The Free Company and the Last Bastion of Empire: Book IV

[TheWildFerret]

June 28th, Constantinople - Evening

Erik sat back and thought about the events of the past year, his employment with the Russian and then this Free Company. Truly, Death Rides with us, is an appropriate mottos. He slowly shook his head sadly and looked around the table to his few remaining comrades. Their sat Baer, the big Sergeant with a nose for trouble and a head for battle, next to him was Koenig, the solid stone in the Regiment. Koenig was a stabilizing force in the Regiment, he was not great at any one thing, but was very good at several things. The men looked to him because of his professionalism and his respect for every man in the Regiment.

Also at the table were Eberhardt and Kaufman. Both acquitted themselves well on the wall. Both would most likely take over leadership if any spots should open. One figure was absent and it sent chills down his spine.

Trenen, his second in command and friend, was not there. He had taken a nasty blow on the wall and was still recovering from it. Erik remembered when he first met Trenen, it was back home when he had first come to age. They were both from the same Hamlet and knew each other while growing up, although they were not friends in the sense of the word. Erik was born into a small merchant family, while Trenen was born into a small family of freemen. Erik smiled at the thought of Trenen’s constantly used saying. I may not have wealth, but what I do have is mine.

Erik snickered and relayed to those about the table what he was thinking about.

“To Trenen, and the others who fell or took wounds upon the wall.”

The five Germans raised their mugs and took a look pull at the watery beer. Baer looked into his mug and sighed. “Oh what I wouldn’t give for some real beer,” he looked at Erik with a smile, “What about you, sir?”

The four Germans looked at Erik with a little bit of amusement in their eyes. It was no secret that Erik’s family dealt in the realm of alcohol. Starting with beer and moving towards more potent distilled spirits. Erik grinned at the group.

“Like you lowborns would understand the finer aspects of drinking true spirits,” he affected a slightly nasal tone to his voice.

The five Germans roared with laughter at the joke. Erik smiled to see his men in good spirits, even if it was for the time being. He knew the importance of morale and shook his head to vanquish such thoughts from his mind. Tonight is a night for joy and rememberance, and a time to thank God we are all alive.

Erik took in the room. His gaze lingered over the men who had fought on the walls with him. He raised his mug to the small Swiss, although they would never see eye to eye, Erik grinned at his own unintentional joke, they make a worthy ally and another strong point in the defense that can be relied upon.

His gaze took in Frederik. The “merchant” raised a mug in salute to the German. There was a man with much things hidden and an agenda all to himself. Erik sighed as he contemplated the games within games within the Company. Sometimes Erik wondered if Frederik sometimes manipulated information to conclude is own agenda items. He shrugged and continued to look around the room.

In a corner half hidden he saw Lochlan. The man was an enigma. He was competent, of that Erik had no doubts, but still he was a man used to shadows and the night. Bah, all these shadow walkers, I’m surprised they don’t trip over each other’s feet as they meander along. Erik would never understand or trust a man who lived and dealt with the shadows, he admitted that it was necessary, but still he could not trust a man who would plant a dagger in someone’s back instead of on the open battlefield.

He looked about the room once more and wandered about the different men in the Tavern. Here there was a Moor speaking with a Welsh bowman, If the situation was not so dire, that would not be a sight seen ever. There was a Swiss talking about the finer arts of Pike formations with a Bedouin Archer.

All the things he saw here brought a smile to his face. Yes they would survive, but how many would get out is the question. He noticed that LeClerc was nowhere to be seen and wondered at this. Perhaps he was wounded and layed in bed like Trenen. Once more he shrugged. Now was the time the chaff was removed and the better fighters were left standing. As harsh a reality that it was, it was still reality. With time only the best would be left standing, and then no one would be left.

Again Erik forced his mind to stop the contemplation of the siege. Tonight was not for such things. Tonight was for the celebration of life. He turned to the last strange occupant of the Tavern, the infamous Captain. The man was an enigma, but definitely the sort of man you would follow to hell and back, and if it was possible, he would bring you back from the pits of hell drinking spring water. A great weariness was upon the man, but what else could you expect. The mantle of leadership was thrust upon him and he met resistance from every quarter.

Erik looked to his companions, “Servants of the Land we are, and we are servants to no man. Another toast brothers, “ he raised his mug and waited for the other four to do the same, “To home and the day we walk once more upon the soil of our fathers.”

“Here, here” they bellowed and all of them drained their glasses at this last toast.

“Now I take your leave and will return to my room. I will most likely be needed soon and it would not be very professional to arrive smelling of horrible beer.” Erik rose to leave.

Baer guffawed out loud and looked at the other three that were still seated, “See I told you this beer was bad.”

Erik walked out of the tavern with a slight grin on his face. Yes, we will hold or die, but we will always be brothers.

 

[Valdemar]

June 28th, evening, the Tavern.

Captain smiled when he heard the message, running low on fruit was hardly his most pressing problem, with the hot dry summer right around the corner, the orchards would supply everything they needed in that area long before the winter rains.

Frederik nodded to the table in general and seated himself and Ailena at an adjacent table. So far Lochlan had remained impassive at his suggestions that something wasn’t right in the company, Frederik was however certain that Lochlan had heard, but he couldn’t explain why the Ranger refused to work together on this.

That man is the most stubborn and secretive person I’ve ever met, he doesn’t trust anyone except perhaps Captain.

He leaned back, this lull in the fighting suited him well, and he had all sorts of small outstanding assignments that he had been neglecting the last couple of months. He looked around and tried to see if he could spot either Omar or Shur’tu, both of them carrying a small fortune of his, though Omar probably didn’t know it.

He sighed; it was bothering him that neither Ailena nor Romario had been able to find the missing head of the Grittis. He had hoped that he that way could find out who that mysterious stranger had been. Perhaps now that things returned to normal he could work with Tomas and that Greek merchant to make a proper search.

And then there was Maria; he was at a complete loss for words to describe what was going on there. Right after the battle at the gate he had thought for a few hours that everything was finally coming together, that she finally had shed her inhibitions and her angst of commitment. Now he was not so sure, after the last evening in the tavern he hadn’t seen anything to her and he had a growing suspicion that everything was returning to status quo and what ever moment of weakness or perhaps letting down of the guards there had been was forever gone.

He sighed, it was perhaps time to look to a future without Maria. It had been very close this time, next time the Turks would probably break through. He’d better start planning his own escape.

He looked at the girl at his side, I’ll bring her along if it is at all possible, whether Maria is with me or not, she deserves better than being left behind for the Turks to find. He rose,

“I’m going to get a breath of fresh air, if Lochlan comes back tell him to wait for me, I won’t be long.”

Ailena merely nodded and looked thoughtfully at his retreating back.

 

[stnylan]

There was a creaking groan as the doors of the distribution centre were shut. From the other side Niklos could hear the thud of the bar being put in place. Outside four guards stood to attention as he made sure that all was as it should be. Beside him Ioannes carried three copies of the weekly inventory of all known supplies, that needed to be properly distributed. Usually Nillos left that task to subordinates, but tonight he had the feeling that he wanted to deliver one of these himself.

The walk home - he would need to change - was not too far, but the silence in the streets made it seem much longer. This was once a wealthier area of town, and strangely it was emptier than the poorer portions. The houses still stood, imperious designs to proclaim a family's wealth and power, now nothing more than echoes of a shattered dream.

His own house was well guarded. It was a small affair, for his grandfather had seen the way the wind was blowing. After a fire had destroyed the old abode this new, smaller dwelling was constructed, with more than eye to its defence. So that if the city was ever taken the family, if trapped, might have a hope of facing off looting soldiers until order could be restored. It was empty without his wide and children, but he had sent them away the moment he heard of the impending siege. Besides, that allowed him to concentrate.

