July 15th, Constantinople
Midmorning-The Xylokerkon
Thomas clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword, and stepped back. In front of him, the waves of Turks were in retreat, pulling off the inner wall and away from the cross bars below his men. Drops of blood still stood on his face, and slipped down the cool veneer of the blade and into the dirty skin of his hand. He did nothing to clean either, and felt, for the first time in his life, the victory over obscurity and lethargy. The ire and mire of his late birth giving way to a new, spirited lust. And triumph.
The Emperor had ordered his brother to defend the Imperial Palace at the head of the Varangian, as was his place. It was not the younger royal's preference, which was to the left, among the Free Company, but its mandate, in absence of the pilgrim, was easily extended to the gate.
The second troublesome edict was not easily overturned, though it could be rendered moot easily enough. Venerio lo Grato, out of some latent courage or filial obligation, had come up with a mad scheme to dress like a warrior and take to battle, and had been thoroughly given reign to do so. For all his reason, Thomas could not ascertain why, for the smooth-skinned bastard child had leapt into the gangway at the precise moment the ladders hit the wall, and was cowering there even still. If it were not for the Italian's sudden hold over his brother, and, it seemed, the guard, there would've been a Latin in the pile below.
He turned, and appraised his men. They were not familiar to him, and had always, since boyhood, seemed mysterious, lurking behind the Emperor, casting shadows over the streets. But they had fought with honor, with courage, with drudging loyalty, he knew, had been beaten into them since youth. Even if they served their lord alone, they served him well. And that was enough for him.
From the nearest well he saw several armed, armored men, surrounded by archers, filtering up, and in their midst he recognized Niklos, himself dressed as if for combat. He smiled warmly.
"Come to defend the city, Prefect?"
"Ah, no, your highness. I've come to inform you..." He paused, and struggled. "We're short of good feet, as you know, and so I was asked to..."
Thomas eyed him.
"To tell you..."
"To tell you that the Free Company Captain and the Strategos have called a conference," Venerio said, emerging behind them, "to plan for the next assault."
"I do not see why..."
"He tells you the truth," Niklos broke in, sadly, "they're convening in the palace."
The heir to the throne was not convinced, and cast about himself for a reason to politely remain where he was, in case it were true.
"Highness, the officers of the Company will be there, and they have precious little time. It is vital that you go to meet them."
Thomas nodded, hesitantly, but eagerly, and barked orders to his men.
The ruse was working. Niklos could spit, it was so foolish. This was so easy, these lies were so easy.
"These men, from the Venetian Quarter, have offered their services, as servants of Francesco Sforza."
More hesitation. But in this man there was much to said for the Free Company and any it chose as friends. He nodded again, and began his descent down the wall, flanked by six of his guard.
Niklos glanced at Venerio, and then at the assembled force.
"He is in command. Follow all his orders, to the last."
*
Florence
Syban stood beneath the pepper plants Catherine adored, on their balcony that overlooked the Arno. She had always taken comfort such things, in such useful, mythical things. He himself had sprinkled honey suckle and crab apple trees and Azaleas over the Medici grounds during his first visit to the city, and though she claimed to bear no affection for them, he noticed she never sought to remove them. And, indeed, they had taken over the gardens in his time away.
He took a sip of spiced tea, a rare remnant of the past, and took in the morning. Every day his bodily strength and health improved, and every day his soul grew weaker, less able to cope. At first, her presence alone had struck down all miseries of cruel fate, and he was at a desk or in a council or even in the field, observing the levees for Sforza, at all hours. Then, as it wore on, as each day the news was more dispiriting, he began to falter in the evening, earlier and earlier. The day before, and several days beyond, he could work only till noon, before taking to her, and taking to his old pleasures when she was gone, or unable. Drink and food and art and serving girls. He needed it all, to live.
And now, he had received a message, and sent his orders and letters to Venice, Provence, Rome and Vienna.
After that, he could do nothing but sit inert, or pace mindlessly.
They had told him, when the fall began, when he first cloistered himself in that damnable shack, that there was something wrong. On his last visit, Guillaume had told him he was being a fool, making a terrible, tragic mistake. Vanity and apathy together ruining all that they had done.
Syban had told himself he was indifferent altogether, and that was the crux. But now, no, he knew better. He hadn't believed it because he hadn't been given a reason, and for everything, God, love, politics, war, he needed a reason. His prolonged childhood had forced caution on him, as an enema for his guilt.
As of that morning he had one, and it wasn't what anyone assumed. All the papers, all the spies-it had been brilliantly orchestrated. But he would've known, if he hadn't let it go so far.
Fate conspired against them all.
Now history would judge him as its coconspirator.
