Constantinopolis (28 page)

“Well Loukas, I’m glad we had a chance to catch up. I am sure you need to get back to the fleet. I have a meeting to try to sort out this dreadful Italian crisis.”

Notaras laughed. “I am sure you will do fine with that My Lord. The Italians would not be Italians if they were not at each others’ throats. They bluster far more than they act.”

“Yes, but they do act at times, and when they do, it is not always in our interest. Take care my friend, I will see you soon.”

At dusk, Constantine mounted and left the palace with an escort of his personal guards. He was now traveling with more armed men, both for personal security and to assist as an extra reserve force. In the past he had frequently traveled alone, or with one or two guards. Recently he had found he felt less secure for some reason. The city seemed more dangerous. He was not sure why he had this feeling, but he had changed the orders and now he typically had twenty-five armed men with him whenever he set out.

He made his way slowly through the city, the cannon booming in the background periodically, an almost constant noise since the siege began. He nodded to greetings from citizens and kept an eye on the condition of the city as he made his way to St. Sophia.

At the porch of the great cathedral, he was greeted by Giovanni representing the Genoese faction in the city and also by Girolamo Minotto, the Venetian Bailey. The Bailey was
a
tall, fair skinned Italian in his late thirties. He had a graying beard and wore black robes with a heavy circular medallion containing the symbol of St. Mark. There were also several representatives from other Italian cities including Naples and the Catalan Company.

The assembled men bowed when Constantine entered. He then asked the Bailey to explain Venice’s position.

“Thank you my Lord. I must lodge a complaint in the strongest form. We have suffered enough insults at the hands of these Genoans, and the rest. I certainly understand that some Venetian sailors disobeyed orders. . .”

“Disobeyed so they could run when the city falls!” interrupted Giovanni.

The Bailey spit on the ground, “That is what I speak of!”

“Venetians have already fled the city. What have the Genoans done? I came to the city. We have sent the only reinforcements the city has received. All you Venetians do is whine about your contributions, while you are probably negotiating with the Sultan to quit the city. Is that why you will not leave your ships?”

“How dare you! We have fought hard and true. We have not betrayed Constantinople. But we will not stay and fight where our help is not wanted!” The Bailey turned to walk away.

“Enough!” shouted Constantine. “I have never accused you of cowardice or duplicity.”

“Your Commander does!”

“He does not speak for me in this thing.”

“Then why did you appoint a Genoan in the first place?”

“Come now. This situation has nothing to do with favoritism. Giovanni’s reputation preceded him. I have a Scot defending us from a tunnel attack right now. Do I favor Scotland? I had not heard of it before I was introduced, I had to look the place up. It sounds dreadful by the way. We have all managed for years to get along well enough, even with all of your rivalries and infighting that I have never been able to understand. I do not need Genoan more than Venetian, nor vice versa. Do I even have to tell you all this? I desperately need you all. We do not have enough men by far to defend this city. We all know this. Can we afford to strip the walls further? And for what, for petty squabbling? Come now, let us shake hands and be friends again.”

The Bailey stared hard at Giovanni. “I will not be the first to do it, I did not cause this.”

“Nor I.”

Constantine sighed, he grabbed the hands of both men and pulled them together. They shook hands, hesitantly at first and then firmly.

“There we have it. Now we can return to our present problems, which are desperate enough indeed. Gentleman, I must be frank with you about our situation. Our men have been thinned out by the fighting to the point that I do not know if we can repel another attack. Fortunately, it appears that the Ottomans are waiting to breach multiple locations at the same time. Several times now in the last few days they have blown a single hole in the wall, but they have not attacked us. As you know, most of these attacks have focused on the Charisius gate and the Romanus gate, which they apparently believe is the weak point in our defenses. What I do not know how to deal with is if they do break through at several points, if they . . .”

“My Lord!”

Constantine looked up, a messenger had arrived, sweaty and red faced. “My Lord, the Ottomans are attacking!”

“Attacking where? Have they broken through?”

“Near the palace Sire, near the Regia gate.”

“They blew a hole in the wall near the palace?” The Ottomans had not concentrated any fire on the portion of the wall near the palace. Constantine did not even understand how they could have moved their cannon into place quickly enough to mount an attack without his knowledge.