Demetrios was waiting for him. "Take these 2 reports to where they need to go - to the Palace and Prefect's office, I'll deal with the other."

"Do you think that's wise?" asked Demetrios, a note of caution.

"Probably not," Niklos replied with a chuckle. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. What I need you to worry about is a way to find more fruit. And the usual. Have you heard anything?"

Demetrios shook his head, and then turned to Ioannos, "Come little one, let's go chuck this scroll over the palace wall!" Ioannes greeting this with great enthusiasm, and scampered off after Demetrios.

Niklos sighed. I wiish I could be that young again. Amazing how a child finds hope in just about anything. And a miracle too how he always has so much energy!

A short while later Nillos had changed into his fourth-best robe - still good quality though not the best - in a vague attempt to make the Frankish louts realise he had some small importance attacked to his person. Of course, they might well be too drunk to realise anything. Not, Nilklos conceded to himself, that the Greek soldiers were any different. Soldiers were a universal affliction.
____

Frederick was happy to get out of the tavern, it allowed him a chance to think away from all the noise an hubub of the taproom. He stretched his arms, and then heard someone call in truly horrendous Danish: "Dane! Frederick! Your Captain drinks?"

Nilos looked no different from how Frederick remembered him: short, a little stocky, with greying hair and a scraggly beard. No different from a good many men in the their middle years. Though I am sure his beard and hair are whiter than they were. "Ah Nillos," he answered in Greek, noting the merchant's apparel, and the tightly wound scroll. "Captain is indeed inside. More reports?"

Nillos nodded, and replied in his own language. "Weekly inventory. Yet another millstone the palace has decided to wieght around my neck. Never, Frederick, accept a court position. You'll be used and abused with implacable frequency." He stared at the tavern door, and then swore under his breath. "Soldiers!" he cursed quietly, though audibly.

"Come," he said, "I'll introdice you to Captain, and afterwards there is a matter I would like to discuss with you - though we can do so in a more salubrious locale." With that he led the Greek inside, careful only to smile when Niklos could not see.

 

[Lord Durham]

July 1 - Turkish Camp - Mid Morning

The man who sometimes held the Sultan's ear stood over a clay model of Constantinople and the surrounding area, explaining the latest knowledge gleaned from several undiscovered spies that still operated within the besieged city.

"My informants have confirmed that the Byzantine Strategoes, Severus, has been gravely wounded. His replacement is relatively unknown to us, but I have heard stories of his prowess in battle."

Murad studied the layout, didn't bother to look up. "Courage gives the defender heart. We will have to see about ripping out the heart."

"If it pleases your Highness, we tried that with the mercenary commander, with disastrous results."

Murad was in a conversational mood - a rarity lately. "For who? Certainly not us, Sulyman. Our Venetian allies failed."

"You speak truly, my Sultan. Speaking of allies, I have had requests from several additional representatives. They wish to have their lands spared."

"That's what I love about Christians, Sulyman. They are so fragmented. Who are these people?"

Sulyman's answer was lost in a sudden, rousing cheer.

Murad glanced briefly at his aide, a smile playing at his full lips. "Ah. If I am not mistaken, Sulyman, I believe my cannon have arrived."

The Sultan swept from the tent - Sulyman hurried to follow.

On the distant ridge a large, gleaming barrel rose into view. Minutes later the entire cannon and carriage topped the rise. It was pulled by hundreds of oxen.

As Turkish troops hurried to form a corridor for the ponderously moving artillery, Sultan Murad said, "A wonderful sight, Sulyman - truly wonderful. My Bavarian is to be rewarded. In a few days these two cannon shall demonstrate to the Greeks just how futile their resistance has become."

 

[Valdemar]

July 1st, midmorning, Niklos’ warehouse

Frederik had been gathering information on the little Greek merchant the last couple of days, before he finally sought him out. Romario had reported nothing out of the ordinary on the man, but Isaac and David had supplied Frederik with a touch of caution.

As the he walked down the street toward the place where they distributed food for the people, he recalled his friend’s words: He is very well liked, has been her always, his father running the business before him, he was a minor official already before the siege and he is doing great work now with his food program. But. Why was there always a but? Frederik smiled, But, I somehow have a hard time explaining how he makes his business run, with his time at the palace and now, without any customers. I wonder why he stayed when the rest of his family left.

As he neared the warehouses he thought back to his own response, that the Jews had stayed as well. And David had answered that they had little to fear from the Turks and that they had so much more property in the city to protect. Somehow Frederik doubted that the Greek merchant was anything but that, and obviously a devout citizen as well, but he would have to heed the warning nonetheless, anything else would be careless.

As he greeted Niklos Frederik couldn’t help but smile at the Greek official, what a self-righteous man. Off course with Frederik’s view of ethics and moral a lot of men could be called that, but this man took him self very seriously.

“Ah, Frederik, it should please you that I have managed to secure an extra source of fruit, I assume that is why you came?”

Frederik shook his head suppressing a grin, “no, but I’ll pass it along to the quartermaster whenever I see him again. I came in another errand.”

“Oh, I see, I doubt that I can spare more for the army..”

“No, no, please, is there somewhere where we can speak privately?”

“Well, I guess the men can handle the rest.” the Greek looked at the crowd in front of the warehouse. “Alright, follow me.” He led the way to a corner of the warehouse where a small table groaned under the weight of ledgers and rolls. “Please sit.” Frederik sat at the offered chair and Niklos seated himself behind his desk. “Well, what can I do for you then?”

“I heard that you have been busy organizing some of the inhabitants into watch teams?”

“Yes, I was inspired by the work gangs of that young Frankish soldier and we need to protect the people from drunken soldiers and watch for loose fires in the empty buildings.”

Frederik hid a smile behind his hand; he could almost hear the contempt for the mercenaries and soldiers in general in the voice.

“Well, I thought perhaps we could help each other out. As you may, or may not know, I sort of doubles as an intelligence gatherer for Captain.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a rumor at the palace, I fail to see the connection.”
Frederik made a sweep with his arm, encompassing the warehouse, “where do you think all this came from?”

“Well, the army rightfully confiscated it.”

“How do you think they knew where to look?”

“I see. What do you want from me then?”

“Not much, if you hear things, let me know, if your watch guards see something odd, let me know. Perhaps a merchant in the tanners’ lane at night? A soldier in the Islamic quarters? Things like that, let me know.”

“Perhaps, let me think about it.”

“Do that, ohh, don’t tell Captain just yet, no need to burden him further.”

The Greek nodded, but Frederik was uncertain what way this would fall. Would his curiosity win over his need to assert his feeling of righteousness and lead either to do as he was asked or to refuse and report this to whatever authority he thought was proper.

 

[stnylan]

Niklos remained passive as he listened carefully to what the Dane had to say. It was plain enough that Frederik thought he was some sort of pompous official, an impression which Niklos was not, at the moment, very enthusiastic to change. Of course, Frederik would not be taking him for a fool, the Dane was far too wily to be that stupid.

He had done his own research on Frederik, or rather Demetrios had done it for him. Clearly he had done something in the local criminal community, though Niklos had no idea exactly what. The fact though that some of the usual suspects were acting just a little differently was enough. Niklos had always kept on eye on the underworld, it was useful to know one's competitors.

“I heard that you have been busy organizing some of the inhabitants into watch teams?”

“Yes, I was inspired by the work gangs of that young Frankish soldier and we need to protect the people from drunken soldiers and watch for loose fires in the empty buildings.”

