Ismael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Orhan is a good man. He has grown up as a pawn, but he never let it turn him cruel or bitter. I have not heard the same of the sultan.” He shrugged. “Either way, my fate was always at this city. Die inside the walls or against them. We chose to stay with a man we respect.”
A few weeks ago, Radu would have wanted to strike Ismael for accusing Mehmed of cruelty. Now every time Radu closed his eyes, he saw a forest of stakes bearing their monstrous fruit.
The two men looked up as a procession of horses trudged through the mud in front of them. In the middle was Constantine. His shoulders drooped and his head hung heavy. The day before it had been his presence at the walls that kept the defenders fighting long enough to repel the attack. But Radu could see he was cracking under the pressure.
Mud flew through the air, landing on the flank of Constantine’s horse. The soldiers at his side were immediately alert, looking for the assailant. Constantine sighed and shook his head.
“Heretic!” someone shouted from an alley. “Our children starve because you betrayed God!”
Constantine glanced to the side and saw Radu. He smiled ruefully. “Our children starve because the only silver left in the city belongs to God himself.”
Once the emperor’s procession had passed, Radu bid Ismael farewell. As he walked back to Cyprian’s house, he saw evidence of suffering everywhere. It was one thing to see men die on the walls, and another entirely to see their children sitting on stoops listless and dull-eyed with hunger. There was food in Galata, and they still traded during the day with Constantinople. But if no one had money, all the food in the world was still out of reach.
Constantine’s words trailed along in Radu’s wake, nagging at him. The only silver left in the city belongs to God himself. Radu could do nothing to force an end to the siege. But perhaps he could alleviate some suffering in the meantime. Suffering he had helped cause by destroying food. Perhaps he could still do some good for his own soul.
Cyprian and Nazira were both in the sitting room when Radu burst through the door, reenergized.
“What are you so pleased about?” Cyprian asked.
“There is silver in the churches, yes?”
Cyprian nodded. “The collection plates are all made of it.”
“And they are used to collect money for the poor. I think we should collect those plates to create money for the poor. Surely God would look kindly on such an endeavor.” Radu could not imagine either god—the Christian one or the true God—would frown upon charity, no matter to whom it was given. It was one of the pillars of Islam, after all. He had not felt this genuinely happy about anything since he had come to the city.
Cyprian shook his head. “My uncle cannot take anything from the churches, not with his reputation. They barely let him worship there as it is. If he began demanding holy silver, the city would riot.”
Radu smiled wickedly, holding out a hand to help Nazira up. “Your uncle will not demand anything, nor will he take it. I know my way around a foundry.”
Cyprian bit his lips, his gray eyes dancing in delight. “I know where they mint the royal coins. It has not been in operation much lately.”
“I know someone who is very adept at picking locks.”
Nazira laughed, grabbing a black shawl and draping it over her head. “And I know someone who will be cleaning the churches, should anyone happen upon our merry band of thieves.”
It was foolish, but it felt so good to be doing something other than fighting at the walls or hating himself. Radu practically skipped through the streets. Nazira was on one side, Cyprian on the other, and the night was as sweet as any he had known. They found a dim, unused church not far from Cyprian’s house.
Nazira held her bucket of supplies in plain view, tapping a foot impatiently as though she wanted to get on with her work. The bucket conveniently blocked any view of Radu’s lock picking. The door clicked open and they tiptoed inside. Radu loved churches best when they were dark. The lavish, sumptuous decorations were muted, the silence holier than any liturgy could be.
Cyprian made his way confidently to the altar, where he pulled out a plate and held it up in triumph. Nazira tucked it into the bottom of her bucket and covered it with rags.
Within three hours they had hit several churches. Nazira’s bucket was nearly full. Radu was too tired to skip, but he and Cyprian kept laughing at the other’s fumbling in the dark. In one church, Cyprian tripped and fell backward over a bench, his legs straight up in the air. Radu held himself, bent over, trying not to laugh so loudly that they got caught. Rather than getting up immediately, Cyprian had remained on his back, kicking his legs, until tears streamed down Radu’s face.
When the tenth church was stripped, they agreed to one more. They weaved through the streets with secret laughter as muffled as the city by fog. Radu did not know how it felt to be drunk, but he suspected it felt something like this.
“I need it!” a woman screamed. They stopped, startled. Two women pulled at a basket. Each had a child or two at their legs, tugging on their skirts and crying. “My children are starving!” one of the women shouted.
“We are all starving!” a man said, shoving between the two women. One of them fell into the muddy street, taking a child down with her. The other scrambled for the basket, but the man got to it first.
“Give it to me,” she begged, picking up her small child and holding him in front of her as proof of her desperation.
“I have my own hungry children.”
Cyprian and Radu stepped forward, unsure what to do but knowing something needed to be done. “You should be at the walls,” Cyprian said to the man.
The man’s face shifted into something ugly and brutal. “So you can take this food for your own? I will go back to the wall when I know my family is eating.” He shoved past them, nearly knocking Nazira down. He did not so much as look back at the women he had stolen the food from. The one still standing stomped away, one child in her arms and the other hurrying after her.
Radu reached out to help the fallen woman up. She took his hand and stood, brushing off her skirt and using a clean section to wipe her child’s face.
“You should go to Galata,” Radu said, as gently as he could. “They have more food there, and your children will be safer.”
“God will protect us,” she said, and Radu did not know if it sounded like a prayer or a condemnation.
“But God is not feeding you.”
She looked at him, aghast, then bundled her child into her skirts and hurried away, as though Radu’s blasphemy were contagious.
She might as well have carried off all their easy happiness, too. But at least they knew this night was worthwhile. Necessary. “One more,” Cyprian said, sounding tired. He pointed the way. “The monastery where they house the Hodegetria.”
“What is that?” Nazira asked, linking one arm through Radu’s and the other through Cyprian’s. It did not feel quite right, with her in the middle. Less balanced. Radu had preferred when he was between them. But he carried the now-heavy bucket.
“The Hodegetria is the holiest icon in the city,” Cyprian said. “A painting of the Virgin Mary holding the child Jesus at her side. Said to be brought back from the Holy Land by the apostle Luke. They parade it around the walls sometimes as protection, though the monks have been withholding it as punishment for my uncle’s dealings with the Catholics.”
“Do they really think a painting will save them?” Nazira asked, no sting in her criticism, merely curiosity. Radu cringed at her choice of words—them instead of us—but Cyprian took no notice. At least Radu was not the only one too comfortable around Cyprian.
“They say it has saved the city before,” Cyprian said.
“Do you believe it?” Nazira asked.