Now I Rise
Page 98
“No,” Radu said.
“What do you mean?” Mehmed’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at Radu as though looking upon a stranger. And perhaps he was. Radu was not the same person Mehmed had sent into the city.
“Do not kill his family. They should not be held accountable for his guilt.” Radu knew Halil’s second son, Salih. Had used him. Had taken advantage of Salih’s attraction to him to get what he needed. He looked at the floor in deepest shame. He was no better than Mehmed in this matter.
“But if I kill Halil, his family will be against me.”
“Send them away. Banish them. Strip them of their titles and forbid anyone in power to marry into that family. But if you do this for me, spare them.”
“If that is what pleases you,” Mehmed said, waving his hand with a puzzled expression. He spared their lives as easily as he had condemned them.
Radu bowed to hide his expression of sorrow. Sorrow for Halil’s family. Sorrow for Constantine and Constantinople. Sorrow for the person he had left behind when he crossed the wall for the first time. Sorrow for leaving Lada to pursue her own fate, while he stayed with someone who saw it as a gift to protect Radu’s “reputation” against the truth of his actual affections.
Mehmed put his hand on Radu’s head, like a benediction. Then with one finger under Radu’s chin, Mehmed lifted Radu’s face to look searchingly in his eyes.
“Do you still believe in me?” he asked, suddenly the boy at the fountain again. His brown eyes were warm and alive, the cold distance of the sultan gone.
“I do,” Radu answered. “I always will.” It was the truth. He knew Mehmed would build something truly amazing. He knew that Constantinople needed to fall for Mehmed to hold on to his empire. He knew that Mehmed was the greatest sultan his people had ever known. But, like his love for Mehmed, it was no longer simple.
Radu had seen what it took to be great, and he never again wanted to be part of something bigger than himself.
50
May 29
“LET ME HANDLE any talk of the prince,” Toma Basarab said. He eyed Lada critically. Lada had dressed for battle. Over her black tunic and trousers, she wore chain mail. It rippled down her body, the weight familiar and comforting. At her waist, she buckled the sword she had ripped free from the wall. On her wrists, she slid knives into her cuffs. The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.
She shuddered. She was not her father. She would not become him.
Her only concession to finery was a bloodred hat in the style of the courts. In the center of it, she pinned a glittering star, with a single feather sticking up from it. Her comet. Her omen. Her symbol.
Her country.
“Do you have a dress?” Toma asked.
She did not answer him, so he continued. “They will demand reparations, and of course we will make them. Every Danesti boyar will be at this meal. It may be overwhelming for you. I will handle everything.”
“I do not need you to do that.”
He smiled and set his dry, warm hand on hers. Lada pulled her hand away. “I have also had word from Matthias. He is very pleased with your success. The king of Hungary has taken ill, and Matthias has stepped in to make all decisions.”
Lada felt a small stab of guilt. She had promised Ulrich that the boy would have a quick and painless death. Another promise broken.
“I am drafting our letter to the sultan right now. We feel it is best to continue in the vassalage—appraising Matthias of any developments or troop movements.”
“Continue in our vassalage? I have no intentions of paying anything to Mehmed, or anyone else.”
“Oh, that will not work. We already owe money to the throne of Hungary and several Transylvanian governors. They will expect to collect soon.”
“Do you have debts to them?” Lada raised an eyebrow. “You keep saying ‘we,’ but I have no debts to those countries.”
“I believe you burned a church and slaughtered sheep? If you want good relations with our neighbors, we must make amends. Just like tonight is for making amends to the Danesti families.” Toma opened the door. “Come, they should be eating now. We cannot keep them waiting.”
Toma insisted a show of wealth was as necessary as a show of strength, and so the food they served was finer than any Lada had swallowed since Edirne. Finer than any her starving people ate. She resented every mouthful she imagined going into the boyars’ privileged bellies. The smells of roasted meat and sour wine assailed her as she walked into the room. Somehow Toma had managed to enter before her.
The massive table, lined with Danesti boyars, stretched from one end of the room to the other.
Lada had expected cold glares and hard looks as she threw her shoulders back and strode through the room behind Toma. Instead, she was met with a few curious, even amused glances. Most of the boyars did not stop eating or speaking to their neighbor.
She had dressed for battle and was met with indifference. Would she have to fight the battle to be seen her whole life?
The walk to the head of the table took an eternity. She wished she had not insisted she be alone for this. She wanted someone trusted by her side. Nicolae, with his incessant questions? Bogdan, with his dogged loyalty? Petru, or Stefan, or even Daciana?
She realized with a pang whom it was she missed. She wanted Radu on her right. And she wanted Mehmed on her left. They had made her feel strong, and smart, and seen. They had made her feel like a dragon. Without their belief in her, who was she?
She stood at the head of the table and waited. And waited. Nothing changed. No one ceased conversation, or bowed.
“Welcome,” she said. Her voice was lost among the general buzz of activity. She cleared her throat and shouted it, the meaning of the word probably lost with her angry tone.
Finally, taking their time, the boyars’ chatter quieted and then stopped. All eyes turned toward her. Eyebrows lifted. Corners of mouths turned up or down. Nowhere did she see the anticipated anger. Most of the boyars looked … bored.
She looked desperately to a side door, where Nicolae stood smartly at attention. He mouthed Thank you for coming.
“Thank you for coming,” Lada blurted, then immediately regretted it. She cleared her throat again, standing straighter. “We have much to discuss.”
“I want compensation for the death of my cousin,” a boyar near her said, his tone flat.
