Blachernae — early April
Blachernae had become a fort with palace rooms attached. The passages were narrow, the stairs steep, and the lower vaults stayed wet even in summer. Behind hangings, scraps of paint still clung to plaster; marble columns stood braced with timber.
Demetrios stood and looked out over the Golden Horn. Galata's tower sat black in the far distance against the sky.
That afternoon he watched the Ottoman vanguard enter the city. He stayed just long enough to be seen. Then he went back to the palace.
Footsteps came fast behind him.
George Izaoul appeared, cloak damp, eyes bright.
"My lord," he said. "At dawn, they will take the palace. The chambers are to be cleared for Halil and for the Sultan. Ali is expected within a day or two. You'll be kept under guard."
Demetrios swallowed and shifted his weight; pain sparked in the left hip as the cold found the joint.
He kept his face toward the water. "Who else knows?"
"My man in their camp," Izaoul said. "One I trust. No one else has it from me. I came straight."
Lamplight caught the sweat at Izaoul's hairline. Demetrios let the warning settle, then nodded once.
"Wake the chamberlain," he said. "Is the crossing still ours?"
"If we move now."
They moved down through Blachernae's inner passages. Two guards at a turning stared at Demetrios in his plain clothes.
"Out of the way," Izaoul said. "And keep your mouths shut."
Servants stumbled awake. The chamberlain arrived half-dressed. "Coin," Demetrios said. "The seal. Nothing else."
He dressed in plain wool and a black cloak, leaving the banners and plate where they stood. When the chamberlain offered more men, Demetrios shook his head.
They reached the Koiliomene gate, still held by his men; below the wall, two small boats waited on the Horn.
They pushed off. The boat slipped out on the Horn. Demetrios kept his head down beneath the cape and watched the far shore draw near.
They rowed for half an hour in silence. When they reached Galata, the quay was mostly dark. A few lanterns burned under the walls, and a patrol moved along the waterline.
As they nosed in, someone shouted. Italian voices rose over the Greek. Boots ran on stone. A chain rattled as it was drawn tight. The bow bumped timber and scraped along the quay.
A guard raised a lamp. The light fell on Demetrios's face. The guard inhaled sharply, and the spearmen behind him moved.
"My lord…" he began, then caught himself and spoke in the commune's tone. "You will come ashore under the faith of the Commune."
Another stepped forward, eyes on Demetrios's belt. "For peace," he said. "Your blade."
Demetrios handed over the sword. He didn't like the feeling.
A clerk asked for his name, the hour, and the names of the boatmen, wrote it all down without looking up, then pressed the Commune's seal into red wax and set the page aside to cool.
The Podestà came at dawn. He was a compact man in dark cloth, calm; behind him stood a clerk with a satchel. He took Demetrios's measure in one glance and let only a flicker of surprise show.
"My lord Demetrios," he said. "Your arrival at this hour…"
"Circumstances in the City require a brief absence," Demetrios replied. He kept his chin high. "There is unrest. I will not have it spill into your colony."
The Podestà listened without changing expression. "And what do you ask, My lord?"
"A ship," Demetrios said. "Discreet. East to Trebizond."
He slid a pouch of gold across the table.
The clerk behind the Podestà opened a ledger and waited.
The Podestà left it where it lay. "No ship goes to the Black Sea before the day after tomorrow."
Demetrios held his stare.
"The captains won't risk it," the Podestà went on. "And the Commune can't order them to."
He paused. "With the situation in the city, we have to be careful."
The Podestà shook his head once. " So for your safety—and for the peace of the colony—you will be lodged under guard until your departure. Your servants will be limited. Your weapons remain with us."
Demetrios looked at the untouched pouch. "This isn't how you and I have done business before."
The Podestà kept his voice even. "I understand. These are unsettled days. This is the only way I can offer you protection without putting the Commune at risk."
They placed Demetrios in rooms near the Palazzo Comunale. A guard stood outside his door, and another watched the street below. His own men were separated. Izaoul was allowed to remain, perhaps because the Genoese trusted him more than the man he served.
By sunrise Galata was awake beyond the shutters, and the hours that followed passed slowly enough to make him restless. A clerk brought water and left without speaking. Once he heard Constantine's name from the street below, spoken with the careful excitement of men who sensed the balance shifting and meant to be ready when it did. Demetrios rested his forehead against the rough wood and closed his eyes. Heretic.
He couldn't swallow. The same thought returned, over and over: if he stayed, they would take him; if he left, they might still take him.
Galata, dusk the same day.
A galley entered the harbor at dusk. The oars worked steadily. Prince Thomas stood near the bow, cloak tight around him, his left arm held close. His shoulder ached with each roll of the ship.
The quay came into view: ships packed close, cranes over the water. Above it, Galata Tower stood on the slope. The walls climbed the hill in rough steps, with gates and guards at the breaks.
Matteo came up beside him. "How long has it been since you left the city?"