Let him think that we here have no imagination, no history. Play to Latin pride, that is the way we have been forced to act, humbling ourselves before those who only learnt to write in the last five hundred years!

“Yes, I’ve heard a rumor at the palace, I fail to see the connection.”

An inane statement. A child of four could see the connection. He probably sees through the pretense of stupidity, but remember: play the Latin.

“How do you think they knew where to look?”

A reasonable response, gently handled on his part. Well, he has some breeding, though time will tell if he is truly subtle. Most likely not, he is only a Dane.

“Not much, if you hear things, let me know, if your watch guards see something odd, let me know. Perhaps a merchant in the tanners’ lane at night? A soldier in the Islamic quarters? Things like that, let me know.”

Well, he shows some foresight, but evidently his own sources are insufficient. I wonder what is worrying him, other than the obvious?

“Do that, ohh, don’t tell Captain just yet, no need to burden him further.”

Something is bothering him, perhaps he just has a natural aversion to authority? Well, who can blame him?

Niklos hmmmd, "Indeed, the Commander must have a considerable weight of work as always, and it is indeed pointless to report anything until there is something to report. Don't worry, the primary reason for the vigiles is to try to act against Turkish sympathisers, and of course for any in Italian employ. Foreign merchants are not to be trusted in this place."

Niklos slightly emphasised the final sentance, but before he could say anything else there was a knock on the door. Niklos called whoever it was in. One of the guards. "Subprefect - a message from the walls."

"Yes well, what is it?"

"The Turks have brought more canon!"

"I'm sure they have Theo, and I'm sure the canon are the greatest and biggest and shiniest things ever seen, but canon are only canon. They do not win battles - that's your job. So if I were you I'd stop worrying about it and practise so that when the next attack comes you can kill more Turks, agreed?" The hapless soldier nodded, and left.

Niklos turned to Frederik, "Soldiers! If it is not one thing its another. Well, do you want to come and see these Turkish monstrosities?"

____

Up on the wall Niklos looked out and saw the great activity in the Turkish camp. And in the centre of it all those two long tubes of bronze, glinting against the sun. It was a magnificent sight: the seeming chaos of the camp, the dreadful splendour of the polished bronze, the oppresive stillness of the air as the wind failed.

Up here on the Inner Wall Niklos felt as if he were ontop of creation. Behind him he could see the shattered husk of the Queen of Cities, his city. The Dome of Hagia Sofia stood serenely in the heat, untroubled by the impending threat. Of course, parts of that mighty church had now collapsed, just like everything else apart from the walls.

The walls stood proud and defiant, but it was a defiance born of habit. Born of having been in this situation countless times before, but it was a defiance with no ultimate hope of victory. For what victory is their to be had when all hands are turned against you, and the only aid you get is so that other's do not profit too easily from your fall?

Perhaps the End is near. Perhaps this is the crux of the Apocalypse. For how can this world stand when its centre has been taken away? Oh, I am a fool getting so superstitious, worse than an Italian!

He looked again at those mighty walls, built a thousand years ago. In all that history they had only ever been taken by treachery, or when they were undefended. This time they were defended, and though he loathed mercenaries more than he loathed most soldiers this band had a better reputation than most armies. That left treachery.

In the sun it was hot, but Niklos shivered as his blood turned frost-cold.

 

[Valdemar]

July 1st, noon, Romario’s place.

Frederik had graciously declined the offer to see the approaching cannons with the older Greek, citing duty towards Captain. Then he had leisurely strolled randomly through the streets for a while until he was almost certain nobody was tailing him and then made his way down to the docks and Romario’s tavern.

He had quickly bypassed all the usual rituals and was shown into the presence of the master thief expediently.

“Romario, I need help.”

“Easy my friend, I’m doing all I can.”

“I know, I ´know, it’s just, something has come up and I need you to cover something for me.”

“Alright then, fill me in. We can discuss the fee later.”

Frederik merely raised an eyebrow at that remark and accepted the offered wine.

“I’ve just come from Niklos, the merchant or perhaps the official?”

“Yes, I know who he is, minor merchant and official, who suddenly got a lot of responsibility when the army shut down the palace.”

“Hmm. Yes, I was hoping you knew more, something about him nags me. I went to his place to enlist his aid, but never got around to the meat of the matter, the vanished Grittis. Something in his tone and...” Frederik was lost in thought for a moment,” I don’t know, something doesn’t ring true. He is almost to perfect to real.”

“What’s not real about him?” Romario had learned the hard way not to dismiss that creepy felling of something wrong. “I can get a hundred men to testify as to his position and identity.”

“Yes, I know, but if he is so good at his job, why not make money on the deal? And if it is his righteous seal that stops him, why is he only a minor functionary? As the city stands, he could easily have moved up the latter. He is just too... I don’t really know what.”

“Do you want me to snoop around?”

“Yes please, and if you can find the resources, put a tail on him.”

“Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

“Perhaps, but everybody tells me the same story, but nobody can really tell me anything. Who does he deal with? How does he really make his money?”

Romario shrugged, he wasn’t really in a position to answer that question or to refuse the request, but he wouldn’t waste too much on it. He rose to give the necessary orders. Frederik leaned back, turning the conversation with Niklos over in his mind.

I cannot find any lies or faults, but something in the discussion of the confiscation of the supplies. Nobody can be that ignorant of what goes on about him. He’s a merchant, even if he doesn’t partake in it, he must be aware that others had stored away supplies. We used the Greek regulars for the confiscations, even if I was not known to the general public, a man distributing supplies that suddenly appears out of thin air, is bound to be suspicious, not just dismissing a rumor.
I have been going around as a merchant, if the local merchants didn’t tell on each other and they wouldn’t then who else but the foreign merchant with connection to the army could find those stores? No, nobody is that blind. But why? Why is he downplaying his own importance and knowledge?”

 

[The_Hawk]

July 1st, noon -- somewhere in the Adriatic

The murmur of voices from the ship's deck finally roused Venerio. How do these sailors stay up so late, and then arise so early? Blearly, he glanced out the window to check the position of the sun. Oh.

Rubbing his eyes, lo Grato began searching the dim cabin for fresh accouterments. His mind was working slowly, and it took several long minutes before he realized something was amiss. One of my chests is missing. He thought for a long second. Perhaps the servan... sailors... misplaced one of them. Shrugging, he pulled on yesterday's robe, and stepped out onto the deck.

His jaw dropped.

The Ostrebopos sat gently on a becalmed sea, the sun beating down from above. With no wind to move her, the Cyprian had quite logically ordered the sails lowered. Now, the ship's crew sat about patching said sails, drawing their material from Venerio's chest. Even as he watched, a sailor clipped a green silk robe in half -- the very one he had hoped to wear today.

The Cyprian spied lo Grato as the Italian went from red to purple, then to white, and then back again to red. "Ah, Venerio. Good of you to join us. I must say, it was generous of you to offer the very clothes off your back to aid our journey. Silk is quite strong, as you well know, and I expect it will serve nicely."

Venerio nearly choked. "What?! I didn't do anything of the sort! You're destroying my things!"

"Please, Venerio, you're shouting." And so he was -- the entire crew had stopped work and was staring at him, now. "Last night, you quite clearly said that you would gladly speed our trip, and that anything in your power you could give, you would give gladly. It's a happy coincidence it was so calm today, so we could put your generosity to good use..."

"I... I..." Venerio sputtered. Even through the grog he had quaffed the night before, he could remember saying these things, but in Venice they simply would have been shrugged off, all part of maintaining a network of friends and allies. "You... you don't understand. Those are just... things that one says. They don't mean anything..."

