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sceptically. ‘Fifteen, sir. Fifteen next month.’
    ‘You are very far from home, William. How is it that you came to be in Constantinople?’
    ‘We sailed looking for spices, but our ship was captured by Turks. I was brought here to be sold as a slave.’
    ‘I see. Can you fight?’
    William nodded. ‘I can hold my own with a dagger.’
    ‘Can you, now?’ Longo pulled a dagger from his belt and tossed it to William, who caught it deftly.
    ‘The life of my men is not an easy one, William,’ Longo warned him. ‘We fight many battles, and we are often on the move. I will not lie to you: you are not likely to live to an old age. But if you do live, then there is glory to be won in battle against the Turks. What do you say?’
    ‘I hate the Turks. They killed my uncle and my shipmates. They beat and sold me. I will fight them gladly.’
    ‘Very well.’ Longo took William’s arm and clasped him by the elbow. ‘You are my man.’ Longo turned to shout to Tristo, who was standing some twenty feet away, his arm around a rather buxom woman selling bread. ‘Tristo! Come here.’
    Tristo kissed the woman he was holding on the cheek, while his hand slipped from her waist to her bottom. ‘Sorry, love,’ he told her. He gave her bottom a squeeze, and then ducked away before she could slap him. He approached Longo with a grin on his face. ‘What is it? She was just about to ask me home.’
    ‘Tristo, this is William, a new recruit.’
    ‘Glad to have you with us, boy,’ Tristo said, and he slapped William on the back so hard that the boy stumbled and almost fell.
    ‘Tristo will take care of you, William,’ Longo said. ‘And your task is to keep Tristo out of trouble. He’s a little too fond of women and dice. Can I rely on you?’ William nodded, and Longo turned back to Tristo. ‘Take him to the ship and prepare to sail. We leave tonight.’
    ‘Where will you be?’
    ‘At the royal palace. I should pay my respects to the empress-mother. With the emperor dead, she may have need of our services.’
    Sofia stood at the window of her bedroom within the women’s quarters of the Blachernae Palace and looked out at the market square beyond the palace courtyard. The view – normal people going about their lives – had always comforted her, but it could not do so now. Many of the people she saw were dressed in black, returning her thoughts to the grim events of the past few days. It was less than a week since the funeral of Emperor John VIII, and her future and the future of the empire were both uncertain. Constantine, the eldest of John’s brothers, was far away in Mistra, at the heart of the Peloponnesian peninsula. The second brother, Thomas, was rumoured to be closer. As for Demetrius, the youngest and most ambitious of the three, nobody knew where he was.
    The sound of a horse’s hooves interrupted Sofia’s thoughts, and she looked out to see a man approaching the palace. He was tall and rode with a warrior’s ease, a sword swinging at his side. His hair was light and even from a distance Sofia could see that he was not Greek. He was a Latin, perhaps northern Italian, Sofia guessed as the man drew nearer. He was strikingly handsome, but hard, too. There was something about his face, the grim set of his lips … her uncle’s face had been like that.
    Who was he? she wondered. The Italian ambassadors had already been to the palace, expressing their grief at the death of the emperor and making empty promises of assistance. This Italian would not be coming on behalf of Genoa or Venice. Why, then? Sofia watched him enter the palace courtyard and dismount. She prayed that he was not bringing more bad news.
    The Italian looked up suddenly, and his gaze landed on Sofia in her tower room. Their eyes met, and he did not look away. Sofia stepped back from the window and drew the curtain shut. When she looked out again, the Italian had gone.
    ‘Count Giovanni Giustiniani Longo of Genoa and Chios.’
    Longo followed