Page 193 of Dragon Slayer

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THAT WAS WINTER

The city of Constantinople occupied a triangular jut of land shaped like a horn, flanked at its very tip, and its northern and southern sides by water. To the north: the Golden Horn, a deep-water inlet where the Roman fleet was docked, fed by the Bosporus Strait. And to the south: the Sea of Marmara. A Mediterranean city, with a coastal clime, but a blended one. In the year 324, the Roman Emperor Constantine the Great established himself there, in what was then Byzantium, renaming the city after himself and declaring it the new capital. A Greek city made Roman, it became the heart of western culture, politics, and religion. It served as the seat of the Greek Orthodox church, and it housed the remnants of the Library at Alexandria. A gilded, thriving city, bursting beauty from every crevice, teeming with life, and language. The soaring grandiosity of St. Sophia inspired the entire nation of Russia to adopt Greek Orthodoxy as its official religion. Just one of the legacies left by what had once been the richest city in the world.

But none of this was the city’s true claim to fame. No, that honor belonged to its sheer impregnability, to Constantinople’s Theodosian Walls.

An ingeniously designed double layer of protection, with a moat, a low wall, then an outer wall, a terrace, and a soaring inner wall, the barrier had protected the city from all but one landside attack, that of the Fourth Crusaders in 1204. On the sea side, the walls went straight up, and up, and up, and there was no design of man that could scale them, topple them, or break through them.

Val rode near the head of the endless columns of armored soldiers. When he twisted around in his saddle, he was nearly blinded by the glint of sunlight off the metal of helms, and breastplates, and spear-tips. The armybreathed; a regular rhythm of clinking mail, and stomping footfalls, and creaking saddles. The column stretched back, regular, disciplined.Impossible. That word came to him again. Yes, the idea of sacking Constantinople was impossible – but so was Mehmet’s army.

Val turned away, his heartbeat quick and shallow, and as they rounded the next bend in the road, waves thrashing along the coastline just beyond this strip of forest, the trees parted in front of him, and he had his first glimpse of the sea walls.

A cheer went up amongst the men.

Val swallowed…and swallowed and swallowed, trying to contain his tripping pulse.

In his mind, he’d imagined the army falling on a quaking city, one crouched at the shore, half-swallowed by waves. But here now, seeing it in person, Constantinople towered. Pennants thin as threads from this distance snapped along the high, crenelated walls; the waves barely skimmed the rocks upon which they stood, proud and mocking, daring weak mortals to take a run at her.

Val let out a breath and thought,he’ll fail. He has to.

Beside him, Mehmet’s heart beat like a drum, excitement dancing around him like sparks. “Don’t worry,” he said, puffing out his chest, misreading Val’s anxiety. “The battle won’t last long. And then we’ll be on top of those walls. I’ll hand-feed you dates and fuck you sweet in a room that overlooks the sea.”

“Poetic,” Val said dryly. His stomach lurched.

“Hmm,” Mehmet hummed in agreement. When Val glanced over, the sultan’s gaze was pinned to their view of the wall, his look faraway – dreamy. “This will be my triumph, Radu,” he murmured.

Val swallowed again, and kept on, and on.

~*~

They had wintered in Edirne. Once Mehmet was satisfied with the progress of his fortress, they’d decamped back to the capital last year, to spend the cold months in the palace, warming themselves in front of coal braziers and enjoying all the comforts of royalty.

Mehmet saw to his wives, and entertained the dignitaries visiting from the east. Held lavish feasts where the wine flowed freely, enough to intoxicate even a vampire.

Val trained. He stripped down to the waist and threw himself at jousting dummies and any opponent who would have him, skin steaming, hands numb around the grip of his sword from the cold. He took his mare galloping, bareback, holding himself to her with the strength of his thighs and his core muscles. He weighted the ends of poles with water buckets, and carried them across his shoulders; ran along the palace walls, enjoying the burn in his lungs and his legs. He was still lean, but he bore a sleek suit of clear-cut muscle now, strong and sculpted.

He started to feel like a man that winter – the man he would need to be to turn the tide of war when spring came.

And it was also the winter in which he first noticed that something wasn’t quite right with Mehmet.

Arslan had come to fetch him from the communal baths – up to his ears in the steaming water, all his muscles unknotting, not caring that some of the high Ottoman officials kept shooting him badly disguised appreciative looks. He was beautiful; let them stare. Warm and pleasantly loose-limbed from the heat, wrapped in a silk robe and a fur, he followed his slave back to Mehmet’s suite, humming quietly to himself, a hint of desire stirring low in his belly. He’d long since stopped berating himself for his arousal.

In the sultan’s antechamber, slaves were clearing away the remnants of a meal and tidying the sideboard and its array of gold and silver decanters. Val handed his fur off to one of them and proceeded into the sitting room, where more slaves were lighting candles, past the crackling fire and on into the bedchamber, where the space was warmed by the glow of candles and the heat of two coal braziers.

Mehmet sat on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees, rubbing at them and wincing to himself.

Val slouched into view with an affected step, canting his hips at an angle he knew emphasized the narrowness of his waist. “Here I was coming to scold you for having me pulled out of the bath, but it appears you’re the one who needs a good soak. What’s wrong with your knees?”

“Nothing.” Mehmet sat upright, but not without obvious effort, a note of strain in his voice. “It’s only the cold air. Makes my joints ache.”

“It’s gout,” Val said, matter-of-fact, and went to pour a cup of wine.

“What? Impossible.”

Val took a measured sip as he turned back to the bed, and moved to stand just beyond the sultan’s reach. He cast a glance toward the slaves – the last of which lit the final taper and saw himself out of the room with a bow, pulling the door shut after him – and then back to his master. Gaze narrowing, studying. Mehmet still looked young, was still strong, still bore a look of robust health.

But he was…fleshier, than he had been. A little softness along his jaw, and around his waist.

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