The Cyprian narrowed his remaining eye. "So then you told us wrong, and that you did not intend to put your possessions at our disposal?"

"You... I... you... you!" Venerio flushed anew. Spinning on his heel, he ducked back into the Cyprian's cabin, emerging a moment later with a sword. He struggled to free it from the scabbard as he shouted, "Sir, you have besmirched my honor by manhandling my goods and turning them to nothing more than... than... rags for this rabble! And now you twist my words. You insult me! I... I challenge you to a duel!"

The crew erupted in guffaws. Only the Cyprian refrained; he simply cracked a thin smile. "I accept." Smoothly drawing his falchion, he took a fighting stance as the crew parted around the two combatants.

The Cyprian circled his opponent carefully; Venerio, mimicking the older man, did the same. Finally, he attacked, a thrust, but it was far too slow, and started too early, and the Cyprian easily sidestepped it. Another ripple of laughter passed through the crew, and Venerio got yet angrier. Throwing all his energy to the attack, he began swinging massive two-handed sweeps, each forcing the Cyprian to give up ground -- first left, then right, then left again, and the old sailor was at the railing. With a scream of rage, lo Grato pulled his momentum from a sweep into an overhead chop, which no doubt would have been devestating if it had landed anywhere near his target. Instead, it wedged itself deep in the wood of the ship's rail. Moving swiftly, Jonasz planted a boot on the sword's blade, and swung his falchion down.

Venerio's sword was a gorgeous specimen. The hilt was done up in gold, with gems along the handguard, and a sparkling topaz jutting from the pommel. The length of the blade was gleaming silver, with a gold inlay spelling out Scripture in Latin. It could woo ladies, terrify foes, and amaze the common folk. The one thing it could not do was actually be used in a fight, and faced with the Cyprian's heavy steel falchion, it did what it might be expected to do: it snapped in half.

Half of the blade, worth an entire lifetime's work to any of the sailors aboard, flickered through the air for a moment before dropping out of sight into the sea. lo Grato was left staring, flabbergasted, at the useless hilt in his hand. But before he could even begin to process what had happened, he felt the falchion's tip in the small of his back, felt the Cyprian's hot breath on his neck.

"You have alot to learn about how the real world works, my boy," the old man whispered.

And suddenly, lo Grato felt the steel replaced by a boot, and he was moving forward. Hitting the railing, his feet vanished from beneath him, and with a shriek he went over the side, headfirst, into the Adriatic.

A breath of silence passed until they heard the splash, and then the sailors let out a cheer. Waving them down as he sheathed his sword, the Cyprian ordered that a rope be cast over the side. "He's worth more to us alive, though by heaven above I can't fathom why."

Chuckling as his men hauled a sputtering lo Grato out of the sea, Jonasz turned, only to come face to face with the glares of Annette and Constance. He sighed to himself. Play time's over, it would seem.

 

[unmerged(6528)]

July 1st, just after noon - Constantinople

The afternoon sun glinted on the barrels of the cannon as the Turks ponderously moved them into position. A light breeze was blowing, but, it had little effect on ground that was still sodden from all the rain over the past week. The rock of the battlements was cool to the touch, and, if he had examined it more closely, he might have noticed several dark stains on it.

Lochlan shielded his eyes, and watched as the the enemy began to prepare what might just mean the beginning of the end for the siege. Even from this distance he could hear the harsh barking of whatever the Turks called their sergeants. "This is going to be rough." He murmered.

"You don't say." Erik Jaeger said, leaning against the battlements a few feet from Lochlan, also watching the Turks put on a massive show of logisitics. "I can see why your a lieutenant."

"Shut it Jaeger, or I'll toss you over the side." Lochlan leaned forward a bit more, and smiled evilly when he saw one of the cannons begin to tilt, almost falling over.

"You and what mercenary company." The German lieutenant snickered.

Lochlan rolled his eyes, and cursed as the workers managed to right the gun. "You know, I've been doing this for over twnty years, and I have never, once, begun to like cannon. I don't care if their on our side or not."

"Well, I'm glad your so objectice on the issue. Personally I prefer hand to hand combat, but, standing back and watching them pound a wall into rubble does have its advantages, climbing up siege ladders is not my idea of a good time."

"Point. However, were the ones who are about to get pounded, and besides, I haven't liked cannon since I was part of the crew in Naples, the damn fool commander fired the guns at the wall while we were climbing the ladders." Lochlan grimaced at this memory, it was one of his less pleasent.

"You soldiered before the company?" The pikeman asked, surprised.

"Aye, though, only for a few years. Before that, I had less savory habits."

"So I'd heard." Erik said, and Lochlan glanced at him, questioningly. But then the German didn't say anything further, Lochlan just shrugged.

"Alright, I'm done being depressed about this. Lets go find Renaud or Leclerc and maybe start making some contingency plans." Jaeger nodded, and the two officers headed toward the stairs the would take them off the wall.

 

[Lord Durham]

July 1st, just after noon - Constantinople

Captain watched Lochlan and Jaeger descend the stone staircase from the Inner Tower, wondering how the sight of the massive cannon had affected them. He caught wisps of laughter. Obviously it wasn't too bad. Good, he thought, the rank and file would be looking to the officers for their reactions. He returned to the vista spread before him - two gigantic cannon, larger than anything he had ever seen in his life, hundreds of oxen, and thousands of Turkish soldiers cheering the entire spectacle on.

It was an impressive sight, to be sure. But, and Captain could see this immediately, the ground was little better than a mud patch from constant rain and the churn of thousands of Turkish boots. It would take a few days before the cannon could be wrestled into position, and more time afterward to prepare those beasts to fire.

He sensed a figure in his peripheral vision, and when he glanced over found the Greek merchant, Niklos, staring hard at the camp. The Greek looked over - caught the mercenary studying him - and smiled a greeting. Captain inclined his head. He had met the trader for the first time a few days past, and they had exchanged a few words. Captain had thanked the man for all the work the Greek had put in to help with food distribution, and had left it at that.

Returning to watch the encampment, he suddenly found himself moving in the merchant's direction. But, Otto intercepted him, a look of worry on the Bavarian's face.

"Otto."

"Captain." The engineer jerked his chin toward the Turkish camp. "Terrifying, aren't they?"

The Englishman shrugged. "I'm not an engineer, but I know something that size could very well blow apart with the first shot."

"Normally I'd agree with you, Captain, but look closely at the barrels."

Captain leaned on the parapet. After a minute, "Sorry, Otto, my eyesight's not as sharp as it used to be. What am I looking for?"

The Bavarian crossed his arms. "They're made of bronze, Captain - bronze, not iron. Very, very expensive, and well crafted. Note there's no fancy ornamentation on the pieces."

"Your point?"

"Those were made under the direction of a Westerner. The infidels like to adorn their cannon with all kinds of engravings and nonsense like that. Those barrels are simple - they mean business."

"How so?"

"Bronze won't expand like iron does. You can pack more gunpowder in them, therefore applying more force." Otto ran his hands along the ancient stone of the Inner Wall. "I don't know how long these walls will hold."

Captain stared at the cannon, suddenly cursing their existence. "Who would build them? Why couldn't that man be working for us?"

Otto sighed. "There's only two people I know of who could have designed those. One is a Hungarian named Urban. The other..." The Bavarian left the comment unfinished. Instead he glanced over at young Dieter, the son of Fredrick Pohlman...

Captain whispered. "My God."

Neither of the men noticed that Niklos had managed to catch close to every word.

