Constantinopolis (3 page)

Mehmet sat in the blackness in impotent rage. Why was he not loved and trusted like his father? Was he not Allah’s shadow on earth? Was he not ordained to lead his people in triumph against the infidels? Why did his father place him in charge before his time?

Could he even trust Zaganos? He seemed to be on his side but so had Halil before he betrayed him and sent for Murad again. He could trust no one. He must rely only on himself. He could use Zaganos and count him as a supporter. However, he must never trust another again. They must all be watched, spied on, checked on.

Mehmet felt himself boiling up again. They would pay. All of those who had laughed at him, threatened him, who had sat smugly on the sidelines while he lost his throne and was sent away in humiliation. First he must obtain true freedom of action. The key to his freedom was taking the city. He must convince the council to allow him to proceed with his plans.

As for Halil, he may have felt he won and stopped Mehmet’s plans. He was wrong. The council had presented their concerns. The council feared the walls, the sea, and western aid. They did not believe the city could be taken because of these problems. Mehmet believed in one thing. He believed in himself and his destiny. If the council needed assurances to proceed then with the help of Allah he would answer these fears, and he would lead his people in his rightful destiny.

He spent the night in the darkness, in prayer, and contemplating the solutions to these seemingly impossible obstacles.

With the dawn, he rose and pulled out a number of maps, spreading them out on the floor. One particular map, inherited from his father, was immense. The map showed the city and the immediate surrounding area. He paced back and forth over the map, studying the lay of the land, the surrounding seas, and the ever-imposing sea walls. He would take the city. He just had to decide how to convince the council. He wasn’t sure how to accomplish that yet, but he was beginning to formulate some plans.

One thing he knew for sure, he would keep these foolish Greeks busy while he made his decision.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1452

Constantine wept. He wept quietly, facing away from the city and looking out over the broad blue expanse of the Sea of Marmara to his right and the Bosporus Sea to his left. From the heights of the extreme northeast corner of Constantinople, near the ancient Acropolis, Constantine could survey the waters leading both directions into the ancient city, meeting at the end of the peninsula and flowing into the natural harbor of the Golden Horn.

Constantine XI Palaiologos, Greek Emperor, successor of the Roman Emperors, was in his late middle age, having turned 48 in the past year. His black hair was peppered with grey now, his beard even more so. He was tall, well built and still in excellent physical condition. His face was careworn. The weight of the world had sat on him for too long.

As he looked out over the serene waters of the Bosporus, gateway to the Black Sea beyond, he felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the impossibilities before him. He ruled an empire that had once encompassed all of the Mediterranean and in ancient times, when the seat of power was Rome itself, had ruled most of Europe as well. Now the empire, if it could be called that, extended barely beyond the walls of the city. Constantine could claim to rule a few scattered islands in the Mediterranean, the Peloponnesus, and a few villages and fortresses near the city itself.

Constantinople itself was a mere shadow of its former self. Built by the Roman Emperor Constantine in 330 AD, on top of the ancient Greek city of Byzantium, the city became the capital of the eastern half of the Roman Empire. After the fall of western half of the empire, Constantinople carried on the legacy of Rome. With a population of more than 500,000, the city was the largest and most opulent in the Christian world for a thousand years.

The city and the empire fell into decline gradually, and in the thirteenth century Constantinople was captured and sacked by crusaders from Europe who were supposed to be attacking Egypt but were diverted to the city by the Doge of Venice. The Latins controlled the city until 1260, when it was recovered. However, Constantinople never truly rose again. The city was a ghost town, with fewer than 100,000 inhabitants and the vast wealth of the city stripped and carted off to Venice and the west. Constantine wondered what it would have been like to rule during the Golden Age of his empire, with a bursting city and legions of warriors to command.

What would his life have been like if he wasn’t constantly having to scrounge and beg for a few resources to battle the impossibly powerful Ottomans? Would he hold his borders or expand? Build up the treasury? Build great works in the city? He often dreamed of leading the once great empire of the Romans and the Greeks, not the feeble shadow over which he presided.

