Constantinopolis (20 page)

“I see you ordered the fleet to attack Zaganos. Thank you, that was exactly my order.”

“I assumed as much my Lord. I kicked that fat Baltaoglu out of his tent and sent him after the Italians. He moved very quickly. I think you may have made your point with him the last time around!” Zaganos smirked.

“Do we know how many ships are out there?” asked the Sultan.

“Well as you can see, there appear only to be a few. I would think this is just a small enterprise, unless it is the vanguard of a larger fleet.”

Mehmet was greatly relieved, at least for now. This did not appear to be some great fleet with thousands of reinforcements. There might be a few hundred men aboard, and perhaps food and supplies, but nothing that could hold back his army if they were able to break through the walls. In addition, he saw real opportunity here. Just like the razing of the small castles in the first days of the siege had raised the morale of the land troops, so the destruction of these ships could serve a similar purpose. If his fleet could sink the enemy ships, particularly in full sight of Constantinople, he would strike a great blow to the morale of the Greeks, and restore his own men’s faith in the siege.

“What orders did you give Baltaoglu?” Mehmet asked anxiously.

“I ordered him to sink all of the ships before they gained the city. Was that incorrect Sultan?”

“No that is excellent. Good thinking Zaganos. Is there any chance they can escape us?”

“As you know, I really have no idea. But I cannot imagine how they would. I think you will have a victory today to celebrate.”

Mehmet was pleased and excited. He impatiently watched the loading of the ships. Men struggled in small groups to carry cannon onto the ships. Groups of soldiers, including Janissaries, were also boarding to supplement the compliment of sailors. The men were armed to the teeth with bows, spears, swords, and firearms. The Sultan shouted encouragement to the men and received confident cheers in return. Soon the majority of the ships were departing. Mehmet remounted his horse with Zaganos and his guard to find a place to watch the impending battle.

They rode together along the shore near the walls of Galata, moving as close as they could to the Golden Horn so they could observe the destruction of the fleet. They returned to the same point where they had previously observed the fleet on the high ground near the walls of Galata with a commanding view of the Golden Horn and the ships. They were close enough to the ships departing that Mehmet was able to shout orders to Baltaoglu as he floated by. “Take the ships Admiral or do not come back!” He received a grim bow in response.

The Italian galleys drew closer to the city. Mehmet was able to make out the red cross and white background of the city of Genoa. There were three merchant galleys and what appeared to be a heavy transport that flew the imperial double-headed eagle symbol of the Greeks. No additional ships had appeared on the horizon so Mehmet was satisfied that this small relief fleet was all that was coming at the present time.

As the Ottoman fleet moved out to meet the Italians, Mehmet could hardly contain himself. He had at least 100 ships heading out to intercept them. 100 against four. He looked out over the Horn to Constantinople. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people had gathered on rooftops and at the Acropolis and the crumbling Hippodrome to watch the relief fleet. His fleet would crush the Italians in full view of the city, and prove in no uncertain terms that it was impossible to reinforce the city. This victory was exactly what he needed to relieve the pressure from Halil and ensure the extension of the siege.

At mid-afternoon the fleets finally met. A single cannon shot quickly turned into dozens. The din of cannon fire and the screaming of men floated across the sea and could be heard clearly. Mehmet strained his eyes to see what was going on but it was difficult to make out the individual ships as they smashed together. He expected shouts of victory any moment.

As time passed however, he could make out the Genoese flags and see that these ships continued to sail toward the Horn, seemingly cutting through his fleet. The wind whipped in his face, it was blowing favorably for the Italians and Greeks, allowing the Genoese ships and the imperial transport to use their sails while the Ottomans had to rely on oar power. The ships kept coming, their speed under wind power allowing them to press through the Ottomans and the choppy water preventing Mehmet’s ships from closing quickly enough to board them.

Mehmet was furious. How could this be? All of the odds were in his favor. He had to crush these ships. If they were able to somehow get through, it would be a disaster for him personally, and for the morale of his men. What was this idiot Admiral getting at?

