Sofia Dragases, Princess of the Eastern Roman Empire, walked through the dark hallways of the emperor's palace in Constantinople, hurrying to keep up with John Dalmata, the commander of the emperor's guard. As they passed a window, she glanced out to where a full moon hung heavy in the night sky over the waters of the harbour. It was several hours until dawn. The emperor, John VIII, had been ill for weeks, and Sofia would only have been summoned so late if he were on the verge of death.
The antechamber of the emperor's apartments was crowded. Most of those present knelt on the hard stone floor, whispering prayers for the health of their emperor. They spoke in Greek, for although the people of Constantinople still called themselves Romans, Greek had replaced Latin as the language of the empire centuries ago. As she passed through the crowd, Sofia noticed the emperor's mother, Helena Dragases, seated in a corner, speaking with George Sphrantzes, the emperor's most trusted minister. Dalmata led Sofia to the door of the emperor's bedchamber, which was guarded by the praepositus sacri cubiculi, a balding eunuch who controlled access to the emperor. 'He is very weak. Do not stay too long,' the eunuch told Sofia as he ushered her through the door.
The room was lit only by the flicker of a few candles near the entrance. At first Sofia could not see the emperor, but she could hear his laboured breathing — a series of rattling gasps coming from the darkness on the far side of the room. She moved towards the sound, and as she approached, she made out a large, canopied bed and then the emperor himself. John had been a large man, but now he had wasted to the point where she scarcely recognized the skeletal figure before her. His face was waxen and his eyes closed. Were it not for the horrible rasping of his breathing, Sofia would have thought him dead. As she watched him sleep, she fought back tears.
She did not love her uncle. He was temperamental and drank too much. Nevertheless, John had been a good emperor, and he had allowed Sofia her freedom. She was nearly twenty-four, well past the age when a princess of the empire should have been married, yet her uncle had never broached the subject. He had allowed her to study, not just the literature and philosophy normally taught to women of the court, but also mathematics, government and languages — Italian, Arabic, Latin and Turkish. At the urging of the Empress-Mother Helena, he had even allowed her to join him in council meetings, where she had learned the art of politics. Whoever succeeded John, Sofia doubted that he would be so accommodating towards her.
Sofia gently smoothed back the emperor's hair. 'I have come, Uncle,' she whispered.
John opened his eyes. 'Sit beside me, Sofia,' he gasped. 'I want to ask…' John stopped short, his words lost in a long fit of coughing. 'I want to ask your forgiveness,' he continued at last, 'for any wrongs that I have done you.' Such a request was traditional for emperors in their last days. It was clear that John knew his time was near.
'You have no need to ask, Uncle,' Sofia replied. 'You have done me no wrongs.'
He frowned and shook his head. 'No, Sofia. I fear I was wrong to raise you as I did. You reminded me so much of my poor dead wife, Maria. I wished to keep you near me, as a reminder of her, and to give you all you wished, as I failed to give her.' He sighed. 'I did not prepare you to be a princess, to be a wife. You have not learned your place in this world.'
'I wish for no other place than that which I have,' Sofia told him. 'I do not regret what I have learned.'
'Nor do I, Sofia,' John wheezed between ragged breaths. 'These are difficult times, and the empire has need of you. There are those in Constantinople who would sell the city to the Turks to feed their ambition. We must stop them. Our empire has stood for over a thousand years. We are the heirs of Rome. We must not fall!'
'But what can I do?' Sofia asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice. 'I am a woman, Uncle. I will have little influence at Constantine's court.'
John shook his head as he was seized by another fit of coughing. 'No, you are more than that. Look at my mother, Helena. She is a better statesman than any of my councillors. You have her same spirit, Sofia. My brother Constantine is a good man, but he is not a subtle one. When I am gone, he will need your help, even if he does not wish for it.'
'I will do what I can, Uncle.'
'You must swear to me, Sofia,' John gasped. 'Give me your hand…' Sofia placed her hand in his, and the dying emperor gripped it with surprising strength. His eyes burned with urgency as he met Sofia's gaze. 'Swear that when I am gone, you will do all you can to protect this city from those who would destroy it.'