How much longer could he hold on to even these remaining scraps? His few territories were surrounded for hundreds of miles in each direction by the tremendously powerful Ottomans. He was forced into the humiliation of serving as a vassal to the Ottoman Sultan, and paying a tribute each year for the protection of the Ottomans, a tribute he could not afford and that made it impossible for him to invest in food stores, or arms, or to hire mercenaries, or even to perform the necessary maintenance to the essential city walls. What hope did he have to change anything? He was doomed. His city was doomed. Rome would finally fade into the oblivion of the past.

Constantine felt a hand on his shoulder. A gentle but firm grasp from slender fingers. He turned and smiled. Zophia was here. He looked into her dark eyes, smiling at her youthful, beautiful face and long black hair. Zophia, his love. A daughter of nobility, she was only 24, but so wise. Wise and beautiful. She smiled too, just for him. Knowing. Understanding. Caring.

“Do not weep Lord. I know you weep for our city, for our people. Do not weep Lord. God will protect us. You will protect us. You have always protected us.”

Constantine felt her warmth flow over and through him. He closed his eyes as she embraced him. He felt immediately calm. He felt the warm day, the sound of birds singing nearby and the rustle of the light wind against the trees. He always noticed the little things when he was with Zophia. All the problems of the world would flow out of him. She could always keep the world away, if just for a little while. She was so beautiful. Not tall, yet her powerful presence made her seem taller. She had dark long hair and skin as pale as marble. She was dressed in light blue robes flowing down to delicate sandals on her slender feet.

How could this young woman have such an effect on him? No person ever had before, woman or man. Constantine prided himself on his control, his ability to keep his emotions in check, and to present a strong leadership persona to his people, even to his close friends. He had developed this talent during his exceptionally difficult youth and early adulthood, when he was constantly at risk of kidnapping and even death—not only from the Ottomans, but even from his own brothers, who constantly conspired for the throne.

Somehow Zophia saw through all this. Even worse, he couldn’t seem to even make the effort to try to present this front to her. After she mocked him a few times, he gave up trying to do so. Now he craved the moments when he could be alone with her and let down, let her cradle his head and tell him it would be all right. He knew this peace could not last forever. He was pushed from every direction to marry, marry quickly, and marry for the greatest possible political advantage. The city needed allies, allies that could provide money and troops to defend against the Ottoman attack that must come at any time—that was threatened and had been constantly attempted for more than a century.

Already Constantine had received marriage feelers from several eastern kingdoms, including Trebizond and Georgia, concerning potential princesses for his consideration. He knew that eventually he would have to give up his darling Zophia. He could not bear to think about it. He would enjoy her, breathe her in, experience every part of her, until he was forced to let her go. They had discussed his fate many times. She did not like it, did not agree that it was worth compromising for a few soldiers or a little gold. This topic provided their only source of conflict, the first scars in an otherwise perfect relationship. Eventually they stopped talking about the issue. Their love was like the city itself: ignoring grim realities and holding on until whatever inevitable end God had in store.

For now, for this moment, it was only Zophia. Zophia and his city. The two things in the world he lived for and would die for. They mounted their horses and rode through the city, trailed at a discreet distance by Constantine’s personal guard. They rode down the gently sloping hill of the acropolis, past the crumbling palaces of the former emperors to the Goth’s column and then to the sea wall itself. The sea wall of Constantinople, a single but formidable barrier wrapped continuously around three sides of the peninsula, connecting finally with the massive triple Theodosian land walls.

They rode west above the sea wall, along the Golden Horn, passing the two inner walled harbors of the city. They could look out north across the Horn, barely 500 yards to the walled independent city of Galata, granted to the Genoese in 1273 by the Greek Emperor. Galata was much smaller than Constantinople but contained an important port and the stunning rounded tower
Christea Turris
(Tower of Christ), which dominated the skyline, built in the fourteenth century. Most of the sea trade now stopped at Galata instead of Constantinople, except for the portion that interacted primarily with the Venetians in the city. The Greeks had lost their commercial power with the decline of the empire itself. They still had a few ships plying the waters of the Mediterranean and Black Sea, but they had been first challenged, then completely surpassed, by the Italian city-states.

