No. Not ringing. Screaming. He looked up past the defensive barrels to see a shouting horde rushing toward them. There was no order or sense to the approach. They ran like a swarm of locusts, over each other, pushing and shoving, each trying to get there first.
Those that did were cut down. But it did not matter. The ones behind them climbed over the bodies. When they, too, were killed by arrows, their bodies added to the pile. Radu shot into the melee, watching in disgusted horror as the irregular forces of Mehmed’s army used the corpses—and sometimes the living injured—as steps. They clawed over each other, death itself a tool to crest the wall.
There were so many men that Radu could not help but hit someone with every arrow he fired. It was as effective as shooting at waves of the sea. The men never stopped coming. Giustiniani directed his own forces, anticipating whenever a group of irregulars would breach the wall. “There!” he shouted, pointing toward a stretch not far from Radu. Radu ran toward it, watching as the first few soldiers clawed and tumbled their way on top.
There were not enough men behind Radu. He had gotten there too fast. He hacked and slashed and blocked, but there was no hope. A man screaming in Wallachian barreled into him, tripping him. Radu fell flat on his back, looking up into the face of death. No matter where he went, his childhood followed. And now it would kill him.
Then the man was gone. Except for his torso, which fell across Radu’s feet. Radu blinked away the dust and smoke. All the irregulars who had breached the wall had been cut down by one of their own cannonballs. Radu kicked the man’s body away, laying his head back onto the wall and laughing.
Urbana and her cannons had saved his life after all.
He pushed himself up, rushing to Giustiniani. He was certain that he had been fated to die just then. But he was still here. Which meant he could still accomplish something. This time, if an opportunity presented itself, he would not falter.
Much farther along the wall, Constantine threw a man over the side. He pointed and a spray of Greek fire lit up the night, burning the bodies of the living and the dead against the wall. The Greek fire moved up and down, consuming everything that wasn’t stone. Men ran screaming, the attack’s momentum gone.
“They are retreating!” Giustiniani roared. The men around Radu cheered, some crying and some praying. Between Constantine and Giustiniani, the city still stood a chance. Giustiniani clapped Radu on the shoulder. “You made it! I am glad.” They ducked as a cannonball whistled overhead, falling somewhere in the space between the two walls. “Do you think we have them on the run?”
“They were intended to wear us down. Next he will send Janissaries.” Mehmed would have saved his best men for last. And Radu knew without question that the next wave really would be the last. If numbers could not overwhelm the wall, only the Janissaries stood a chance. And if they could not win … Mehmed was finished. He had nothing left to throw at them.
“We can hold. We will hold.” Giustiniani favored his wounded leg as he limped toward a ladder. “Get something to drink and eat. You men, pick up the wounded. Take them to rest against the inner wall. We will shift positions to compensate, then—”
Everyone stopped as the music started. Radu watched as faces of weary happiness shifted into exhausted terror. They would have no break tonight. The metre music of the Janissaries crashed against the wall with as much force and intimidation as any bombardment. The white flaps of their caps glowed like skulls in the firelight as they rushed, screaming, toward the wall.
This was it. This last wave would overcome the wall and flood the city, or it would recede, taking Mehmed’s chances with it.
Mehmed himself rode back and forth, just out of crossbow range. Radu could see him, would have known him anywhere. But his heart did not sing, did not yearn for him. So little land separated them, but that distance was soaked in blood and lit by flames.
Giustiniani shouted for Radu. “Cut the ropes! Throw down the hooks!”
Radu ran back and forth, hacking at ropes, dislodging hooks. Every man under Giustiniani followed his commands without hesitation or question. Radu could not see or hear Constantine, but he was certain that section of the wall was the same. Two men to hold back an empire.
Radu stopped, sitting with his back against a barrel and watching. All the men around him were Italians, Giustiniani’s men. They were as good as the Janissaries, and they had the high ground. What could he do? Even if he stopped helping, stopped throwing down hooks and ropes, he would do nothing to turn the tide.
A man jumped over the wall next to Radu. Radu looked up at him in surprise, seeing Lazar’s face under the Janissary cap.
No. Lazar was dead. Radu had killed him to save Mehmed. Radu pushed himself up, stabbing the Janissary and letting his body fall. But there were more. Janissaries leapt over this section of the wall, led by a giant of a man. He towered over everyone, the white of his cap gleaming above the mass of bodies. He held a broadsword. Unusual for an Ottoman, but fitting for his size. The man swung the sword from side to side, cutting down everyone who came at him with eerily silent efficiency. Protected by his fury, more and more Janissaries climbed onto the wall.
“With me!” Giustiniani slashed his way through to the giant. Radu followed in his wake, protecting his back. Not even Giustiniani could take the giant in hand-to-hand combat, though. As he got close, the man swung his sword. At the last moment, Giustiniani dropped to his knees. He swung his own sword with all the strength he had in him. The giant stopped, looking down in surprise. Then he slid to the ground, both his legs cut off at the knees.
The Janissaries around them stopped in shock. Giustiniani stood, raising his sword in triumph. And this time, when he knew what Lada would do, Radu did not hesitate. He swept his sword across the backs of Giustiniani’s legs. Straight through the muscles and tendons. One swift cut to turn the tide.
Giustiniani fell. Radu caught him. “Giustiniani!” he shouted. “He is wounded! Help!”
The Italian’s men rushed to them with all the energy they had left. The Janissaries remaining on the wall were quickly overwhelmed.
“What should we do?” one of the Italian soldiers asked, tears streaming down his face as he looked at the man he had followed in defense of a foreign city.
“We have to get him to the boats!” Radu stood, grasping Giustiniani under the arms.
“No,” Giustiniani moaned, shaking his head. He was white with shock and blood loss, eyes wild. “We cannot open the gate.”
“We have to! To save him!” Radu nodded to the crying soldier, who carefully took Giustiniani’s ruined legs. They maneuvered him down from the wall with the help of the rest of the Italians, passing him from one man to the other. Giustiniani groaned and cried out in pain, all the while telling them to stop.
They rushed across the open stretch, dodging arrows and cannonballs. All the Italians had followed, more than a hundred men this section of the wall could not afford to lose.
“The key!” Radu shouted. “Who has the key?”
“Giustiniani does!”
Radu heard shouting over everything else. On top of the wall, Constantine stood, gesturing. He was frantic, waving his hands and shaking his head. If that gate opened and men went through, it would be a mortal wound to the city. Too many would choose to flee if given the option. Men ran toward them to stop them, swords drawn.
“If they keep us here, Giustiniani will die!” Radu shouted.
The Italians, ever loyal to Giustiniani, drew their swords against the soldiers they had fought shoulder to shoulder with all these long weeks. Everyone stopped, waiting to see what would happen.
Radu reached into Giustiniani’s blood-splattered vest and pulled out a heavy iron key. Giustiniani grabbed his hand. “Please,” he said. His face was pale and bathed in sweat, but his eyes were lucid. “Do not do this.”
Radu looked up at the wall. Constantine stood silhouetted against the glowing night sky. His shoulders drooped. Then he took off his cloak, throwing it off the wall. His helmet, with a metal circlet on it, followed. He turned and joined the fight at the wall as one of the men he had lived with. As one of the men he would die with.
“It is the only thing I can do,” Radu whispered. He tugged his hand free, then opened the gate. As soon as he was through, he ran toward Blachernae Palace. If any of Giustiniani’s men noticed he did not stay with them, they were too busy saving themselves to stop him.