A Place Called Armageddon (45 page)

The Scotsman’s next words were clear – and sad. ‘No point,’ he said, ‘for I used up the last of the fuel for my Greek Fire. I hope it was worth it.’

‘It was,’ Gregoras replied, ‘for you have slain the Heleopolis. It will take no city.’ He sighed. ‘And we will just have to find other ways to save Constantinople now.’

–
PART THREE
–

Omega

–
TWENTY-EIGHT
–

Messages

23 May: forty-seventh day of the siege

The Man with Long Sight was still at his post atop the Golden Gate.

It had been over a month since he was the first in the city to spy the four Christian ships and cry out their coming, to the pealing of bells and universal joy. A month of less and less sleep, as the Turkish guns fired through the night and the enemy launched attack after attack against the walls. A month when the bread ration was halved, then halved again, and the bread came ever thicker with sawdust. He’d been sick, too. A rat had bitten him in a tussle over a fallen crust, and though he had killed the rat and roasted it for his supper – the last meat he’d had, two weeks since – the nip it had given him had festered and brought a fever. He’d only just returned to his post and his eyesight was not what it was. Half the time he was squinting at the horizon, he forgot what he was meant to be looking for.

So it took him a while, to turn the sails into something other than birds or dust motes. It was a dull early evening, with thunderclouds building to the west, so the sun was not glinting on the Sea of Marmara and for once he was able to stare with eyes near full open. He assumed that it was just another enemy vessel, since they ruled the waters. Until the ship tacked and swung side on to him and he was able to note that it had not one mast but two, the smaller foremast square-set, the larger main mast rigged fore and aft.

‘Brigantine,’ he whispered, but only to himself. He had made mistakes before in his delirium, laid himself open to ridicule. Besides, there was one particular brigantine he was watching for, the one that the emperor had dispatched to search for the relieving fleet. It would fly the enemy’s red crescent, as it had when it set out, to try and deceive the watchful Turks. But it would unfurl a white sheet over its gunwales when it came in sight of the city, as a signal to the defenders to prepare to admit it.

The man waited, watched, prayed. He could see it quite clearly now, his eyesight improving with his hope. See the men on deck in the turban and robe of the Turk. See the barefoot sailors in the rigging, adding more sail to catch the
lodos
wind that had blown them from the Dardanelles. See, finally, the white sheet lowered on the larboard side, thrown out casually as if shaking it clear of crumbs. ‘Lieutenant,’ he called, and had to call again, his voice a dry whisper.

The officer came slowly up the stair, ducking into the shelter of a crenel – there were Turks who would shoot an arrow as soon as they caught the glint of armour. ‘Well?’ he rasped.

‘It is the one,
kyr
.’

‘You are sure?’

The sentinel nodded. ‘See for yourself.’

The lieutenant bent, peered, rubbed his eyes, peered again. His sight was not as keen, but the vessel was moving closer fast and he could make out the details. ‘Alone,’ he muttered, rubbing his untrimmed beard. ‘Where’s the fleet it’s supposed to bring?’ He pointed his finger at the other man. ‘Not a word,’ he said, and went back down the stair.

Slumping into the stonework, the Man with Long Sight closed his eyes. He could do with some sleep, now his job was done. No bells would disturb it; this discovery would not be greeted in joyful carillons as before. For the moment, only two men knew that the ship had returned. The other, whose footsteps were still upon the stair, would ride straight to the emperor and tell him in person. A few more would then be told, but only those needed to raise the boom for the messengers. Then, depending on the message, the bells would ring of approaching salvation and many more Christian ships to come. Or they would remain untolled, and Constantinople would face its fate silently, and alone.

Gregoras rubbed his eyes and looked around the table again. The faces of the men at it, awake or asleep, had become a little clearer. He knew this could have nothing to do with his senses, as dulled by the night’s debates as any there. Glancing up to the windows, he saw them etched now in light, and then, as if in confirmation of the hour, he heard the bells of the monastery of Manuel, the nearest of the religious houses, summoning the monks to dawn prayer.

