Free Siege by Jack Hight

the courtyard of the palace. Through the thick crowd he could just make out Constantine, sitting on a throne placed in the centre of the courtyard. He sat straight-backed, smiling often, as a continual stream of men passed before him, kissing his knees and pledging their fealty. Longo joined the procession, and soon he stood before Constantine. He stepped forward and bowed low before the emperor. ‘Congratulations, Emperor Constantine. On behalf of the people of Genoa, allow me to be the first to offer our friendship and goodwill.’
    ‘Thank you, Signor Longo. Your presence honours me,’ Constantine replied. ‘And thank you for transporting the crown and my mother’s ambassadors aboard your ship. Without you, I would not have been crowned today. You will be my guest at the feast tonight. I shall set a place at my table for you.’
    ‘You are too kind, Emperor,’ Longo said. ‘But I must decline. I have been too long gone from Genoa, and I am eager to return. I will start back this very day.’
    ‘Well then, I wish you well on your voyage. You will always be welcome at my court.’
    ‘Thank you, Emperor,’ Longo replied, bowing low again. ‘My sword will always be at your service. If you are ever in need, I will hasten to you call.’
    ‘Godspeed, Signor Longo.’
    ‘And may God protect you, Emperor Constantine.’
    JANUARY 1449: NEAR EDIRNE
    The Turkish army was on the march, a long, thick column of men that snaked for miles alongside the Maritza river. Mehmed, flanked by Ulu and surrounded by his private guard, rode near the head of the column. It was a glorious, clear winter day, and Mehmed’s spirits were high. After weeks of drilling, of gathering men and supplies, he now rode at the head of over sixty thousand well-equipped men. And it was his army.
    His father, Murad, travelled with them for now, sitting in a litter at the heart of the army, but the next day, when they left the Maritza valley and headed east, Murad would return to Edirne. It would be Mehmed alone who conquered Constantinople. After that, there would be no more whispered jibes about ‘Mehmed the Scholar’, no more months spent wasting away in far-off Manisa. He would take his rightful place as the ruling sultan, whether his father agreed or not. With a triumphant army at his back, and Constantinople under his control, no one would be able to stop him. He smiled just to think of it.
    The smile turned into a frown as ahead the front ranks stopped suddenly, bringing the entire army to a halt. ‘Ulu, see what has happened,’ Mehmed ordered. Ulu galloped away and returned a moment later, followed by a squat Greek who sat uncomfortably in the saddle. Mehmed examined him carefully. The Greek’s eyes were intelligent and probing, but guarded. Judging from the deep blue, heavily jewelled caftan and thick gold necklace that he wore, he was some sort of councillor, a political creature, and Mehmed held a deep suspicion of all political men.
    ‘He says he is an ambassador from Constantinople, one Lord Sphrantzes,’ Ulu reported. ‘He rode at the head of a small troop of armed men. He says that he has an urgent message for the sultan.’
    ‘I am the sultan,’ Mehmed said to Sphrantzes in Greek. ‘You may give me your message.’
    Sphrantzes eyed Mehmed sceptically. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘My name is George Sphrantzes, praepositus sauri cubiculi of Constantine Dragases, and ambassador of the Roman Empire. I come with a message from the emperor.’
    ‘The emperor is dead,’ Mehmed replied.
    ‘True, John VIII, our emperor and your loyal ally, is no more,’ Sphrantzes agreed. ‘I come on behalf of his brother, who has been crowned Constantine XI, successor to the imperial throne.’
    ‘And what of his two younger brothers?’ Mehmed asked. ‘Will they not challenge for the throne?’
    ‘Demetrius and Thomas Dragases have both sworn oaths of allegiance to Constantine,’ Sphrantzes said, a bit too smugly for Mehmed’s