“But you will never love him the way he loves you.”
Mehmed stood, reaching for Lada’s fisted hands. “How could I? I love you.”
Lada closed her eyes against the way his words struck her. Radu felt like a ghost in the room, looming in the whisper of a breeze against the back of her neck. She had what he wanted, and she did not even know what to do with it.
“Bring him back. He could die.”
Mehmed released her hands. “I have no one else better suited to the task. It is a risk, yes. But it is an acceptable risk. He knows the dangers, and he agreed. He cares as much as I do about Constantinople.”
Lada let out a harsh bark of laughter. “No one cares about anything so much as you do that accursed city.”
“You care about Wallachia that much.”
“Because it is mine! What claim do you have to Constantinople that justifies risking Radu’s life?”
Mehmed shook his head. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders curved inward as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I promise Radu will come out unharmed. And then we will all be together.”
“You cannot promise that. And how will we be together? He will always choose your side over mine.”
“Not if my side is your side as well.” He smiled up at her, exhaustion pooling in the hollows beneath his eyes. “I cannot do this alone. You were right to leave before. I did not know your value, and I would have left you behind. But I know now.” His smile turned tender. “And you know now, too. I need you with me. I want you with me. Stand by my side at the walls. Help me claim my destiny. And then … rule it. With me. As empress of Rome.”
Lada took a small step back, overwhelmed. “Empress.”
Still naked, Mehmed stood before her, completely open and vulnerable, with his hands out, palms up. “Take the city with me. Take the crown. Take me, Lada.”
A memory long since forgotten played out in front of her. Huma, Mehmed’s terrifying mother, telling her the story of Theodora. The actress, the prostitute, the powerless woman who found the love of the emperor and rose to be emperor with him. Saving him and the city, changing everything to her vision of how it should be based only on her strength.
And the strength of the man who loved her.
Could Lada be that woman?
But Mehmed had not said emperor. He had said empress. Emperor consort. She would still owe her power and her position to a man. And she was no lowly prostitute, no actress. She already had a birthright of her own.
“What about Wallachia?”
“Forget about Wallachia! Why be vaivode of a worthless country when you can be empress of the greatest empire in the world?”
She stepped back from him. “Because if I do not lead Wallachia, no one will.”
Mehmed brushed a hand through the air. “We will make certain Wallachia is always taken care of.”
Lada shook her head slowly. The offer was tempting. But she was so close to Wallachia. She could feel it nearby, just as she had Mehmed. She could not turn her back on her country now. “Where are the troops? I can—we can discuss this after. When I have Wallachia secured, and you have Constantinople, then … then, I do not know. Maybe there will be a way for us. After we have accomplished what we need to.”
Hurt reshaped Mehmed’s face into something younger, softer. “Is that the only reason you came?”
“Of course it is!” Lada snapped.
His vulnerability was replaced with cold, stony features and imperious brows. He grabbed his nightshirt and pulled it over his head. “There are no troops.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need every man I have. I cannot spare them to destabilize a country I already control. I have a treaty with the Danesti prince.”
Lada staggered back. “But you could spare men to harass Hunyadi. You did not need to do that. You could have trusted me and given me those forces instead. Were there ever any troops? Did you ever mean to help me?”
“I am helping you! You are destined for bigger things! With me.” He stepped toward her and she put her hands up.
“You did not write me. Not once, not until after I wrote Radu about having Hunyadi’s trust. You saw an opportunity, and you used me. I betrayed Hunyadi for you.” In all her life, Lada had never felt as small and miserable as she did then. She had sold Hunyadi’s kindness for nothing. All her justifications and rationalizing amounted to nothing. She was no closer to Wallachia in spite of all her sacrifices. “You tricked me.”
“I did you a favor! Even if I sent you the troops, even if you took the throne, you could never keep it. They would never follow a woman as prince. Abandon this delusion, Lada. It will destroy you. Come with me. Fight at my side. I trust only you with my life.” He pointed at the slit in the tent wall. “I could die without you.”
Lada raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that is an acceptable risk.”
Mehmed threw his hands in the air and started pacing. “I am offering you so much more. I am offering you the world. I am offering you myself.” He pointed angrily at the bed. “You were happy enough to accept it a few minutes ago.”
“That was different! You promised me soldiers.”
Disgust squeezed his words. “Was this merely a transaction for you?”
Lada slammed her fist into his stomach. He doubled over, and she spoke right into his ear. “Do not ever talk to me that way.” But his words had struck too close to home. Angry tears filled her eyes. She had not sold her body to him, and she hated him for thinking she had used it to manipulate him. But she had sold her determination to gain the throne on her own, as well as her relationship with Hunyadi. All for the false promise of a few hundred men.
Mehmed caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Whatever else you believe, know that what I did, I did out of love. I love you. I have always loved you. Will you still choose Wallachia?”
Lada yanked her hand away and retrieved her knife from the floor. “You betray my brother with your feigned ignorance of his feelings. You betrayed me. But I will never betray Wallachia.” She lifted the knife, pointing it at him. “If you set foot on Wallachian soil again—my soil—I will kill you.”
Ignoring Mehmed as he shouted her name, she left the tent through the same cut she had entered it. This time it seemed much deeper.
23
Early April
IN THE CLAMMY morning fog, Radu sweated. He leaned against the stone steps for a few breaths, then continued climbing. The awkward shape of the tombstone chunk he held made his fingers cramp. When he finally reached the top of the wall, he staggered to the mound of stones and added his own.
“Funny, using tombstones of the dead to repair the walls.”
Radu looked up into the well-worn but cheerful face of Giovanni Giustiniani, the Italian man from his first, and so far only, meeting with Constantine. Giustiniani was tall, broad-shouldered, even powerful in the way he moved. A deep line between his brows made them look set in a permanent scowl, but all his other wrinkles told of smiling and laughter.
Radu wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and straightened. He was only a couple of inches taller than the older man. “Well, it is the least those citizens could contribute to the city’s defense.”
Giustiniani laughed, a sound like a cannon shot. He clapped a hand on Radu’s shoulder. “I remember you. You brought us news of the infidels’ preparations.”
Radu nodded. It was always jarring to hear the Ottomans referred to as the infidels, since that was what they called the Christians. “I wish I had come armed with better tidings.”
“All information, good or bad, helps us.” Giustiniani sighed and turned toward a group of men shouting at each other. “The dead contributing their tombstones may yet do more than the living who cannot stop fighting with each other.” He strode away, toward the fight.
Radu leaned over the edge of the wall and looked out onto the plain beneath. It had been cleared of anything that could hide the Ottoman forces. In front of them was a fosse, a large, deep ditch meant to slow down attackers and make them easy to pick off. Constantinople’s defenses of a fosse, the outer wall where Radu stood, and an inner wall had repelled all attackers for more than a thousand years.