“No My Lord. They have stormed the wall with ladders. There are thousands of them against the wall! We are fighting as hard as we can but I do not know what has happened. I was sent to find you and Giovanni as quickly as possible.”

Constantine looked at Giovanni for a moment, then he yelled at his men to follow and sprinted out with Giovanni close behind. He mounted quickly and took off at a gallop toward the land walls, not even bothering to insure his men were following. He thundered through the dark streets. The din of battle, which started as a whisper, grew into a thunderous roar.

He arrived to a nightmare. He was stunned. There were Turks everywhere, hundreds of them, battling in the streets of Constantinople. Greeks were screaming and running in every direction, including some soldiers who were dropping their weapons and fleeing the scene. He could hear screams that the city was lost.

Was all lost? Should he turn his horse and flee? No! His internal voice screamed to him. He must stay and fight. He turned and quickly found Giovanni, who was ashen faced and motionless, as if he did not know what to do.

“Giovanni!” he screamed. “Rally your men, battle to the left, I will take care of the right!” He screamed at his guards to join them.

They charged on horseback into a line of Ottomans. Constantine raised his sword and swung down hard, hacking off the hand of a Janissary that was reaching up to grab his reigns. A spear flew past his head, only inches away. He swung his sword left and right, cutting off the arm of one and slashing the face of another.

He was probably only moments from death. He knew it, but it did not cause him fear. All of the loss and fear and disappointment was leaving him. He felt a strange peace. He called to his guards who were battling with him. They drove the first line of Turks back, but so many more were coming.

On and on he battled in the darkness. He was cut on his arm and face, superficial cuts, or at least he hoped so. He felt so much power rushing through him. Time had slowed down. There was no more Constantinople, no more empire, just now, this moment. His horse was killed beneath him and he crashed to the ground but he killed his attacker and found his feet, and continued to battle.

Hours passed, or maybe days, he could not tell. The rush of excitement was fading away, he felt more and more exhausted. Still the Turks rushed forward and still he fought them back. He waited for a sword, or a musket to end his life but so far it had not come. He did not fear death, he was merely curious that he was still alive.

He realized it was beginning to grow lighter. He had fought all night. He glanced around and saw that there were still a few guards with him, battling the Turks. He did not know whether the rest lived or died. The Ottomans were not rushing in anymore. He observed that the tempo of the fight had slowed gradually. He dispatched another Turk and nobody appeared in front of him. He attacked a soldier who was pressing one of his guards and stabbed him in the back. The soldier dropped to the ground, screaming, and the imperial guard stabbed him in the heart. Constantine looked up, there were no more Ottomans near him. The din of battle had faded away. The streets were filled with bodies of the dead and the groans and screams of the wounded. Blood ran through the streets like a river.

Constantine walked wearily toward the wall. He could not believe it. Somehow the Turks had gone. How could that be the case? There had been hundreds over the wall, maybe more than a thousand. They had caught the Greeks totally by surprise, attacking with ladders instead of waiting for a breach, and attacking a portion of the wall that they had previously ignored.

Constantine fell to his knees and gave thanks to God. If ever he had doubted the existence of God, this miracle had convinced him. Constantinople had been saved somehow. Surely this would be enough for Mehmet. Surely he would leave the city now, when even this gamble had failed. Constantine felt a hand on his back. He looked up and saw Giovanni, bruised, cut, exhausted, but still alive. The Genoan grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. They looked at each other for long moments and then embraced, clasping each other on the back, sharing this miraculous victory.

As they laughed and shared stories of the battle, John Grant arrived. “I have news My Lord, we have captured one of the enemy engineers. Under torture he has revealed the location of the remaining tunnels. We can destroy them now.”

More good news. Surely from God also. Constantine thanked Grant and walked with Giovanni slowly up the stairs of one of the towers on the inner wall. After the steep climb he looked out over the city. A huge area near the palace was covered in smoke and the waste of battle. There were bodies everywhere, mostly Turks. Constantine turned and looked out past the walls. The Ottomans had pulled back to their tents. It was quiet. Even the cannon had stopped. He could almost feel the dejection of his enemies. Let them despair. Thank you God, my father. Let them leave.