 

[Lord Durham]

July 1st, noon -- somewhere in the Adriatic

Chuckling as his men hauled a sputtering lo Grato out of the sea, Jonasz turned, only to come face to face with the glares of Annette and Constance. He sighed to himself. Play time's over, it would seem.

"Teaching Venerio how to swim, Captain Jonasz?" Annette inquired, her voice attempting to match the sternness of her face.

"In a manner." The Cyprian replied. "It struck me the lad was a little... wet... behind the ears."

"I see. Well Constance, I've always said that a little education never hurt, hmm?" The girls walked past a shivering, totally ignored lo Grato. Annette winked demurely at the grizzled old Captain as they passed, then continued to the aft-deck.

Behind them Captain Jonasz bellowed, "Look alive, you scum. I feel a wind coming. A nor'westerly, at that! With any luck we can ride it around the Peloponnese."

Constance and Annette reached the rail of the aft-deck, a sea of calm in the midst of an explosion of activity. They watched as the rest of the fleet raised oars and hoisted sail. The Pope's original 5 transports had grown by an additional 4 ships, courtesy of Francesco Sforza and his gift of 500 men-at-arms.

They wondered if they would reach Constantinople in time, and if it would be enough.


July 1st - Evening - Turkish Camp

Sulyman waited with calm patience as Murad finished his evening meal. The last plate had been cleared when the guard announced the arrival of a messenger.

The swarthy rider, mud splattered from a long ride, was escorted in. He dropped to his knees and kissed the ground.

"Report."

The messenger stood. "Good news, your Excellency. The Emperor of Infidels is dead. Drowned, according to reports."

Murdered, more likely, Sulyman thought to himself.

The Sultan dismissed the messenger. His look was impassive, unreadable. Finally, to Sulyman. "My victory will be tarnished. Sulyman, you shall inform the Regent of this news. The Byzantines need an Emperor - even if it's only to bear witness to the destruction of his city..."

 

[stnylan]

Niklos was making his way home. He had stayed up on the walls until the evening, watching the Ottoman camp, alone in his thoughts. Then a guard had disturbed him, and Niklos remembered that he needed to be elsewhere. As he walked he went over again in his mind the converstion he had overheard.

"Sorry, Otto, my eyesight's not as sharp as it used to be. What am I looking for?"

It was the Captain of the Mercenaries, speaking to one of his officers. Niklos kept looking over the walls at the Turks, and appeared to still be in his reverie. It had always amazed him how incautious people could be.

Now, later, Niklos smiled though at the Captain's admission of age, it was somehow appropriate that the defence ageing walls be commanded by an ageing man.

"Those were made under the direction of a Westerner. The infidels like to adorn their cannon with all kinds of engravings and nonsense like that. Those barrels are simple - they mean business."

That had been interesting. Of course, the German disparaged the native work of the Ottomans - but that was because despite the veneer he was still a barbarian. He had no soul, no passion. The Germans talked of my the ancients were barbarians yes, but they seemed more cultured than this German. He sounded as if he was living dead.

Still, made by a Westerner. It should not be surprising, but even so Niklos was surprised how betrayed he felt. A Westerner, and that meant a Christian, even if a Latin. How could they, for nothing more than some paltry gold, consider crafting such monsters for the infidel? How could they damn their eternal souls in such a fashion?

Business. Niklos felt sick.

"I don't know how long these walls will hold."

Not only was the German uncultured, but he had the most understated way of pronouncing doom. Though he did not fully understand the technicalities, Niklos could feel the German's doubts, and the Captain's. The hope that had remained, the merest spark that was left of the fire created by the lightening, was snuffed out.

"Who would build them? Why couldn't that man be working for us?"

That grimly amused Niklos. To a Greek it all made perfect black sense. The world is an enemy, not a friend. It seems that this mercenary captain did not yet, in spite of his life, appreciate that.

"There's only two people I know of who could have designed those. One is a Hungarian named Urban. The other..."

And this was truly interesting, clearly this other was known to these men. Perhaps he had worked with them before? It was certainly possible, the Sultan paid well for what he wanted and these men were mercenaries. Niklos heard the Captain murmer something, and then say nothing. There was clearly something here that would bear investigating, if he could do it without being as subtle as a drunk Varangian.

There were some beggars on the street near his house. There always were a few. Niklos threw them a few coppers - his charity just encouraged them he knew, but ... he could do so little good. At least he could so some good. Inside Demetrios was waiting for him.

"Niklos, I think we might be being watched."

That stopped Niklos a moment, "Go on."

Demetrios gestured outside, "We know those beggars outthere, all apart from one, and .. something does not fit. I managed to speak to one of the others - he doesn't know the necomer either, neve seen him. It may be nothing but ..."

"It may be something. Mmmm, I can only guess that it is that Dane. I don't think he believed my stupid Greek merchant act."

"No one believes that act, it's so obvious," Demetrios chuckled back, then quietened. "What do you want to do?"

Niklos sighed, it was hardly the first time he had been followed. The Queen of Cities may be elderly, but that had given the intrigues a certain lethal urgency. Perhaps he could string this begar along. If it were nothing, well, that would soon becom apparent. If it were something, well, spies were a form of communication after all.

 

[Craig Ashley]

July 1, Afternoon - Constantinople

Shur'tu rode up to the Inner Wall. Rumors had spread about the Sultan's monstrous, new weapons, and Shur'tu wanted to see for himself what all the fuss was about. As he climbed the steps, the Mongol briefly thought of the last time he climbed these stairs and how close the Turks had come to claiming the city. The steppelander shoved the past aside as he reached the top of the walls.

Shur'tu could see a mass of men, slaves no doubt, wrestling with the enormous girth of the cannon. The deep mud made it difficult work. Oxen pulled as the men pushed and tried to guide the massive, metallic, monsters of war into position. The taskmaster's whip kept both man and beast hard at work. Shur'tu smiled as the Turks continued to struggle in the muck.

This was it? Two cannons? The Mongol shook his head. Such foolishness. Noise makers and nothing more. The Sultan will learn that bravery and and a skilled sword are what wins battles, not costly toys.

 

[Secret Master]

July 1st, Venice, Late Lunch, Doge's Palace

Foscari glanced at the paper in his hands, thinking silently to himself. The thoughts were not on how to respond, nor on what he should do. Rather, they involved the sort of thing that was sinful on the basis of thought alone, for Foscari enjoyed thoughts of burning, pillaging, rape, and general slaughter. He was almost smiling as he let his mind's eye wander to the doomed city of Constantinople.

However, all of his thoughts were based on the future, not the present. His thoughts on the future were ignited by the note in his hands. It simply asked for clarification regarding a shipment of grain to Rhodes. Yet, the cryptic code in the note was really a question from the mysterious agent whose aims happened to coincide with his own regarding the disposition of certain plans. It pleased Foscari to no end that he would now be able to give a positive message to his fair weather ally.

Yes, my heathen friend, the plan is ready and afoot. You may tell you master that there will be no heroic last stand that turns the tide, nor a last ditch effort to sally from the walls.

The Doge composed the note in code, smiling in a gleeful sort of way. As he refelcted on his renewed joyfulness, he noted that he had not been this happy since we realized that murdering the Greeks also meant his wife would die. As he folded the note up, he was whistling.

Bishop takes pawn, Sforza. Mate in four.

 

[Valdemar]

July 1st, late evening, Romario’s Tavern

Frederik was once again on his way to the Master thief, this time accompanied by Ailena, who had brought a message from Romario that he wanted to see Frederik soon.

“Do you know what he wants?”

