Siege (28 page)

On the far plain, the Turkish army had finished forming ranks. Flags waved over each regiment, identifying the origins of particular units. In the centre of the janissaries, directly across from Constantine, the flag of Mehmed – a white standard covered in ornate Turkish script – waved in the breeze. Horns sounded from the Turkish army, their loud call shattering the silence, and the regiments began to move, marching forward in step to the boom of drums, the clash of cymbals and the ringing of small bells held high on sticks. The sound of the approaching army was deafening after the long silence. ‘Prepare to fight!’ Constantine shouted over the din. He had no sooner spoken than another blast of horns sounded, and the Turkish army halted.

‘What are they waiting for?’ Constantine growled. ‘Why don’t they just attack and be done with it?’

‘I do not think that they mean to attack just yet,’ Dalmata said. ‘Look, heralds.’

All down the Turkish lines, at intervals of a hundred yards, heralds dressed in red caftans stepped forth, accompanied by men carrying white flags of truce that snapped in the wind. They stopped just short of the fosse, where they raised their trumpets and together blew a shattering blast. Before the note had entirely faded, the heralds began to speak in unison, loudly and in Greek.

Where Constantine stood on the wall, the voice of the herald before him came and went as the fitful, swirling breeze pushed his words now towards the walls, now away. Still, the message was clear; it was a call for surrender. ‘In accordance … law of Islam, the great sultan promises to spare those who voluntarily surrender to him. If any man surrenders … family and property will be safeguarded. Those who choose to stay … no mercy. You have until sunrise, tomorrow, to decide.’ Their message delivered, the heralds returned to the lines. The sultan’s army turned and marched back to camp.

‘Shall I send a reply, Emperor?’ Dalmata asked.

‘No reply will be necessary,’ Constantine said. ‘But let it be known in the city that this gate will be opened for any who desire to leave.’

‘But My Lord,’ Dalmata protested. ‘We are undermanned as it is. We cannot stand to lose any more men.’

‘I will not force men to fight who would rather run,’ Constantine said. ‘Their swords will be of little use anyway. Open this gate for those who would surrender and let us pray that our people choose honour over the promises of the sultan. And Dalmata, have my supper brought to me here.’

‘Here, My Lord?’

‘It will be a long night, and I would rather spend it here than pacing the halls of the palace. I trust in my people to stay and fight, but if any of them wish to leave, let them look upon the face of their emperor as they do so.’

As night gave way to morning and the Turkish camp came alive with the innumerable sounds of an army in the field, Mehmed stood atop an earthen rampart and peered out over the palisade towards the imposing walls of Constantinople and the city gate that had been left open all night. In the dim pre-dawn light he could just make out the figure of the emperor standing atop the gate. Ulu told him that Constantine had been there all night. During that time, seven Venetian ships had slipped out of port, but that was all. Not a single person had fled through the open gate, beneath the gaze of the emperor. Now, as the rays of the sun struck the top of the gate, it swung slowly shut. The Greeks had rejected Mehmed’s offer. The time for mercy had ended.

‘They are brave, there can be no doubt of that,’ Mehmed said to Ulu. ‘All the better. It will make our victory that much sweeter.’ He turned to Urban, who was directing a dozen men as they finished loading a giant cannonball nearly four feet tall into the mouth of the largest cannon that the world had ever seen. The barrel, all twenty-seven feet of it, hung from thick ropes attached to a wooden frame, a system that Urban had devised to absorb the cannon’s violent recoil, which would destroy the traditional wooden cradle used for the other cannons. Urban called his monstrous creation
the Dragon
, and Mehmed liked the name. He had had artists paint the barrel with the serpentine shape of a dragon. He wanted the cannon’s fearsome voice to be the first thing the Christians heard that morning, telling them that the siege had begun and that the end was near. ‘Urban, is the cannon ready?’ Mehmed asked.

‘As ready as I can make her, My Lord,’ Urban replied. ‘She’s still a little shaky, but she’ll hold.’

‘Are you certain? You know how much depends on the Dragon.’

‘Sure as sure,’ Urban said. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’ Urban froze as the words escaped his lips. A mistake.

