In the hall at Blachernae, Constantine stood at a window on the western side with a clay cup in his hand, watching the light go out over the city.
Smoke still hung above the lower streets and the Horn, thin over some roofs and heavy where green timber and wet plaster had burned all day. Somewhere beyond the palace quarter a bell sounded once, then again more firmly, while steam from the chamomile rose through the lime dust in the room.
He had thrown his cloak over the back of a chair but had not changed his boots; dust from the yards had dried in the seams. Two opened letters, a knife, and a strip of wax with the imperial seal broken clean through lay on the table behind him. Men had been coming in and out since dawn, and for the first time that day no one stood at his shoulder. He drank the last of the cup, heard steps in the passage, and then the knock came.
"Come."
George entered with two wax tablets under one arm and a sheaf of folded papers tied with cord. Damp had darkened the hem of his robe, and there was soot on one cuff. He shut the door with his heel, then stood a moment to shift the papers into a cleaner stack.
"At last. I have been waiting on your report all day."
George set the tablets down on the table and breathed out through his nose. "I wish Theophilus were here. He would have had three clerks in every corridor by noon and half of this in order before sunset."
"After complaining about it for an hour first."
George almost smiled. He pulled the cord loose on the papers and started sorting the sheets by hand, smoothing each one as he went. The last of the humor went out of his face when he came to the top sheet, and he flattened it under his palm.
"The first count is in," he said. "It cost us, and the figures are still climbing. The dead on our side are just under two thousand, and the wounded above four thousand. We are still pulling men out of cellars and gate towers. The tagma that went up first at Blachernae is cut to pieces; the Serbs lost heavily there, and Fruzhin's Bulgarians were hit hard both in the center and in the raid on the camp. Beyond the soldiers, Halil put some hundreds to the sword in the squares when he first entered the city, mostly from lists Demetrios's people had drawn up. The heads of the principal names he had set on the Forum of Constantine for the city to see. We are still matching them to families."
Constantine looked down at the page and said nothing for a moment. Names had been added in different hands as the reports came in. "How bad among the officers?"
George turned the tablet and read from the fresh scratches. "Eleven dead, with more wounded. Most of the worst losses are among newer officers and among the files pushed into the breach after Petrion opened."
"And the men who will not be back on their feet soon?"
"More than a thousand. Some will need weeks if they keep the limb at all, and the surgeons say a fair share of those won't."
Constantine set two fingers on the table edge until the wood stopped moving. "Find the officers' households first, then the others. I want the widows paid, and any man who cannot stand again is to keep his pay through winter. Put it in writing and have the seal ready tonight."
George marked the tablet. "It will take time."
"Then set it in motion tonight. Go on."
George set that tablet aside and took the second. "Stores taken in the city are better than I feared—grain, oil, salt fish, beans, some powder, though not enough of good quality. We can feed the army inside the walls for now. The city is another matter, because it depends on trade opening quickly, and the inland reports are poor enough that, if grain does not begin moving soon, some regions may see famine."
"We import before the market empties," Constantine said. "Send to the Podestà tonight. Grain first, then anything that keeps in a barrel."
George nodded. "I sent men to count the storage at the harbors before dusk."
He moved to the next sheet. The paper was cleaner, the list shorter, the figures larger. "The treasury inventory is not complete, but what has been opened and counted so far comes to more than four hundred thousand gold ducats."
Before George had finished the number, Constantine had already divided it in his head: rewards for the men, pay for the allies, grain, ships, repairs to the gates, and enough ready coin to keep the masons on the walls.
"How much of it is coined and ready," he asked, "and how much sits in plate and sealed chests?"
"Enough coined for immediate use. The rest is in plate, chains, cups, reserve bags from the Saray stores, and what looks like tax silver waiting on conversion. We are sorting it by weight now."
"Who has the room?"
George's mouth pulled to one side. "Andreas's quartermasters."
"Good."
A gust pressed smoke through the cracked shutter, and for a moment the room smelled of wet ash. George waited until it thinned.
"The prisoners are near two thousand, mostly irregulars. There are a few officers, but none of any price and no one worth a long ransom list."
Constantine ran his thumb along the rim of the cup. "Put them on rubble work and on carrying the dead. They can dig where we tell them, under guard, and they eat what the work earns them."
George marked it down. "Another matter from among them. The earlier reports are confirmed—a man taken near the Marmara gate says Ali fled by ship, and another from the lower quarter said the same without hearing the first. Both place him east. Anatolia, by every count we have."
Constantine turned the cup once on the table.
"Send to Orhan. We need to know what he is doing in Anatolia, and whether he has gained any followers there." He turned back. "And Gallipoli. Offer the commander ten thousand ducats and safe passage to Anatolia for himself, his officers, and his men. He surrenders the fort and leaves the guns. If he refuses, we will come and sit on his throat."
George's stylus paused over the wax. "Ten thousand."
"It is cheaper than a siege."
George did not sound pleased by the truth of it, but he set the stylus down. "Grgur requests audience. Fruzhin as well. They have begun asking what victory has bought them."
"I will see them after the liturgy."
George hesitated, touched the edge of the paper stack, and straightened it. "Do you still mean to give Fruzhin what we discussed?"