“Not really, the message didn’t say it was urgent only that it concerned the most recent venture.”

“Ah, Niklos then.”

“The Greek merchant? What are you up to?”

“I don’t know there’s just something about him. I asked Romario to try and find out how and where he does his business and put a small tail on him.”

“He is willing to do that? He is going to make you pay.”

“I don’t know he agreed to it, but off course he can easily have placed somebody worthless. I send the teenager around yesterday and a few beggars are indeed camped outside, but perhaps they are regulars, he is after all in charge of food distribution. We’ll see.”

They entered the Tavern and were shown directly through. I’ll have to lay low for a while after this if I‘m ever to regain the smallest shred of secrecy, I’m becoming too well known.

Romario greeted both of them. “My dear friends, Ailena it has been a while since you graced my business?” He looked very carefully at both of them trying to find out how deep their relationship was, but Ailena merely smiled.

Frederik cut in, still annoyed that his secrecy had been lost. “Get to the point, what have you got?”

Romario shrugged, “not much, I have picked up a bit about his official merchant business,” he grabbed scroll and started reading out loud.

“Niklos does nearly all his trading outside the city, in Trebizond, Thessalonika, Cyprus, Alexandria, Aleppo, and so on. Just about everywhere except from the West - his ships do not go West of Cape Malea. That’s about it, I cannot find out more during the siege, except and this is supported by his trading habits, that he genuinely dislikes the Latins and especially Italian. Not an uncommon trait in this city, but unusual in the merchant community since it limits his options.”

Frederik was silent for a few moments, “only in the east? And a lot of that in Islamic controlled lands?”

Romario nodded, “but that’s too easy Frederik, nobody is that obvious in our line of work?”

“Probably not, except if he is a gifted amateur, borne out of necessity. Did you find out exactly where his family is?”

“No, nobody knew, except they left a while before the siege.”

“In that case, see if you can find out, you still have a few contacts in whatever is left of the Arab community? I would venture to guess that somebody there dislikes the Turks almost as much as we do.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t be so sullen about it, if it turns out that we caught something Captain will be very forth coming. In the mean time, but somebody extra on him when you get the time, that beggar will not last forever.”

“You checked? I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Well, you are not the only one with resources.” Frederik grinned. “Anyway, I’m off, I’ve got to see a girl about a boat. Ailena could you please find Lochlan for me? I need to discuss that other matter with him soon.”

She only nodded, she knew what girl, but the boat?”

“Oh and Romario, speed things up on the Grittis, I’ve got a feeling they know a lot that will make our lives easier, I’ll pay for that one, they annoy me.”

Romario merely nodded and looked thoughtfully after the Dane as he left.

“Ailena, what is he up to? It doesn’t look to me like you’ve made the best deal there?”

She looked speculatively at the Greek, “maybe, maybe not, he’ll take care of me, whether the Turks run us over or not, but I’m not getting what I truly want if that’s what you mean.”

“Romario merely nodded, he knew what she meant, but wondered nonetheless if both Frederik and Ailena had gone slightly mad to be ruled by emotions like that.

*****
Frederik had debated with himself all day, whether or not he should seek out Maria, but the arrival of the Turkish Cannons had forced his hand. He only hoped, she was able to treat this as a nothing but a business proposal.

In the end she wasn’t there and he was forced to leave a written message stating his purpose, that he was willing to pay a good deal of money for a secured passage for two on one of the ships in case anything soured. He didn’t write the last part, but he was willing to pay for any eventuality even if it meant that the ship in question would have to leave before the final defeat or without all of its intended passengers. He hoped she would run straight to Captain, but that was a chance he would have to take, he would fight his best to ensure victory, but he wouldn’t sacrifice his life for a lost cause.

As he turned down the plank, his thoughts went to Shur’tu and how he was going to get his hands on the gold to pay for all this. It was most likely time for another of those dreaded confrontations with the temperamental leader.

 

[Lord Durham]

July 1st - Late Evening - The Walls

"Captain, you better come see this."

Captain placed a manuscript carefully on a stack of similar documents, ran a hand through a mop of brown, grey-tinged hair. "What is it, Alv?"

"A delegation from the Turks, Captain, under a flag of truce. They wait at the Gate of Charisius, just beyond bowshot. As if the heathens don't trust us."

"Can't Constantine deal with this? No, wait, I better go."

The mercenary commander departed his quarters, only to find Bucephalus, his Andalusian mount, saddled and waiting. Captain raised an eyebrow and Alv shrugged.

"I took the liberty, Captain."

The hooves rang hollow on the cobblestoned street - a sharp clatter broken only by the sporadic snorts which issued from the massive horse's nostrils. Eerily, the streets were deserted this late in the evening, and the sound of his progression was all the noise that reached his ears.

Up ahead he spied a half dozen men waiting patiently by the main gate - the Regent Constantine and an escort of cataphracts. He recognized Dimitris, and passed a hint of a nod. I will have to check on Severus.

"Ah, Sir Robert. Please attend us. The infidel wishes to discuss matters of some urgency."

Captain cracked a half-smile. "Perhaps terms of their surrender?"

The men chuckled, a nervous collection of sounds. Dimitris grumbled, "They think to cow us into surrender, now that we've seen their giant cannon. Well My Lord, I know the mettle of our men, and..."

"The Emperor appreciates your loyalty, Strategos." Constantine interjected. "Come, let us hear what they have to offer."

* * *

Sulyman sat at the head of a dozen Spahis cavalry, escorts, adorned in full regalia. He himself had taken great pains to dress his appearance to further impress the barbarians from behind the gates.

Murad's envoy studied the approaching delegation with a practiced eye. He recognized Constantine immediately - they had met some years earlier, though he was sure the regent would not remember. On one side of the Regent was a hulking man, dressed in a cataphracts uniform, sporting the baton of a Strategos. This will be Dimitris, hero of the Golden Gate. His agents had been most effective in their descriptions. Should he tip his hand and acknowledge the giant? No. The barbarians would only intensify their search for spies within the city. The man on the other side of Constantine had to be Sir Robert - Captain of the Free Company, and leader of the city's defense. Sulyman had never seen the mercenary up close, had only seen him at a distance on the walls.

But now, here was the man who had dared challenge the Sultan with the words, 'If you want them, come and take them,' thereby sealing the fate of the city. Suddenly, Sulyman found himself locked in a stare with the Englishman - there was something about the cool blue eyes, the motionless features. The Turk found himself breaking eye contact. He coughed to hide the fact.

The silence stretched, until Constantine opened with, "Be on about it."

Sulyman straightened. "It is the request of his Most Excellency Murad the..."

The Regent waved a hand, "Yes, yes, I know who he is and how long his titles are. If you have come to bore us with this, then we'll be off."

The envoy gaped, and quickly composed. "My Sultan has decided he will be lenient. He offers you a final chance to surrender the city."

"Is that all? I think you know..."

Sulyman felt his anger rise. "That is not all, Regent. In exchange for the peaceful occupation of Constantinople he demands the immediate expelment of all mercenary forces, along with the arrest and detainment of the man known as Sir Robert of Brandon, along with his officers. They will be turned over to my Sultan for justice."

The giant Dimitris snorted. "We waste our time here."

Captain spoke for the first time, his voice cutting into the air like a knife. "What of the Emperor and his family?"

Sulyman turned back to the mercenary and once again met those eyes. He had always wondered what had made this man so successful and infamous, such a commanding leader who inspired steadfast loyalty among his men, while striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. In truth, the Englishman was not imposing to look at - the giant Dimitris easily dwarfed him. But, the man exuded an aura of command, and, when Sulyman heard the voice, knew in was in the presence of someone born to lead.

