Page 27 of Immortals and Ink

The third letter from Constantine had been sitting on the mantelpiece for days, and the longer Alexis avoided it, the louder it got.

The first two had come folded into the canvas-wrapped bundle of correspondence the Genoese ambassador's secretary smuggled out of Constantinople for a price, along with the trade reports and the bills of lading no one was meant to see.

Alexis had read those on the night they arrived, poured himself a Cypriot wine from the cask the smuggler had given him, and told no one.

This third letter had not come through the usual hands. A Greek monk had brought it to the door at dawn, declined bread, wine, and the offer of a bed, and left as swiftly as he could. The seal was Con's old emperor's mark, the one he kept for sentiment and used only when he wanted to make a point.

Alexis had read parts of it, set it on the mantel, and gone three days without touching it. The opening was the curt, blocky Latin Con used when he was past pleasantries.

Alecto. I am in the city. I have been here since November.

The middle had been Con setting out, with his usual patient arrogance, what Mehmed was bringing in the spring and what would happen to the city when those cannons reached the Theodosian walls. The end had been the part that had gone unread.

Alexis took a deep breath, opened the letter, and finally finished it.

I'm writing to you for the last time as a friend, and not as a man asking for help. Come, or do not. I will fight either way. I will not beg you, and I will not forgive a refusal disguised as philosophy.

This is my city, Alecto. Not yours. Mine. My soul is tied to these sacred stones, and it will die in the spring if I do nothing. If I die with it, that will be a death I have chosen.

Sumus quod sumus.

We are what we are.

It was the closest Con had ever come, in writing, to the simple sentence, I love you.

Alexis folded the letter and set it back on the mantel.

Mio Dio.

He was going to throw his life away for an empire that had been dead for decades.

Alexis had been waiting for the letter for weeks, since the first messages from the Galata trading houses began describing what was being assembled in Edirne. Cannon casters from Hungary. Janissary regiments doubled.

If I die with it, that will be a death I have chosen.

Alexis swore and went to the cabinet for a sea chart of the eastern Mediterranean. He had a stack of reports on blockaded sea lanes and fleet movements to consider.

He was halfway through unrolling it across the worktable when the door at the bottom of the tower creaked open, and Phaidros came up without bothering to knock.

He had a long red coat over one arm, with his curls pulled back in a careless knot, and smelled of perfume and wine from whatever he had been doing all night.

"Let me guess, you finally read it?"

"How can you tell?"

"Because the chart is open and you're brooding." Phaidros came over to the worktable and put a finger on the parchment where Constantinople sat between two bodies of water like a coin balanced on its edge. "Cazzo. So we are really going?"

"I am going."

"We are going."

"Phaidros."

"Don't bother arguing, Alexis. You need me, and you aren't going alone."

Alexis crossed his arms. "You said no last time."

"I did because last time you were going to a city the crusaders were sacking, and there was nothing in that situation likely to get you killed except boredom. This time is different."