‘Very well,’ Mehmed replied. ‘Your life it is, then. As for my part, I will stake your weight in gold. It will be yours if the cannon holds and the cannonball reaches the city. You may fire when ready, Urban.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ Urban said. He turned back to his crew and bellowed: ‘Open the palisade!’ Men tugged at ropes, and the hinged door of the palisade that protected the cannon swung open. Urban was busy at the rear of the cannon. He checked the ropes holding it in place one final time, and then took up a burning slow match. ‘You’ll want to cover your ears, Sultan,’ he said. Mehmed did so, and Urban lowered the slow match to the cannon’s touch hole.

Instantly the cannon belched forth a long tongue of fire and jerked violently backwards. Even with his ears covered, the noise set Mehmed’s head ringing and shook the platform. He turned to follow the flight of the massive cannonball. It seemed to float in the air for an incredibly long time as it travelled the two hundred yards to the walls. It soared over the fosse and crashed into the outer wall, which was instantly enveloped in a cloud of dust and flying debris. A split second later, the loud report of the impact came to Mehmed, and then, slowly, the dust cleared. The Christians had hung the walls with strips of leather and bales of hay and wool in the hope of absorbing the impact of cannon fire, but their precautions had done little good. The cannon had hit the wall midway up and blasted a hole clean through it. As the wind blew the last traces of dust away, the portion of the wall above the hole collapsed. The Turkish lines erupted in wild cheering.

Mehmed turned to congratulate Urban and saw that the rear of the cannon had fallen from its frame, pinning a man beneath it. Urban and his crew were at work with crowbars, desperately trying to heave the huge weight off the poor man’s crushed legs. The man himself was unconscious, or dead.

‘Fix it,’ Mehmed said. ‘I want it firing again before the sun has set.’

‘What of our wager?’ Urban asked tentatively, scratching his neck.

‘The cannonball reached the wall, as I requested. We will call it a draw.’ Urban bowed. ‘Besides, I need you to get the cannon firing again. Get to it.’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ Urban said and began barking orders.

‘Ulu, tell the other artillery commanders down the line that they may fire when ready,’ Mehmed ordered. ‘I want cannons firing day and night. Concentrate on the Mesoteichion. Tell the men that every time a section of the wall falls, I will reward the unit that brings it down with one hundred aspers. The walls of Constantinople have stood for more than a thousand years. Let us see how long it takes for us to bring them down.’

Chapter 14

SATURDAY 14 APRIL AND SUNDAY 15 APRIL 1453,
CONSTANTINOPLE: DAYS 14 AND 15 OF THE SIEGE

S
ofia sat on the floor of the palace library, surrounded by old books and tattered manuscripts, an ancient map spread out before her. The library windows looked out beyond the wall, and when she stood at them, she could see the Turkish batteries pounding away at the city. Her attention, however, was completely taken up with the yellowing map before her. Sofia could not fight at the walls, but that did not mean that she would not do her part to defend Constantinople. She was looking for anything that could be useful, but most of all she was looking for information about tunnels into the city. Despite persistent rumours over the decades, no such tunnels had ever been found. The map before her looked like another dead end. It detailed the cisterns, tunnels and pipes that ran under the city, but it did not show any tunnels leading beneath the walls.

A deafening crash pulled her attention from the map. The floor shook unnervingly, and she stood, prepared to run for cover. But after a few seconds, the shaking stopped. Over the past three days, Sofia has grown accustomed to the constant booming of the Turkish guns, but the occasional rending crash as a cannonball hit the palace still startled her. Fortunately, the guns firing on the Blachernae quarter were not nearly as imposing as the enormous cannon that had been placed across from the Mesoteichion.

Sofia went to the window, but the portion of the palace that
she could see still looked intact in the early morning light. She was about to turn back to her books when she noticed people rushing through the square below, away from the walls. As she watched, more and more people streamed past. Where could they be going? Had the Turks breached the walls? Sofia stepped out of the library to ask a palace guard.

The hallways were empty so she headed to the palace entrance, and finding it unguarded, slipped out into the street amongst the thinning crowd. She stopped a bent old woman who was tottering past. ‘Many pardons,
maame
,’ Sofia said. ‘Where is everybody going?’

‘To the Acropolis to watch,’ the woman replied. ‘Help has come at last! Christian ships have been seen in the Sea of Marmora.’ Sofia fell into step beside her.