The envoy decided he would change his tactics. He paused, digging deep into some hidden memories, calling up lessons taught to him by a slave girl some years past. Finally, in broken English. "Captain, Sir Robert, do these people know your barbarous tongue?" The Captain remained silent, though he raised an eyebrow. Sulyman could tell by the puzzled expressions on the others that no one else had understood him. "Captain, it would... pain me... to see you die needlessly. I offer you and your men their freedom. All you must do is quit these walls and join us." He waited. The waiting stretched for a long time. It stretched until he wondered if he had truly butchered the language so bad that the Englishman couldn't understand. Suddenly...

"You bribe me?"

Sulyman was caught off-guard. "Yes... no. I mean, whatever the Byzantines pay you, we shall double. My Sultan has need of men like you."

Captain stood in his stirrups to look at the Turkish camp. "I would guess your Sultan has at least 70,000 men camped here now, and more arriving daily. What would he need us for? Arrow fodder?"

"My Sultan is a reasonable man. He rewards loyalty..."

"What about my Germans?"

"Eh?"

"A regiment of my men came over from your Russian Bey. They didn't like the way the madman operated."

Sulyman's mind raced. He couldn't possibly save those...

"I repeat, what of the Emperor and his family?" That was in Greek.

Sulyman slumped. He had his answer. His defeat turned to ire. "Once you have an Emperor they will all become guests of the Sultan, for the rest of their lives."

There was a collective gasp from the escort. Hands went to swords. Constantine blurted, "What madness is this you spout?"

Sulyman effected a look of surprise. "You do not know? Ah, I guess you wouldn't. The Emperor is dead - drowned, according to the reports."

"You lie!" That was Dimitris. His sword was halfway from his scabbard when Constantine reached over and grasped the giant's wrist.

The Regent faced the Turk, his face pale. "You have proof?"

"Alas, no. But, perhaps we shall let some messengers through to confirm the report."

The Regent stared at the ground, absorbing the news. Suddenly, he sat straight and drew himself up, as if the total impact had finally sunk in. If this is true, then I am Emperor now. He looked at Sulyman with a baleful glare. "Without proof I cannot possibly accede to these demands." He tugged on the reins, drawing a sharp whinny from his mount. The escort came about trotted back toward the city gates.

Captain remained behind for a moment. He cracked a half-smile, and in English, said, "See you on the walls." He rode off.

* * *

The return to the Turkish camp found Sulyman in a whirl of thoughts. He almost failed to recognize the hand that reached out to grab his bridle. It was the Russian.

"Well?"

Sulyman bit off a retort. Instead, he said, "Do you believe in death and glory?"

"Of course!"

"Well then, prepare yourself, Russian. There will be death." He looked back at the city. "Though I believe the glory will belong to others."

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 1st, 1439 – Evening, Venice

“Condottieri!” Ligurio de Forella spat the word, making it clear that he held it much on the same level as he did words like ‘welcher’ (the current in vogue expression for a man who reneged on a business deal) or ‘treason’ (another word in frequent use in the past week and now becoming synonymous with ‘condottieri’ in Venice).

His companion, Marcello Bani, looked around nervously, scanning the nearby faces in the crowded tavern in case his slightly-too-drunk and slightly-too-loud friend had attracted the ‘wrong’ attention. One never knew who might be listening these days and with the city under what was, for all intents and purposes, increasingly under martial law, it was not considered healthy to express one’s opinions too directly in public. “Hush Ligi,” he cautioned.

“I am sick to death of Sforza. Sforza this and Sforza that. He’s nothing but bone and muscle…not a moment’s thought for any of us but his petty gains…and he’s ruining me!”

“Shhhhh.”

“Fuck that! My ships confiscated…my men rounded up like common labourers…new taxes imposed on trade and business…how is an honest merchant supposed to make a profit in a situation like this?”

“Ligi!”

“What we need,” said the Venetian, rising somewhat unsteadily to his feet – no doubt attributable to the three empty pitchers in front of him - and proclaiming his opinion to the assembly in his deep booming voice, “is someone in charge who has the interests of Venice at heart. I’m sick to death of the condottieri running our lives!”

Even as Marcello tugged at Ligurio’s arm, imploring him to sit back down, there were murmurs of assent from an increasing number of spectators. “Stop this madness, my friend. Nothing good can come of it.”

The burly merchant shook off his friend’s entreaty and, instead, climbed onto the bench. He swept his arms expansively, encompassing them all. “My fellow Venetians – good men one and all – are you not tired of being the pawns of hired killers?”

A few people banged their assent on the table with their mugs.

“Would you not, rather, be governed by true representatives of this great City…elected officials who seek the betterment of all?”

Many patrons were paying attention now, even in the far corners where men would retire to conduct their secret business in private. ‘Aye, lad!’ and ‘Hear, hear’ could be heard from various mouths.

“Are you willing to be crushed under the thumb….of a southerner?!”

Everyone knew Sforza was from the south, and there was little love lost. ‘No!’ ‘Never!’ All eyes were on the merchant now.

“Will you kiss the ring on his hand, just as he kneels and kisses another?”

No mincing words there…papists were hated just as much – if not more – than southerners. Almost as one the crowd surged to its feet, even as Ligurio completed his none-too-stable ascent onto the very table top.

“I say enough! ENOUGH!!!”

There was a roar of ‘enough’, surging from the throats of all. All except Marcello who began to edge his way through the press and make for the exit.

“LET US TAKE BACK OUR CITY!!!”

* * * * *

Several hours later…

“…exactly as you predicted. It hardly took anything at all.”

“And no one followed you? No one could identify you?”

“Not through that mob. Besides, most of them were in the front line when Sforza’s men tried to quell the riot. I doubt many survived.”

“Excellent.” It has begun.

“What are your orders for me now?”

“Let them vent their rage for the night, signor Forella, and then see if you can’t start circulating some new ideas about how much better things would be if things returned to the way they used to be…”

“As you wish, Lord.”

“And, needless to say, you will be well rewarded for tonight’s work Ligurio.”

“Thank you, Lord.”

Foscari smiled at his new most-trusted agent’s retreating back.

Razor’s edge, Sforza…and now you must decide which piece to sacrifice.

* * * * *

At the same time, not far away…

“…main square. We couldn’t hold them and were forced to retreat. They are gathering support as fast as flies gather on shit...”

Francesco Sforza shook his head in dismay as the litany of bad news continued.

“…and at this rate we may quickly find ourselves trapped and cut off from the main force on the mainland. We must get out, my Lord. Now, while we still can!”

How did I get us into this mess? What could I have done differently? Who is behind this? He sighed. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was Foscarini. Now, however, proof of it would no longer matter. “Very well. Assemble the rest of the household guard, preserve whatever valuables you can, and make sure the men are ready to move out in less than an hour. I have one or two things to take care of and then I’ll join you. We’ll retreat to the main army for now.”

The messenger saluted and left.

* * * * *

Night….

Fires cast a ruddy glow into the heavy overcast – part smoke, part dense clouds that had been threatening rain all day. It cast an angry hue that seemed so in keeping with the mood of the citizens who were still, as far as he knew, rioting in the streets.

The road to either side of him had been littered with fresh bodies – no doubt victims to his vanguard who road ahead to ensure his safe passage. In another half hour or so he would reach the camp and then he would begin truly planning.

In some respects he was suddenly happy – not at the disaster of the past five or six hours, but more so because for the first time in several years he would be doing something that he both enjoyed and excelled at: command of an army in the field.