He looked back. The sleepers were mainly elderly and had dropped off in order of age – the Castilian Don Francisco had been the first, rapidly followed by the emperor’s older advisers – George Sphrantzes, John of Dalmata, Loukas Notaras. The clerics had followed, Leonard and Isidore, then Minotto, the Venetian baillie. Last was the Commander himself, Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, whose vehemence had kept him awake even though he was as old as most there. It was hard to tell he slept, as his head rested on one enormous hand and one eye was half open. But Gregoras had seen him sleep thus on their many campaigns together, snatching moments to fuel the next bout of fighting. He would be awake the moment he was called, sword in his hand a moment later.

Sleep was a dream, the temptation to rest his head almost overpowering. Gregoras did not, for two reasons: the only other men still awake. His emperor. And his own brother.

Constantine had perhaps slept less than any man in the city for weeks now … because it was
his
city. It was he who had led the debates that raged through the night, ever since the captain of the brigantine had been brought before the Council at midnight to tell his sad tale. He who had maintained, with all his quiet dignity, that whatever choices were made, surrendering Constantinople to the Turk was not, could not, be one of them. How it was to be saved, what options military, religious, logistical, all those he would listen to. And somehow he had kept his temper while others repeatedly lost theirs and accused their fellows of lack of true faith, of true courage, of true loyalty; while Papist denounced Orthodox, Venetian insulted Genoan, most despised the Greeks. Gregoras had, in his heart, always thought that Constantine was competent and no more. But he had seen the man grow with his mission. Not puffed with arrogance. Filled with his inheritance. He had been placed there at this time of crisis to do all that he could. And he would do it.

More than his emperor, the other man awake was the real reason Gregoras could not sleep – for how could he close his eyes before his brother? Theon sat opposite him, barely glanced at him, never spoke to him. Indeed neither of the Lascaris said much. They were not leaders in the defence – but they would put the decisions made by the leaders into effect. Yet as the night slipped towards dawn, Gregoras found that he was staring more and more at his twin, almost daring him to look up, to meet his gaze, to see the questions in his eyes, perhaps to read the truth there. Exhaustion, and the realisation that the siege was approaching its climax, that all their fates would be decided in the next few days, was making Gregoras reckless. He wanted to reach across the table, snap his fingers beneath his brother’s eyes, force them to meet his and say, ‘Your son is mine. Your wife still loves me. And I am going to take them back.’ Amidst all the long night’s talk of the crisis that approached, of no rescue fleet on the horizon and the failure of Pope and kings to come to the city’s aid, of a defence stretched to breaking point and an enemy that would not stop, this had become the most important thing: to claim what was his again. To defeat not the Turk, but his own brother.

Perhaps he would have done it, in the silence that followed Constantine’s last, quiet vow to continue when all around him stopped, if it hadn’t been broken instead by the opening of the hall’s door once more, and the entrance of the steward, who stared in some surprise at a table of largely sleeping men before approaching the emperor, bowing, whispering in his ear, handing him a scroll. Constantine broke the seal, rubbed his eyes, read. ‘You were right, Theon Lascaris,’ he said. ‘If the sultan did not already know by his own intelligence that Christendom has forsaken us, he has learned of it through ours. But I marvel. Was it ten hours ago that the brigantine docked? Can rumours truly spread so fast?’

‘They can,
basileus
.’ Theon shook his head. ‘Though the sailors were commanded to silence, yet they are men. They will have told their families, who would have told their neighbours, who would have told the shopkeepers, who would have told the Genoan merchants from Galata who supply them … who supply the Turks as readily as they do us. More readily, since the Turks have more gold.’ He sighed. ‘And may I ask how you know that Mehmet knows already, sire?’

Constantine raised the cone of paper. ‘Because he says so here. As a brother sovereign, he is sorry for my disappointment. But to cheer me he has sent me an emissary – a Greek, no less, a vassal of his, one Ismail of Sinope, son of the prince of that province. This Ismail brings another offer for peace, one that will gladden my heart it seems. And he asks that emissaries be sent to negotiate.’ A faint smile came, dispelled immediately by a yawn. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘shall we rouse these sleepers and hear what terms Mehmet now offers for our capitulation?’