‘When were they seen?’ she asked. ‘Do you know where they are from?’

‘A lookout spotted them at first light. Where they are from, I don’t know. So long as they bring help, they could be from Hades and I would bless every one of them.’

‘As would I. Thank you,
maame
.’ Sofia hurried on past her, following the crowd. She found a spot near the southern edge of the Acropolis, high above the sea below. To the south-west, still small in the distance, she saw four tall ships making their way towards the Golden Horn under full sail, flying before the southerly breeze. Even at this distance, Sofia could make out the large red cross on a white field flying from the mast of the largest ship. But even had she not seen the cross, the response of the Turkish fleet would have been enough to tell her that the approaching ships were Christian. The fleet had left its anchorage at the Double Columns, a quay just north of Pera, and a swarm of galleys and smaller craft were rowing against the wind towards the four Christian ships. The Turkish ships moved slowly, their oars often becoming entangled with one another. Nevertheless, it was clear that they would surround the approaching ships long before the Christians reached the safety of the Golden Horn.

The Christian ships grew steadily in size and clarity, until Sofia
could make out the tiny figures of men moving on the decks. She was far too distant to make out faces, but she tried nevertheless, hoping for some sign of Longo. Looking to the advancing Turkish fleet, however, she almost hoped that he had stayed in Italy.

As the sun reached its zenith, the Christian ships met the Turkish fleet off the south-east corner of Constantinople, less than a quarter of a mile from where Sofia stood. The four ships sailed headlong into the wall of advancing boats, shoving some aside and crushing others. The Christian ships towered over the smaller Turkish vessels, and from their high decks the Christian sailors rained down arrows and javelins on the Turks, while the Turks could not effectively fire back. The Turks’ only option was to try to board, but they had difficulty hooking on to the swiftly moving Christian ships. The few Turkish boats that did manage to hook on promptly came to regret it. The Christians covered them with Greek fire – a viscous, clinging liquid that continued to burn fiercely even when doused with water. The oily, burning substance coated the vessels, and the Turks’ frantic attempts to extinguish the flames only spread them. The Greek fire continued to burn even after the Turkish ships had sunk, leaving small puddles of fire floating amongst the waves.

Within the space of a few minutes the Christian ships had sailed through the Turkish fleet. ‘They’ve done it!’ a woman yelled, and Sofia joined in her enthusiastic cheering. The Turkish galleys threw up their sails and turned to give chase, but it seemed only a matter of time now before the Christians reached the safety of the Golden Horn.

And then the wind died.

Longo stood at the wheel of
la Fortuna
, anxiously watching the sails as they shuddered and then fell limp. The wheel died beneath his hand as the ship lost its way and the current gripped it, pulling them back towards the Turkish fleet. He looked behind him. Their oars out again, the Turkish galleys were advancing quickly, cutting through the water. There was no way that the bulkier Christian
ships would be able to outrow them. Already the foremost Turkish ship, a low trireme flying the flag of Baltoghlu, the admiral of the Turkish fleet, had reached the grain transport.
La Fortuna
and the other ships would be surrounded soon enough. The safety of the Golden Horn was within sight, but with the wind gone it might as well have been miles away. They would have to fight.

‘Axes out, men!’ Longo called, as he left the wheel and took up an axe. ‘We’re going to have to hold our own until the wind returns. Let’s give them hell!’ The men cheered. Longo had more than six hundred soldiers with him: two hundred and fifty here aboard
la Fortuna
and an additional two hundred each aboard
la Speranza
and
l’Aquila
, a ship that he had picked up in Chios. The fourth ship, a grain transport sent by the pope, was the weakest part of the convoy. The captain, Phlatanelas, was a brave man, but his ship held more grain than men.

The Turkish flagship reached the transport, ramming it across the bow, and a horde of screaming Turks swarmed up the sides, only to be met with a shower of burning Greek fire that swept them into the sea. Longo turned away from the spectacle to shout orders to his crew. ‘Tristo, take two companies and man the starboard side. William, take the same and command the port,’ Longo ordered. ‘Archers, get aloft and begin firing as soon as the Turks are alongside. Firemen, be ready with those buckets.’