Thomas kept his eyes on the shore. "Too long."
Officials were already waiting. The Gattilusio banner didn't go unnoticed in a colony that ran on watchfulness, especially with news from the straits expected.
Thomas stepped onto the quay. The shock ran up his legs and settled in his hips. Kallergis came after him, eyes counting.
Their names were taken, their arrival recorded, and then they were brought to the Podestà. Inside, lamp smoke and ink made the air thick. The Podestà rose and offered a small bow.
"Prince Thomas," he said. "An honor. We've been waiting for word from the straits."
"We met their fleet off Gallipoli," Thomas said. "We beat them hard. They broke contact and ran."
The Podestà's control slipped a fraction."That is welcome news," he said, and then: "You took Gallipoli?"
"Not yet," Thomas answered. "But the strait is closed."
Thomas leaned forward, voice lower. "Has the Sultan entered the City?"
"A vanguard arrived yesterday," the Podestà said. "The main force is expected any day now, Halil with the Sultan."
Thomas drew a breath and kept his face still.
He set Constantine's sealed letters on the table. "From His Majesty."
The Podestà took them and turned them once in his hands, eyes on the seal. "And you, why come in person?"
"To coordinate," Thomas said. "When the siege starts, your colony will be caught between both sides. His Majesty offers terms—gold and privileges, if you act sensibly when he stands before the City."
The Podestà's eyes flicked once. He understood.
Thomas lowered his voice further. "There are members of my household across the water."
"With the new garrison," the Podestà said, "crossings will be delicate."
He brought the audience toward its end with practiced smoothness. "Many have fled these last days. Fear puts boats on the water."
He started to add something, then stopped. The pause stretched.
"Tell me the details," the Podestà said at last. "I've heard too many rumors, and more than one mention of your new flagship."
Thomas gave him the shape of it—where they met the Ottoman ships off Gallipoli, how the fight broke, what they took, and what it cost.
The Podestà nodded once. "So the rumors are not all smoke."
He hesitated, then said, "One more thing, Prince."
He let the words hang a moment. "While you are here, your men keep the peace. No steel in our streets."
Thomas inclined his head and went out.
Outside, the lane smelled of wet stone and a packed crowd. Kallergis waited with two men, cloaks up.
Thomas stepped into lantern light—and saw a familiar face cut through the crowd: a palace servant, shoulders hunched, moving too fast to look innocent. The man glanced back. Their eyes met. He turned at once and pushed uphill into the dark.
Thomas stopped short. His hand tightened on his cloak.
He turned to Kallergis.
"You see him."
Kallergis nodded once.
"We follow."
They moved tight and controlled through the narrowing streets, climbing toward the tower. The servant glanced back again and broke into a run.
At a guarded doorway, two Genoese spearmen stood under a hooked lantern. The servant spoke fast and slipped inside. Thomas stopped a pace from the blocked entrance.
"This lodging is under the faith of the Commune," the guard said, stepping his spear across the doorway.
Thomas kept walking until the spearpoint had to shift. "Prince Thomas," he said. "Step aside."
Behind him, Kallergis and the two men drew steel—quiet, practiced, blades held low in the lantern light.
The guard saw the purple edge of Thomas's cloak. He hesitated, then stepped aside.
"No blood in the street," he said, voice tight.
Thomas nodded and pushed the door in. Kallergis came at his shoulder, the two men close behind.
Inside, shutters were drawn. A lamp burned low. Furniture had been shoved aside to clear a line to the back door. Demetrios stood there, half turned to run, cloak open over plain cloth. Two retainers hovered close, hands at their belts. Izaoul stood near the wall, sword in hand, point down.
Demetrios tried for words first. "Thomas—listen—"
Thomas kept his voice flat. "Step away from the door."
Demetrios's mouth worked. "This is Constantine's doing. He—"
Thomas drew his sword. The pull jarred his shoulder and for a moment his grip faltered.
Izaoul raised his hand. "My prince—"
Demetrios turned for the back door.
Thomas lunged after him. His boot slid on something slick near the table and he had to grab at Demetrios's cloak to steady himself. They collided hard enough to rattle the shutters.
The thrust wasn't clean. It drove in as Demetrios twisted, catching under the ribs. Thomas felt resistance first, then the give.
Demetrios inhaled sharply. He sagged, clutching at Thomas's sleeve, then slid from his grasp and went down on his side.
For a moment the room held still. Thomas's vision narrowed. He tightened his grip until it stopped shaking.
Izaoul's sword clattered to the boards. He raised both hands slowly.
"Mercy, my prince," he said, and knelt.
Thomas looked down. Demetrios lay in plain cloth, eyes wide.
His stomach lurched. He forced it down, wiped the blade on Demetrios's cloak, and put it away.
"Come," he said to his men.
He stepped back into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving the lamp burning inside.
A bell rang once.
Kallergis glanced back. "The Commune will want an answer for this," he said.