“And now we will never remember you again.” Daciana turned her back on him.

Stefan pulled a handkerchief from his vest and offered it to her. She passed it to her mother, who wiped the blood from her hands.

“What is the meaning of this?” A portly man, face veined and splotchy with age and alcohol, stumbled out of the manor. He wore a velvet vest with a gold necklace, and a black cap on his large head.

“Silviu?” Lada asked. “I am here to negotiate your support.” Lada drew her crossbow and shot him in the chest. One of Toma’s men shouted in surprise.

Lada turned her horse. “That went well. We have the full support of this estate now. It is yours.” She pointed to Daciana.

Daciana nodded, a dazed expression on her face. Her mother finished cleaning her hands and gave the handkerchief back to Daciana. “I will tell the men.”

“No,” Lada snapped. “I did not say the land was theirs. Or any of the fathers of this land. They forfeited their rights when they sold their daughters for food. Why did you let them live?”

Daciana’s mother met Lada’s gaze without shame. “I have three other daughters. I could not sacrifice myself without sacrificing them. Until today.”

Lada wanted to argue, to chastise. Then she realized that this woman had come directly from working in the fields, where she had no need of a knife. How long had she carried it? How long had she treasured it in secret, waiting for the right moment? This woman was smart. She saw an opening and she took it.

Though why more people had not done this sooner, she did not understand. If the Wallachians could see past titles and velvet, they would see that the true strength of the land—the true power—was theirs. All they needed was a knife and an opportunity.

Lada would be both for them.

“You are in charge,” she said to the old woman.

“You cannot do that,” Toma’s man said. “We need a boyar.”

“Are you a boyar?” Lada snapped.

The man opened his mouth to argue further.

“I am the only royal blood here.” She stared at him until he bowed his head and looked away. Then she pointed at the body of the murdered soldier and addressed Daciana’s mother. “I trust you. Treat your daughters and granddaughters better than their fathers have treated them.”

Daciana’s mother nodded slowly, a determination settling around her eyes and replacing the shock. “What do we do when the prince finds out our boyar is dead?”

“Do what you have always done. Work the land. Let me worry about the prince.”

The woman nodded, then dipped her head in a bow. “We owe you everything.”

Lada smiled. “Do not forget it. I promise I will not.”

35

April 21–28

“THERE YOU ARE!” Cyprian said brightly, in defiance of the weariness painted on his face in dust and soot and traces of blood.

Radu paused on the doorstep, trying his best to meet Cyprian’s smile. He had just returned from a long night on the wall. A night of black punctuated by burning orange and darkest red. It was a relief to see Cyprian again. It was always a relief, because with the wall, reunions were never guaranteed.

Cyprian leaned past him to open the door, gesturing excitedly. “I found fruit preserves. I will not tell you what I had to do to get them, but—”

“Turks! Turks in the horn!” a boy screamed, running through the street.

Cyprian and Radu shared a look of confusion and concern. Radu was too tired to know whether this feeling was excitement or dread. He sprinted after the boy, caught his sleeve, and dragged him to a stop. “The chain has broken?”

The boy shook his head, eyes wide with excitement and fear. “They sailed their ships over land!” The boy wriggled free and darted away, shouting his news with no further explanation.

Cyprian raised his eyebrows, concern overpowered by curiosity. He started walking in the direction of the seawall. Radu followed.

“Do you have any idea what he is talking about?” Cyprian asked.

“Maybe they were able to sneak in the same way our boats slipped out past them?”

“That worked because of the chaos. But there is no chaos on our side of the chain. No one sleeps. Watch is kept at all hours. There must be something else going on.”

Radu trudged after Cyprian. He could not find the energy in himself to run anymore. He had spent half the night cutting down hooks that the Ottomans threw up to try to dislodge the barrels of earth that protected the defenders. It was wearying work. Even arrows singing past his ears barely registered after a few hours on barrel duty. But at least all he had done was remove hooks. He had not had to kill any of his brothers last night, which made it better than most.

His mind was on endless barrels of earth as they climbed to the top of the seawall and looked over.

“God’s wounds,” Radu whispered. Nothing had prepared him for this. The Ottomans were, in fact, inside the horn. And just as the boy had said, they were sailing their ships over land.

Three medium-sized galleys floated in the water, their crews laughing and waving their oars. Coming down a road of greased logs on the hill behind the horn, another galley slowly made its way toward the sea. The men aboard rowed their oars through the air, perfectly in sync. Oxen pulled from the front, and hundreds of men held ropes to control the descent. Cresting the hill behind the galley was yet another boat.

A striped tent had been set up overlooking the boats’ progress. Radu could not see clearly from this distance, but he suspected it shaded Mehmed himself. Surrounding the tent, a Janissary band played music more suited to a party than to war. The bright brass notes drifted across the horn to Radu and Cyprian.

As the lower galley slid off the bank and into the sea, a cheer went up among the Ottomans.

“Why do our ships do nothing?” Cyprian asked. Radu pointed to a row of cannons set up along the shore, aimed at the chain where Constantine’s fleet floated, useless. A few ships were edging closer, apparently debating whether or not to risk the cannon fire.

Without warning, a huge stone flew over the top of the city of Galata and came splashing into the water between the Byzantine fleet and the Ottoman galleys. It was so close to the nearest merchant ships that they bobbed in the waves from the impact.

Mehmed had also solved the problem of how to fire from Galata. He could not, under treaty, place cannons in the city. And so he had engaged the trebuchets from bygone years. They sat behind the city and flung rocks over into the water.