With one final glance at the City that had become almost his home, Francesco reigned his horse around and set spurs to its flanks. As he did so he made a silent vow, willing the treacherous Doge to somehow, impossibly, hear it.

The time of these endless games of politics is over, Foscarini. Perhaps you are my better there, but now you have unleashed something that most men would give their eye teeth never to see. And when I return to this city I will make you – and every citizen – pay dearly that they dared rise up against me. Very, very dearly…

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 1st, 1439 – Ottoman Camp, evening

As the badge on his breast proclaimed him a soldier under Kruschovic Bey’s personal command, he had little trouble coming quite close to the newly-arrived cannons. Even to is untrained eye he could tell that these bronze monstrosities were of exceptional craftsmanship and, unlike the artillery more typical to the Sultan’s army, there were almost….what was the word….mercenary.

He turned away, then, a walked back towards his tent. As befitted a warrior of his station – not to mention that it was mandatory at the moment - he kept his eyes low and his head bowed under the hood of his cloak as he moved through the camp. Just as he was about to duck into the ‘quarters’ that the shared with five other men at the moment, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye…a darting of movement as a man cloaked entirely in black slipped through the sentry lines.

Spy!

Drawing a dagger, N’ohB’Dhey began to move carefully along a line that would intercept the infiltrator’s path. It required the use of too-ling neglected skills, and he took extra precautions to remain hidden to the enemy since it was entirely possible that, instead of raising the hue and cry, by simply following him he might find out what other contacts the man might already have in camp.

The man was good, though, and it was all he could do to avoid losing sight of him in the gloom of the camp at night. Then, suddenly, a chill ran up his spine. He is heading directly towards Murad’s pavilion! Was this an attempt at murder, sent hard of the heels of Sulyman’s deputation to the Greeks earlier in the day? Certainly not an atypical Byzantine response, but…no…the risk was too great. Better to finish him off now before the Khan was at risk. He moved in quickly for the kill, beginning to drive the dagger straight into the man’s unexposed back…

Except that the back suddenly was no longer there. Somehow alerted to his murderous approach, he had spun out of the way and driven an elbow into N’ohB’Dhey’s stomach, expelling his breath and preventing him from calling out to the nearby guards for aide. Now the two grappled like madmen, each seeking mastery over the knife that was partially pinned between them. The struggle caused both men’s hoods to fall back.

“You!” he hissed, suddenly recognising the man.

“You!” responded the other.

They released one another momentarily before coming together again. This time, though, it was an embrace of friendship rather than death.

“What…?”

“Not a word! It is my death if any were to find out.”

“My word on it. Murad…?”

“No. You are…?”

“I think so, although nearly…”

“Later?”

“No. I must return tonight or I’ll be missed. The City is more watchful than normal and likely to become even more so. This may be my last chance to consult with our master before the end.”

“And…?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

They looked long into each other’s eyes in silence, finding a rekindling of unexpected and long-sundered kinship.

“You’d best be on your way then,” he managed finally. “Be careful.”

The man nodded. “And you as well, my brother.”

 

[The_Hawk]

July 1st, night -- Constantinople

Frederik reached for the handle of the Company tavern, only to hear a rustle behind him. He whirled, a dagger in his hand, only to find Maria standing quietly behind him. She held up a note.

"You left this, I believe?"

How the...? I just came from there! Calming himself, he secreted his dagger in the folds of his garb. "I did."

Maria took a step forward, taking Frederik gently by the wrist. She pressed the note into his hand. "Then you can have it back, and I'll forget I ever received it."

Frederik shook his head. "Maria, I... you've heard about the cannon? We cannot hold forever. If not for the heavens, Constantinople would have fallen a week ago. The Company will survive, but I must, too."

"They will escape. We all will, anyone who can walk or be carried to a ship. And no one will have to bribe me to see that through."

"I thought you weren't of the Company?"

Maria looked significantly at the tavern door, standing in a pool of torchlight an arm's reach away. "I thought you weren't, either."

Frederik glanced at the door and smiled ruefully. "Things change, I suppose."

"Sometimes." Maria paused. "I know a few things about your Niklos, you know."

Frederik looked surprised. "You do?"

"Surely you don't think you've got the only network of eyes and ears in the world. As it happens, his business and Jonasz's operate in much the same circles."

"You never fail to amaze me, Maria. What do you know of him?"

"For one thing, his ships have a reputation of avoiding pirates -- especially Turkish ones. I can't remember the last time I heard of one of his vessels being boarded."

"Well, I don't imagine yours do often, either."

"Yes, but we sail galleys with marines aboard. He has a few little dhows with eight men and butter knives for weapons."

"And he avoids pirates? That's quite a feat."

Maria nodded. "Quite. But he himself has a reputation as a staunch Greek, a Byzantine to the last."

"Hard to explain what he's doing avoiding Turkish pirates, then... unless he's got everyone fooled. I didn't know any of this."

"I doubt you would have, unless you were a sailor. You should have asked."

"Yes, I suppose I should have. Thank you. This will be very useful."

An awkward pause descended. Frederik coughed. "Well, I should be going. I need to... see someone." He reached for the tavern door again.

"Frederik, wait." Maria looked surprised at hearing her own voice. "I... ah. On the wall, the other day... were you looking for me?" She smiled sheepishly, and Frederik's heart leapt.

"I... well, yes. Yes, I was."

Maria's smile widened. "Thank you." Abruptly, she leaned forward, and gave the merchant a peck on the cheek. Just as suddenly, she turned and vanished into the night.

As Frederik turned to enter the tavern, two thoughts struck him from two different directions, like an uppercut following a right hook.

How did she know I was investigating Niklos?

And haven't I seen that dolphin pendant somewhere before?

 

[EmprorCoopinius]

Sweat flowed profusely down Severus' brow as he leaned heavily against the cane his adjutant had cut from one of the orchard trees in one of the unscarred gardens. His gait was evening out as his strength returned in ebbs, but the steady tap tap of his cane was still a common sound around the villa he had been convalescing in. His aides brought him news of the city and its' defenders, and though he knew he was not strong enough, he made himself rise and walk day after day for hours, knowing strength would not return unbidden.

'I cannot leave the city to that weak minded fool Constantine,' he spat to himself. His disdain for the man had percolated as he recovered, had been forged in the sleepless nights when his body burned and he longed for the unfeeling oblivion of unconsciousness. He recalled every night how easily the Emperor's brother had foregone his duty as a man, a Roman, and given his city to Captain..

'A man you trust.'

'A man who fights for gold.'

He paused, leaning against the wall as he coughed, phlegm spotted thinly with blood running down his chin. He was tired of the endless circles his thoughts ran in, from the first day the Sultan's dog spoke to them on the walls, through the suffocating lethargy he had felt mired in while the city burned. Healing had been his respite, but now that he was awake...his mind tormented him with renewed vigor.

Swiping angrily, he made sure to remove the filth from his beard before he leaned forward againm resuming his slow progress down the hall. He was not a healthy man, and though he was healing, Severus knew that his body would not be the same as it had been. His life had finally caught up with him.

He heard the soft steps of his adjutant and felt the younger man's grip around his elbow.

"Constantine meets with the Turk, milord. The Captain is with him."

Severus nodded, willing the spinning in his head to stop, or at least slow.

"When Captain returns, tell him I wish to speak with him. Tell him - " he coughed again, wetly, and with a great effort pushed his body up out of the stoop it had adopted to lean on the cane, "that I have healed, and that we need to speak."

The young lieutenant nodded, and withdrew, leaving Severus to his lonely trek down the corridor to the stables.