Gregoras leaned forward. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘let them sleep. Or rather, wake them and send them to more comfortable beds. And let us go to ours as well. We know what Mehmet wants, however generously he gilds his offer. He wants our city. So let us answer his emissary, not unshaven and unwashed, and with a just rage that exhaustion might bring, but considered, rested and refreshed. Then let this Ismail take back the message that we are strong and united.’ He smiled. ‘And the longer it takes the better. Perhaps the guns will play less upon our walls while Mehmet awaits our response. We can repair the breaches, amass our arms, and let our soldiers rest.’

Theon nodded. ‘I agree with … I agree, lord. Rest and the full ceremony that an emissary requires might gain us some respite – and show us unwavering. Perhaps other forces are on their way – the Serbians. Hunyadi’s Hungarians. Rumours can be spread that they are anyway. And as for emissaries …’ he licked his lips, ‘send me, lord.’

Constantine smiled. ‘Ah, my loyal brothers Lascaris. Perhaps I should send you both?’

Theon stiffened, but it was Gregoras who spoke. ‘
Basileus
, my brother is versed in the subtleties of diplomacy. He is highly skilled in deception.’ He felt Theon’s eyes come onto him at last, held his gaze for a moment, then continued, ‘Whereas I am a soldier. I can go where he cannot, see what he cannot. Not the nuances of leaders trying to convey an impression, but what the ordinary soldier is feeling. If they have heard tales of us, we have heard of them also. Of men who have sat in a wet field for seven weeks and watched the greatest army ever assembled stumble against our walls, die in their scores, again and again.’ He smiled. ‘Genoan traders work both sides of the walls and I am, at least in part, a Genoan now. Send me, lord, where I can be of most help: discovering just how disaffected many of Mehmet’s army are. Finding where he is weak as well as strong.’

Constantine stared at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Let it be so. Rest, then go, both of you to your tasks. I will wake these others and try to sleep too.’ He yawned, leaned on the table, closed his eyes. The brothers began to move to the door … but the emperor stopped them there. ‘Not all the rumours I hear are of war,’ he called. ‘I have heard another: that though you were born almost at the same instant, from the same womb, there is no love between you. That you do not speak. Is it true?’

The two men froze in the doorway, half turned back. Neither answered.

‘So, it is true.’ Constantine moved round the table, came to them at the door. ‘I know what it is to have brothers. I have three … had, since our late emperor, my brother John, is dead. Of the other two, Thomas loves me and ‘Demetrius …’ he sighed, ‘Demetrius claimed the crown. Many a time I have wished he had it now. That he was standing here and I was in the Morea, raising an army to come to this city’s aid. But is he? He hates me, so I doubt it. Would I have done? I would like to believe so, but …’ A half-smile came, fading fast. ‘But if he does come, if he was standing here, I would say to him what I say to you, what I have said to the squabbling Italians, the sundered Christians. There is a time for strife between brothers. But this is not that time. This is the time only to trust in God and defend His city. To ask forgiveness for any harm each has done to the other, for both will have harmed. And to go into the righteous fight with anger only for God’s enemies.’ He stepped closer, put an arm around each of them. ‘Do I not speak the truth?’

They were trapped, between an emperor and an oaken door. There was little either could do. It was Theon who reached a hand, Gregoras who took it. Brother touched brother for the first time in an age, and Constantine gave a cry of joy and pressed them closer. Yet he could not see their eyes, the gaze that met, held, parted.

‘Go now,’ said the emperor, ‘in brotherly amity and about God’s work.’

He turned back, calling loudly. Their hands sliding away as if from contagion, Theon and Gregoras left the room. In the narrow hallway beyond, servants scurried to Constantine’s call and the two men had to wait for them to pass. ‘Well, brother,’ Theon said, ‘do you heed our sovereign’s words? Will you part from me in peace?’

Gregoras turned. The servants had passed and they were alone in the lightless antechamber. ‘I heed a portion of them, Theon,’ he replied, as softly. ‘There is only one enemy to be fought – for now. But know this: whether the city stands or falls, if both of us are spared what is to come, I will find you, and there will be a reckoning.’ He leaned closer, took his brother’s arm in a very different grip. ‘For you have what is mine.’