'I swear it,' Sofia replied solemnly. 'I will defend Constantinople with my life.'
John released her hand and lay back, suddenly small and fragile. 'Good. Now go,' he said. 'And send in my mother.' Sofia nodded and left. In the antechamber, she told the empress-mother that John wished to see her, and then knelt, joining the others in silent prayer.
Sofia knew they were praying for themselves as much as for the emperor. John had no sons and three brothers, and the people feared civil war if he died. And with civil war came the threat of another Ottoman invasion. The Eastern Roman Empire was only a shadow of what it had been when Constantine the Great moved the imperial capital from Rome to Constantinople in 330 AD. The current Turkish sultan, Murad II, had taken the great cities of Adrianople and Salonika. Now, nearly all that remained of the once great Empire of the Romans was the imperial city of Constantinople. It was the last link to a glorious history that reached unbroken to the Caesars; the last barrier between the Turks and the rest of Europe. The sultan's armies had already gathered in the north to confront the crusade called by John before he grew ill. News of a battle had not yet reached Constantinople, but if the Turks were victorious, and John died, then there would be little to stop the sultan's armies from marching on Constantinople.
Sofia's thoughts were interrupted by a loud wailing from the emperor's room. It was the Empress-Mother Helena mourning her son. The emperor was dead. The evening sun hung low in the sky when William Whyte reached the top of a long rise and saw Constantinople for the first time. The city was still several miles off, but even at this distance, the majesty of it caused him to stop short. Fields of wheat and herds of roaming cattle lay spread out before him, running right up to the city's towering walls. The walls stretched for miles, from the Golden Horn, its waters glinting to the north, to the Sea of Marmora to the south. Beyond the walls, the city rose high on its seven hills. Squinting, William could just make out a few monuments: domed churches, sprawling palaces and thin columns towering above the city. It was no wonder they called Constantinople the Queen of Cities. William had never seen anything like it.
William took his eyes off the city as the long rope that led from his bound hands to the saddle of the horse before him went taut, jerking him forward so that he stumbled down the far side of the hill. The man riding the horse — a Turk named Hasim, who had rotten teeth and a greying beard — turned back and shouted something in his strange tongue. The man's meaning was clear: speed up, or else. He had already beaten William more than once during the long journey from Ephesus to Constantinople — seven days of hard marching across brutal dry lands, and seven cold nights spent huddled on the ground beneath the unforgiving autumn sky. Thin already, William had lost more weight, and now his ribs showed clearly through his skin. He spat at Hasim but quickened his pace.
It was barely two months since William had joined the crew of the Kateryn, sailing for the East from his home, the English port of Fowey. He had thought he was sailing to riches. An Italian, Carlo Grimaldi, who claimed to be an exile from Genoa, had promised that he could lead the Kateryn safely past the Genoese and Venetian galleys that dominated the eastern spice trade. Captain Smith, William's uncle, had been sceptical, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. If they could make a direct connection with the eastern spice traders, cutting out the Italian middlemen, then they would make a fortune. It had been a kindness of Captain Smith to ask William to join the crew. William's father had died almost ten years ago, when William was only five, and for the past year his mother had suffered from a wasting sickness. The little that William earned as a water-porter, even when combined with his winnings at the knife fights, was barely enough to feed them and pay rent for the draughty, damp room they shared. With the money from the voyage, William had hoped to find proper lodgings so that his mother could spend her last days in comfort.
But his plans had gone awry even before they left port. The day before they sailed, William's mother died. Once in the East, Grimaldi had led them to a small cove south of the Turkish town of Ephesus, where they had found the tents of a Turkish caravan set up on the shore. Smith had anchored far out, and William had watched from his position in the crow's nest high above the deck as Smith, Grimaldi and four heavily armed crewmen had rowed ashore to negotiate. They had hardly stepped out of the boat before archers hidden in the tents cut the crewmen down. Grimaldi had killed Captain Smith himself, striking him down from behind. The remaining crew