Then a miracle occurred. Mehmet could feel the wind slacken and then the air became entirely still. He could see the sails of the Frankish fleet falter and the ships slowed to a halt. They were quickly surrounded by Ottoman ships on all sides, that now could pull up closely and throw hooks, ropes and ladders aboard the ships.

The screaming and shouting increased. Mehmet could see the battle more closely now as the ships floated slowly toward the Horn. The Genoese ships sat higher up, with tall decks. This appeared to give the Italians an advantage as they battled with the Ottomans. Mehmet’s men were forced to climb upward in to a forest of shields and spears. Crossbowman hung from ropes and masts above, firing bolts into the Turks as they struggled to gain control of the ships. Cannon shot rained against the ships but seemed to have no effect.

Still there could be no doubt of the final decision. Without the wind the ships were surrounded. There were multiple Ottoman ships pressed against each ship of the enemy. Mehmet could see Turks battling with grappling hooks and with ladders, and there was fighting aboard at least two of the Italian ships. It would only be a matter of time before they were all captured. Capturing the ships was even better than sinking them. He would parade the provisions in front of the city and perhaps even impale another round of prisoners to reinforce his earlier point.

The ships battled for hours, floating ever closer to the Horn and to Mehmet. Baltaoglu’s ship, which was connected now along with a number of other Ottoman vessels to the imperial transport, had floated into earshot.

Mehmet spurred his horse down the hill and into the waters of the Bosporus. He wished he could ride out and take control of the battle. What was this fool of an admiral doing? He screamed commands at the flagship, ordering the admiral to take the ships now, threatening, encouraging. He felt a mixture of helplessness, anger and excitement. If he could only be on one of the ships. Why did he not board one this morning when he had had a chance? If he was on the Admiral’s ship, he would have already destroyed these Italians. His commander clearly did not know how to motivate his men. He was being failed again.

Still, it appeared Mehmet’s men would eventually succeed. Each ship was now completely surrounded and connected to multiple Ottoman ships. No ship had fallen yet but it could only be a matter of time. The Greeks and Italians were fighting courageously but they were taking casualties. The Ottomans were losing men too, but they had an almost endless supply of reinforcements and could rotate their ships out of the line and replace them with fresh warriors. Mehmet watched anxiously, his sword drawn, shouting his commands and straining to see which ship would surrender or fall first. Victory was his.

As the sun was setting, the wind began again. He could feel it in the water, beginning gently and picking up. Surely it was too late for the Italians to escape? He watched frantic activity on the enemy ships. Even as they continued to fight off the Ottomans, they also reset their sails, which were soon filled with wind. The ships began to pick up speed, slowly at first and then more quickly. The Italians concentrated on cutting the grappling ropes and soon they were breaking free from the tight mass of Ottoman ships. Mehmet screamed in anger, shouting at his men to stop the ships. There was nothing he could do the Italians were gradually pulling away, turning into the Horn toward the sea chain. Greek fire ships stood off the chain, ready to assist the fleet. Mehmet could hear the cheers rising from across the Golden Horn. The Greeks of Constantinople were celebrating. The Ottomans had failed.

Mehmet leapt off his horse and fell to his knees in the freezing surf, beating his fists against the sand and screaming. How could this happen! 100 ships to four. Thousands of men against a few hundred! How could Allah allow this? What curse was on him? What curse on his fleet? He had built this fleet so carefully. He had studied why his ancestors and others had failed to take the city. Sea power was one of the key factors. He had addressed it by building this great fleet to stop any relief force and to attack the sea walls.

But the fleet had proved an utter failure. First they had been denied access to the Horn by the sea chain. Now, and even more disastrous, a tiny fleet had outfought and outmaneuvered his ships, and saved the city. If four ships could defy him, what could 20 do? Perhaps destroy his fleet entirely! This fleet of four ships could not turn the tide, but certainly a larger fleet could. If he could not stop Constantinople from being relieved then his army would fail. He
had
failed. How could he continue the siege now? Halil had already exerted pressure this morning. Now the conditions were even worse. What should he do? Should he save his position and accept the peace terms? Then he would be even more under Halil’s thumb. He probably would have to dismiss Zaganos and the rest of his faction of ministers. He would become a puppet. But he would be alive. If he defied Halil now and continued the siege, he might be dead in a few days, perhaps even tonight.