SUNDAY, MAY 20, 1453

Mehmet knelt praying alone in his tent. Allah had abandoned him. He would be the fool again, the laughing stock of the world. Surely Halil was already gathering his support. He would be there at his tent, perhaps even with armed guards, demanding he surrender his title. But this time Murad would not be there to protect him. His father could not come back and rule again. He was gone. Halil would be forced to kill the Sultan. He had no other choice if he wanted to take power. Mehmet felt for his dagger. He would not surrender lightly. He would take lives. If Halil was foolish enough to come within his range, he would kill his Grand Vizier first, and at least have the satisfaction of watching him die before he himself was beheaded or strangled. He relished the thought of plunging his dagger deep into Halil’s chest.

He heard a stirring at the door of his tent. He pulled his dagger out halfway and turned quickly. Halil did not stand at his door. It was Zaganos.

Zaganos greeted him, bowing. Was it to be his friend striking the first blow after all? Had he made a deal with Halil to somehow save his own life? Still Mehmet could not believe that was the case. Zaganos would back his leader to the death. He would never back Halil, unless of course he planned to become Sultan himself? Was such a thing possible? Certainly Zaganos was a popular soldier, but he would be even more objectionable to Halil and the old guard than Mehmet. He could still trust his friend, as much as he could ever trust anyone. He looked up and smiled grimly, although he did not remove his hand from his dagger.

“Well my friend, have you come for my head?” he joked. His whole body was tense, ready to spring if necessary.

“What? Don’t be absurd my Lord. You may have cause to fear Halil, and given the circumstance, those fears are not to be treated lightly, but you have and never will have anything to fear from me.”

“I jest with you. But joking aside, what shall we do? Build more tunnels to be buried? More ships to be sunk? Or perhaps another failure at the wall? This city curses me as it cursed my father and all our people. Why can we not take it? Perhaps we are made to suffer by Allah for all of our stupidity, our arrogance? Is this possible?”

“I do not see why we would be punished?”

“Do you not? We have split our faith. Our rulers have squabbled over territory and power, and we fight among ourselves instead of conquering the infidels. Maybe that is why we fail?”

“And the Christians are better? They cannot unite to even save themselves, let alone to conquer. They are fading, dying. Constantinople is but an example of the sickness in all of them. Do not worry my Lord, the city will eventually fall, and eventually all of Christianity with it.”

Mehmet caught Zaganos’s emphasis on
eventually
. He did not believe in the attack anymore either. The Sultan felt suddenly tired, and terribly alone. He had had enough. Now he just wanted to end this all and be safe.

“Halil is right. We should never have come here. Not now, perhaps not never. This entire venture has used up half of my father’s treasury, thousands of men, and for what? We cannot take the city. I cannot bear this anymore Zaganos. Help me. I do not want to be killed. Is it too late to leave the city and keep my throne? I just want it all to end.”

Zaganos was clearly taken aback. Mehmet knew he had opened himself up in a way he had never done before. It had been years since he told anyone his true feelings. He did not care anymore. It was already too late, and at the end, he felt only fear and pity for himself. He had come so close, but he had failed.

Zaganos sat for long minutes without responding. Finally he spoke.

“I believe, My Lord, there is one more great assault in the men. They are tired and dejected, but they are not ready to leave yet. I think we can maneuver one more attack.”

Mehmet had not expected this. He had expected Zaganos to tell him how to leave the city with honor, or to tell him it was too late. He felt a ray of hope with his older friend’s support, support he no longer expected to receive.

“What is your advice?”

“Let the men rest for a week or so. They are exhausted from the constant attacks. In the meantime, keep up the bombardments and also use the fleet to keep the Greeks busy. This will exhaust them while we rebuild our strength. At the end of this time call a council with Halil. Avoid him in the meantime. At the council, listen to his advice. He will advise that you lift the siege and make the best possible deal with Constantine for tribute. Instead, I advise that you suggest one more massive attack. If it fails we will leave. He will not expect you to agree with him. Your offer of one more attack will seem reasonable to his allies, they will be forced to accept it. If the attack fails, you will have agreed to do what Halil wants, and likely he will be unable to do anything to you. We will also use this time to prepare your internal defenses, extra guards, weapons, etc. We should be able to fight off any sudden attack on you.”