“What do you mean?” Mehmed’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at Radu as though looking upon a stranger. And perhaps he was. Radu was not the same person Mehmed had sent into the city.
“Do not kill his family. They should not be held accountable for his guilt.” Radu knew Halil’s second son, Salih. Had used him. Had taken advantage of Salih’s attraction to him to get what he needed. He looked at the floor in deepest shame. He was no better than Mehmed in this matter.
“But if I kill Halil, his family will be against me.”
“Send them away. Banish them. Strip them of their titles and forbid anyone in power to marry into that family. But if you do this for me, spare them.”
“If that is what pleases you,” Mehmed said, waving his hand with a puzzled expression. He spared their lives as easily as he had condemned them.
Radu bowed to hide his expression of sorrow. Sorrow for Halil’s family. Sorrow for Constantine and Constantinople. Sorrow for the person he had left behind when he crossed the wall for the first time. Sorrow for leaving Lada to pursue her own fate, while he stayed with someone who saw it as a gift to protect Radu’s “reputation” against the truth of his actual affections.
Mehmed put his hand on Radu’s head, like a benediction. Then with one finger under Radu’s chin, Mehmed lifted Radu’s face to look searchingly in his eyes.
“Do you still believe in me?” he asked, suddenly the boy at the fountain again. His brown eyes were warm and alive, the cold distance of the sultan gone.
“I do,” Radu answered. “I always will.” It was the truth. He knew Mehmed would build something truly amazing. He knew that Constantinople needed to fall for Mehmed to hold on to his empire. He knew that Mehmed was the greatest sultan his people had ever known. But, like his love for Mehmed, it was no longer simple.
Radu had seen what it took to be great, and he never again wanted to be part of something bigger than himself.
50
May 29
“LET ME HANDLE any talk of the prince,” Toma Basarab said. He eyed Lada critically. Lada had dressed for battle. Over her black tunic and trousers, she wore chain mail. It rippled down her body, the weight familiar and comforting. At her waist, she buckled the sword she had ripped free from the wall. On her wrists, she slid knives into her cuffs. The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.
She shuddered. She was not her father. She would not become him.
Her only concession to finery was a bloodred hat in the style of the courts. In the center of it, she pinned a glittering star, with a single feather sticking up from it. Her comet. Her omen. Her symbol.
Her country.
“Do you have a dress?” Toma asked.
She did not answer him, so he continued. “They will demand reparations, and of course we will make them. Every Danesti boyar will be at this meal. It may be overwhelming for you. I will handle everything.”
“I do not need you to do that.”
He smiled and set his dry, warm hand on hers. Lada pulled her hand away. “I have also had word from Matthias. He is very pleased with your success. The king of Hungary has taken ill, and Matthias has stepped in to make all decisions.”
Lada felt a small stab of guilt. She had promised Ulrich that the boy would have a quick and painless death. Another promise broken.
“I am drafting our letter to the sultan right now. We feel it is best to continue in the vassalage—appraising Matthias of any developments or troop movements.”
“Continue in our vassalage? I have no intentions of paying anything to Mehmed, or anyone else.”
“Oh, that will not work. We already owe money to the throne of Hungary and several Transylvanian governors. They will expect to collect soon.”
“Do you have debts to them?” Lada raised an eyebrow. “You keep saying ‘we,’ but I have no debts to those countries.”
“I believe you burned a church and slaughtered sheep? If you want good relations with our neighbors, we must make amends. Just like tonight is for making amends to the Danesti families.” Toma opened the door. “Come, they should be eating now. We cannot keep them waiting.”
Toma insisted a show of wealth was as necessary as a show of strength, and so the food they served was finer than any Lada had swallowed since Edirne. Finer than any her starving people ate. She resented every mouthful she imagined going into the boyars’ privileged bellies. The smells of roasted meat and sour wine assailed her as she walked into the room. Somehow Toma had managed to enter before her.
The massive table, lined with Danesti boyars, stretched from one end of the room to the other.
Lada had expected cold glares and hard looks as she threw her shoulders back and strode through the room behind Toma. Instead, she was met with a few curious, even amused glances. Most of the boyars did not stop eating or speaking to their neighbor.
She had dressed for battle and was met with indifference. Would she have to fight the battle to be seen her whole life?
The walk to the head of the table took an eternity. She wished she had not insisted she be alone for this. She wanted someone trusted by her side. Nicolae, with his incessant questions? Bogdan, with his dogged loyalty? Petru, or Stefan, or even Daciana?
She realized with a pang whom it was she missed. She wanted Radu on her right. And she wanted Mehmed on her left. They had made her feel strong, and smart, and seen. They had made her feel like a dragon. Without their belief in her, who was she?
She stood at the head of the table and waited. And waited. Nothing changed. No one ceased conversation, or bowed.
“Welcome,” she said. Her voice was lost among the general buzz of activity. She cleared her throat and shouted it, the meaning of the word probably lost with her angry tone.
Finally, taking their time, the boyars’ chatter quieted and then stopped. All eyes turned toward her. Eyebrows lifted. Corners of mouths turned up or down. Nowhere did she see the anticipated anger. Most of the boyars looked … bored.
She looked desperately to a side door, where Nicolae stood smartly at attention. He mouthed Thank you for coming.
“Thank you for coming,” Lada blurted, then immediately regretted it. She cleared her throat again, standing straighter. “We have much to discuss.”
“I want compensation for the death of my cousin,” a boyar near her said, his tone flat.
