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For a split second, Radu froze. He was upright on his knees, so he clasped his hands in front of himself like he had been caught in an acceptably Christian form of prayer. Cyprian, breathing hard, had been scanning the room at eye level. By the time he looked down at Radu, Radu was almost certain everything appeared as it should.
“What is it?” Radu asked, standing.
“The Turks.” Cyprian steadied himself against the doorframe. “They are here.”
Without a word Radu pulled on his cloak. Nazira was in the kitchen preparing the afternoon meal with anemic vegetables and some lumpy bread. “While you are out, try to buy some meat!” she called as they rushed by.
“The Turks are here!” Cyprian shouted. Nazira was at their side as they ran out the front door. She wore only slippers and a layered dress. Radu unfastened his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. She held it shut, keeping pace with the two men as they raced through the streets toward the walls.
If Cyprian had not been with them, Radu was certain they would have gotten lost. The fog changed the character of the city, obscuring landmarks, leeching the already faded colors. With no church steeples visible, bells rang out as though from the world of spirits, their metallic warnings hanging lonely in the air.
“When did they arrive?” Radu nearly slipped on a slick portion of road. Cyprian grabbed his elbow to steady him.
“I do not know. I only now heard word of it.”
By the time they bypassed several religious processions and made it to the walls, Nazira was winded and Radu was exhausted. They were allowed through a postern, one of the gates between the walls that let soldiers in and out of the city. Pulled down by the weight of fear, fog had settled heavily in this no-man’s-land, curling and pulsing like a living thing. Radu kept brushing at his arms, trying to rub it off.
They were not the only ones who had come running. They had to wait several minutes before there was an opening for them to climb a narrow ladder to the top of the outer wall. As he searched for a good position for them, Radu bumped into Giustiniani. The Italian nodded, shuffling to the side to let them squeeze in.
There, shoulder to shoulder with their enemies, Radu and Nazira looked out on their countrymen. Tents had sprung up out of the mist like a growth of perfectly spaced mushrooms. Movement stirred the white tendrils of fog, offering glimpses of men who were then swallowed again.
“We are beset by an army of ghosts,” Cyprian whispered.
“Do not let anyone hear you say that,” Giustiniani said, his tone sharp. “We have more than enough superstition to contend with.”
“When did they arrive?” Radu asked. He leaned forward and squinted, even though he knew it would not magically help him pierce the moisture-laden air. Knew he would not see what—who—he wanted to. But he tried nonetheless.
“It must have been in the night,” Giustiniani said. “The damn fog has been so thick we did not even see them. I got reports of strange noises, and then it finally cleared some.”
“What should we do?” Cyprian asked.
“Wait until we can see something. And then we will start collecting information.”
Giustiniani had been right—visibility was poor, but sounds hung in the dead air. At times the noises were muted, as though coming from a very great distance. And sometimes they broke through with such startling clarity that everyone spooked, looking around in fear that the Ottomans were already behind the wall.
“Shovels,” Nazira said, pointing toward the camp. “You hear that rhythmic scraping?”
Giustiniani nodded. “They will be digging their own moat, a protective line for themselves. Building up a bulwark to hide their lines behind. And generating material to try to fill in our fosse.”
Another sound cut through the air. Radu had half turned before he realized what he was doing. The call to prayer, and Radu could not answer. He had prayed too early. Nazira’s hand found his, gripping tightly. They stood, frozen, until it was over.
“Filthy infidels,” a man to Giustiniani’s right said, spitting over the wall. “The devil’s own horde.” Then the man straightened, brightening. “You hear that? Christians! I know that liturgy. We are
answering them! I—” He stopped, his eyebrows drawing low. “Where is it coming from?”
“Outside of the wall,” Cyprian said, his voice as heavy and blank as the fog.
“Mercenaries?” Giustiniani asked.
Radu realized the Italian had been addressing him. “Probably men pressed into service from vassal states: Serbs, Bulgars, maybe even some Wallachians. And then anyone who came willingly when they heard of the attack.”
“Why would Christians come against us?” The soldier’s face was twisted with despair. He turned to Radu as though he held all the answers.
It was Giustiniani who spoke, though. “For the same reason they sent us no aid. Money.” This time he spat over the wall. “How will he organize?”
Radu leaned against the wall, turning his back on the Ottoman camps and staring toward the blank white bank of fog. Only one thing rose up high enough to pierce it—the spire of the Hagia Sophia. The cathedral the city left dark. “Irregulars and Christians at the fronts on most areas of the wall. Places he thinks are less important. He does not trust anyone who is here solely for money. Janissaries and spahi forces at the weakest points—the Lycus River, and the Blachernae Palace wall section.”
“So he will be weak where the other forces are weak. If we sallied out, broke through—”
