teeth in a vicious smile. “I will make you proud. No one will be more brutal than me. No one will be more ruthless. And I will never stop fighting.”
Hunyadi laughed, wheezing and gasping until he was so pale he looked dead already. Lada helped him drink. He choked, spitting most of the water out, but managed to swallow some. Finally, he closed his eyes. “No rest for the wicked. But this wicked soul will have some now, I think.”
“Sleep.” She wanted to give him assurances that he would get better, but she could not bring herself to lie to him. Not again.
“Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will watch out for my Matthias. Be his ally.”
“I swear it.” She did not mention that she already intended to be just that.
“Your father is dying,” Lada said as she sat in a private room with Matthias. It came out as an accusation, though she knew Matthias was not to blame. She was, at least in part.
“I never understood him,” Matthias said, toying with a goblet of wine. “I never even really knew him. He sent me away as soon as I could talk. When he visited, he watched me with this look—this look like he could not believe I was his. All I heard of him was stories of his conquests, his bravery, his triumphs. And when he visited, I recited poetry for him. I asked him, once, to teach me to fight. He had never lost his temper with me, never been around long enough to, but that day I feared he would strike me. He told me he had not fought his whole life so his son could learn to swing a sword.” Matthias touched a worn hilt at his side. “Now I have his sword and no idea how to use it. That is his legacy to me.”
“You do not need a sword. All you need is to work with people who know what to do with them.” Lada leaned forward, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You want to be king.”
Matthias smiled slyly. “I am loyal to our blessed king, long may he rule.”