Constantine watched him. "Which part troubles you?"
"The crown," George said, keeping his eyes on the table. "Or letting him call himself king."
"We have gone over this."
"Yes."
"You said it yourself," Constantine said. "We have too much ground and too few hands. Let him sit where he can watch the north for us. Better a king bound to us than a governor made from nothing, and better him on that road than one of ours."
George did not answer at once. Outside, a cart went over broken stone in the court below, the axle complaining at each turn. When the sound had passed, he took up the last paper.
"Hagia Sophia is being prepared for tomorrow's liturgy," he said. "The Patriarch asks a private audience after, and Isidoros wants one as well. A few of the city's nobles are already with him, the ones who kept their heads low until the gates changed hands."
"How are the people?"
George looked up. "They are in high spirits, though hungry and tired. For the moment, the anti-unionists are content that the Patriarch will serve tomorrow and that no Latin hand will touch the rite. That is better than I expected."
George lifted the last sheet but did not read from it at once. "There is another, uglier matter. Before dusk, word began going round that Thomas killed Demetrios. It seems some of the Podestà's men are repeating it when they think none of ours is near enough to hear."
Constantine pulled the chair back and sat. The wood scraped on the floor. "I expected it."
George seemed about to say more, then stopped.
"What is it?"
"Helena must hear it from us before it reaches her from a servant or a guard."
Constantine looked at the cup, at the pale line of herb left in the bottom. "Yes."
"Thomas has not told her."
"I know."
George gathered the loose papers into one stack and retied the cord. Constantine rose before he had finished, took up the cloak from the chair, and settled it over his shoulders. The cloth still held the damp of the hall. Outside, another bell began, then another farther off, carrying over the roofs and the smoke.
"Have the offer for Gallipoli written before midnight," Constantine said. "And send for Thomas."
George stepped aside from the table. "Now?"
"Now." Constantine opened the door. "Before the city tells my mother what happened in Galata."
By dawn, Hagia Sophia and the square before it were already full.
The route from Blachernae had been lined before sunrise. Tagmata stood from the palace quarter down through the Mese street and out into the broad space before the church, spears upright, while officers moved along the files to keep the crowd from pressing too close. The people came anyway, filling the gaps beyond the soldiers and climbing onto steps, troughs, and broken stone; women held children up under the arms, and old men craned between helmets for a first look.
Constantine rode at the head of a cavalry escort with Aristos to one side and a picked file ahead, clearing the way by voice rather than blows. The horse shifted under him at the bells and shouting. Smoke still clung to the lower streets where a knot of houses near Porphyrogenitus had burned through the night. On one wall, an old Ieros Skopos sheet had been pasted over cracked plaster, one corner loosened and snapping in the morning wind.
The closer they came to the church, the tighter the noise grew. He heard his name first in single voices, then in clusters, and then the old cry rising with it until the two ran together over the stones.
At the last open stretch before the church frontage he reined in. A groom ran forward. Constantine swung down, handed off the reins, adjusted the sword belt where it had twisted under the ride, and went the rest of the way on foot.
The soldiers nearest the approach straightened as he passed. Beyond them the crowd pressed hard enough against the line that spear shafts had to lower half a hand to check it. Men shouted from the back where they could see nothing. Women nearer the front were crying openly now, wiping noses and cheeks with the ends of their veils before raising the same hands toward him.
The clergy waited at the doors in bright vestments that still smelled of cedar chests and smoke. The Patriarch stood at the center with a cross in one hand. Isidoros was two places down the line, hood back, his face drawn from lack of sleep. Just below them, where all could see her, Helena stood wrapped in dark cloth with a light veil pinned back from her hair. Thomas was beside her, his left arm close under the fold of his mantle. George and Andreas stood a step lower. Grgur and Fruzhin had been placed next them and slightly out: close enough for honor, but far enough back that no one could mistake whose blood stood nearest the door.
Constantine went first to Helena. He took her hands and bent to touch her cheek. Her fingers closed once on his wrist and let go. She did not look toward Thomas. Then he turned to his brother. They clasped forearms carefully, right hand to right hand. Thomas's mouth tightened, but he held. Andreas bowed. George lowered his head. Grgur did the same. Fruzhin went deeper than the rest.
The Patriarch stepped forward and raised the cross. Constantine kissed it. Then he turned and faced the square. The bells were still going and the shouting still rolled over the front ranks. He lifted one hand and waited. The noise fell away slowly, first near him and then farther back.
"Romans," he said, and waited until the front ranks carried it outward by silence. "Lift up your eyes and behold the victory God has granted. By blood and by faith, we have prevailed. Ieros Skopos!"
For a moment the square held, and then the cry broke over it. Men shouted until the words tore in their throats. Women crossed themselves and wept where they stood. The chant rose again from the rear, then the flanks, and then from everywhere at once as it rolled back over the files of spears.
"Ieros Skopos!"
"Constantine!"
"Ieros Skopos!"
The Patriarch moved aside and opened the way. Constantine turned back to the doors. Incense drifted out through them. He went in with Helena and Thomas behind him, the clergy closing around them, while the noise from the square followed under the dome, loud at the doors and thinner over the marble floor.