This loss of sea trade further weakened the city, as there was only a trickle of new money into Constantinople. This meager income hardly paid the cost to feed the city, and left nothing for building new ships, paying soldiers, or maintaining the vital sea and land walls.

They continued riding west, coming to the
Hagia Theodosia
, a lesser but important church nestled near the sea walls. They then entered the Petrion district of the city, where Zophia’s home was located.

Zophia lived in a simple house near the middle of the district. At one point this area had bustled with homes and population, but now there were abandoned buildings and open fields everywhere. Zophia’s home was covered in foliage and a large gated courtyard, affording her and Constantine privacy and the ability to come and go without constant attention. The home was built of sandstone and was large but one story. The interior was warm with furs and carpets spread liberally around the floors and warm fireplaces kept constantly stoked by Zophia’s servants. Constantine loved Zophia’s home, a retreat away from the busy demands of his office.

They had dinner within, protected from the eyes and sounds of the city. They drank wine near the warm fire, holding each other, enjoying each other’s comfort and support. Usually they talked about the day, or Constantine would share his frustrations or concerns but tonight they say quietly, thoughtfully. They kissed deeply and fell among the blankets, making love, more desperately and passionately than usual. They both sensed something coming, something they could not predict and could not control.

As the city fell into twilight they could linger no longer. Today had been a beautiful day of peace. A perfect day. A rare day without all of the busy details of the city and the empire raining down on Constantine.

As they lay in each other’s arms, in the darkness and the flickering firelight, they heard a hard banging on the front door. Constantine dressed quickly and drew his sword. He did not keep a constant guard when he traveled the city. His people loved him and trusted him, but there was always the possibility of an assassin. He cautiously opened the door and smiled. It was Sphrantzes.

George Sphrantzes wore simple courtier clothing with no armor. He was short and thin, almost frail, with brown hair and blue eyes. He looked older than his 42 years, his face weathered with worry. He smiled crookedly to his Emperor and nodded to Zophia in the background.

Constantine laughed and welcomed Sphrantzes in, clapping him on the back and joked with him. “Well my friend, so nice of you to visit today. Perhaps tomorrow would have suited as well. I am trying to enjoy a day of relaxation as I think you can see.”

Sphrantzes did not return his smile. He seemed to hesitate and then began. “My lord, it is grave news.”

“What sort of news?” asked Zophia.

Sphrantzes glanced at Zophia. “My Lord, perhaps this should be news that I give you alone.”

“I trust Zophia with everything,” said Constantine, slightly annoyed. “Tell me what’s going on?”

“It is both fact and rumor. The first is terrible and the second worse.”

“Do not be afraid, Sphrantzes,” assured Constantine. “I have known little in the way of happy news my whole life. We shall deal with this news as we have all tragedies. Tell me what it is.”

“My lord, just this morning a Venetian vessel was passing through the straights in the Bosporus, past the Turkish forts
Rumelihisari
and
Anadoluhisari.
As you know, we have heard rumor that the Ottomans are demanding that each ship stop to be inspected and to pay a fine. The Venetian Captain, an Antonio Rizzo, decided he would not be forced to obey such an arrogant request from the infidels. He sailed through without stopping for payment. The Ottomans fired on the ship, my lord, and sank it.”

Constantine was shaken. He was aware of this ship, which was bound for the city with food and supplies from the Black Sea ports. These supplies were critical to the city that had so few remaining farms or villages to support it. Constantine looked over at Zophia, who stared back with an understanding sadness. Calm. The situation demanded calm and confidence, even among such close friends. He smiled and raised both his hands palm outward and gently lowered them as if he could defuse the situation with this simple gesture.