This was Baltaoglu’s fault. He would kill this Bulgarian bastard with his own hands.

Mehmet looked out over the Golden Horn and watched the Greeks. They were cheering and clapping, even dancing in joy. He could see the happiness in every expression. His own people by contrast watched silently.

He had hoped for an easy victory to disillusion the Greeks and increase his own people’s morale. Instead he had been defeated with disastrous results. And now the failure of two days ago became even greater. Now his victories at the castles seemed shallow. He had been able to do nothing against the great city.

Instead, Constantine had defeated him at every turn. His great fleet was a failure. His cannon had proven some value but had failed to give him the city. His men had been unable to exploit the breach they were given. He did not have time for this! His father could afford months and nobody would complain. Nobody would have dared complain. But he was not given that luxury. His advisors circled him like vultures, ready to swoop down and destroy him the moment he was weak. And he was weak now. Weak because of this fool of an admiral.

He was so angry he could barely see. He mounted his horse and galloped along the Bosporus shore toward the fleet. He arrived back far ahead of the retreating ships and dismounted, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger while he awaited the return of his failed fleet. The ships seemed to take an eternity. The Sultan seethed, all he could think of was punishing this idiot for ruining all of his plans.

The ships moved closer, including the Admiral’s flagship. Mehmet could see Baltaoglu on the deck, he was carefully watching the Sultan. He must know what was coming.

The flagship finally docked and the Admiral jumped down and immediately fell to his knees with his head facing the down and his arms out touching the ground in abject prostration.

Mehmet rushed forward screaming and delivered a kick to his head. The Bulgarian fell over hard, crashing against the ground and rocking back and forth in pain. Mehmet turned to one of his guards. “Impale this dog!” He commanded. “He failed me and has embarrassed us before the Greeks! Let everyone see the price of failure!”

“My Lord, surely you will not kill him.” Mehmet was surprised to hear the voice of Halil. When had the Grand Vizier arrived? “I would ask that you spare his life at least.”

Mehmet glared at Halil and thoughts raced through him. He wanted to kill Baltaoglu here and now with his own hands. Could he kill both of them before anyone attempted to intervene? He raised his weapon to strike but Halil stepped quickly in between with his hands raised. “No Sultan. Please. I ask you to spare his life.”

What should he do? He started to calm down, forcing himself to think. He was not sure why the Grand Vizier would care one way or another about Baltaoglu but was there an opportunity here. If he spared the Admiral then Halil would be in his debt. Perhaps that would give him a few more days. He needed time. He needed it more than he needed the head of this fool. He hesitated a moment longer and then decided.

“For you my Grand Vizier I will spare his life. But do not forget this favor.” He turned to Baltaoglu. “You are hereby stripped of all titles, lands, and money. You will be lashed 100 times here and now. Then you will be assigned as a slave to one of your ships as an oarsmen.”

Mehmet kicked the admiral again then stepped away. His guards rushed forward and seized Baltaoglu. They dragged him screaming to a wooden pylon that had been driven in to the ground near the beach to temporarily anchor ships. The guards lashed his hands to the pole and then ripped off his shirt, exposing his bare back.

A particularly strong Janissary came forward, holding a menacing horse-whip. He pulled the whip backward and then quickly forward, lashing Baltaoglu’s back. The former admiral screamed, his entire body going rigid. A red mark appeared across his back, and quickly filled with blood. Another lash. A second mark formed and Baltaoglu writhed in agony. A third lash and the Bulgarian passed out, his knees buckling to the ground. Mehmet stood still with Halil beside him, and watched all 100 lashes administered. Mehmet did not enjoy the blood, or the wretched tatters of skin that were all that remained of the admiral’s back. But this served its purpose. Halil was visibly sickened and upset. Their ride back to the city walls was quiet. Mehmet hoped he had made his point.