Siege (46 page)

Mehmed had taken Notaras’s head but left the body of the megadux where it had fallen. As Mehmed rode back to the Turkish lines, followed by his escort, two janissaries stepped forward and began to drag Notaras’s body towards the walls. They headed for the gate of Saint Romanus, just below Longo and Constantine.

‘Shall I have the archers deal with them?’ Dalmata asked.

‘No, let them come,’ Constantine ordered. ‘At least we will be
able to give Notaras a proper burial. He deserves as much.’ The janissaries reached the gate and dumped Notaras’s body there before turning and running back towards the Turkish lines. ‘Come,’ Constantine said. ‘Let us go and retrieve the megadux, or what is left of him.’

They reached the gate, and Longo ordered it opened just enough for one man to pass through. Longo went himself to retrieve the body. There was a piece of paper tucked into Notaras’s armour, but Longo did not have time to read it. No sooner had he reached the body than thousands of Turks began to pour over the Turkish ramparts, marching towards Constantinople. Most carried shovels and picks. Others led horses pulling wagons filled with dirt and rocks.

Longo hurriedly dragged Notaras inside the gate and ordered it shut. Constantine was waiting for him. ‘Do you think this is an attack?’ he asked. ‘Should I ring the bells?’

‘No, they are not attacking,’ Longo answered. ‘They carry shovels, not weapons. They are coming to create a path across the moat, to make their attack easier.’

‘Then something must be done. We will use the cannons.’

‘No. It will be better to save our powder and shot for when they are truly needed. If the Turks are filling in the fosse, then the attack will come soon. We must be prepared to defend Constantinople tonight.’

‘Then there is much to be done and little enough time,’ Constantine said. ‘Dalmata, have the megadux’s body taken to the Haghia Sofia and prepared for burial. When you are done, you will find me on the wall.’

‘My Lord, I found a message on Notaras,’ Dalmata said and handed Constantine a sheet of paper. ‘I believe that it is in Notaras’s own hand. He asks that he be buried by the monk Gennadius.’

Constantine looked at the sheet of paper. ‘This is Notaras’s last wish. It should be honoured. Have his body delivered to the Church of Saint Saviour Pantocrator.’

Gennadius sat at his desk and watched as the papers before him burned in a brazier, their edges curling, then blackening and finally collapsing in a pile of ash. Just like his grand plans, Gennadius frowned. He still did not understand what had gone wrong. Notaras had done his part, and yet the sultan lived. Gennadius was sure that Halil would not have betrayed him. What could the vizier hope to achieve by aborting their plot? And if Halil had not failed him, then that left only one possibility: somehow the sultan had learned of their plot. If that were true, then Gennadius’s life would be worth less than nothing if the city fell.

Gennadius was taking no chances. He would leave this very night while the Christian forces and the Turkish army were locked in battle at the walls. He could bribe his way past the sea walls, and he had already paid a Venetian merchant to ferry him from the harbour to Pera on the far side of the Golden Horn. From there, Gennadius would hire a ship to take him to the court of Demetrius in Clarenza. And if Constantinople stood, then all was lost anyway. The Union would be vindicated, and Gennadius would never be made patriarch.

Gennadius added a last sheet of paper to the brazier. There were certain secrets – lists of bribe payments, inventories of his private fortune – that were simply too important to be carried with him or to be left here untended. Better that they burn. As the page crumbled to ash, there was a soft knock on the door. ‘Enter,’ Gennadius called, and Eugenius opened the door and stepped into the room. Eugenius wore chainmail under his monk’s robes and a sword hung from his side. ‘Is everything ready?’ Gennadius asked. ‘I wish to leave as soon as the battle begins.’

‘All is ready, Father Gennadius. But there is something else: the body of the megadux, Lucas Notaras, has been brought here to be prepared for burial. The emperor has asked that you perform the service.’

‘And when is this burial to take place?’

‘Today. The body is to join the city’s holy relics in procession
through the streets to the Haghia Sofia. The megadux is to be buried in the crypt there.’

‘And do you know why Constantine has chosen me, of all people, to perform this task?’

‘I was told that Notaras’s final request was that you preside over his funeral.’

‘Were you indeed? That is odd.’ Gennadius thought back to his final meeting with Notaras. The megadux had told him that he despised the monk’s hypocrisy, and that what Notaras did, he did for Constantinople alone. ‘Where is the megadux’s body now?’

‘He has been placed in the crypt.’

‘Take me to him.’ Gennadius followed Eugenius down into the dank catacombs beneath the monastery, where he found Notaras’s headless body in a small room, laid out on a stone table. He was still in full armour. ‘Was anything unusual found on his body?’ Gennadius asked. ‘A message of some sort?’

‘Nothing other than the note asking that you bury him.’

Gennadius nodded, lost in thought. Perhaps he had been wrong: there was no mystery behind the megadux’s odd request. Unless there was another message, one that had not been written on paper. ‘Help me to take his armour off,’ Gennadius ordered.

He and Eugenius undressed the megadux, pulling off first his plate armour and then the chainmail beneath it. Finally, Gennadius peeled off the blood-stained cotton tunic undergarment. The skin of Notaras’s chest was grey and bruised where several of his ribs had been broken. Gennadius heaved the body over to reveal Notaras’s back. There, carved into the megadux’s flesh, was a message:
Gennadius, open the city and you will have all you seek. Mehmed.

Mehmed stood on the Turkish ramparts with his back to Constantinople and gazed out at the army assembled before him. The day was clear and fair, and the afternoon sun glinted off the men’s armour, creating the impression of a giant sea spread out at Mehmed’s feet. Nearest to him, the sea of men appeared dark and
deep where the neat ranks of the black-armoured janissaries stood. Behind them were the Anatolian cavalry, their chainmail glittering. Further back, stretching all the way to the hills that ringed the Turkish camp, the disordered crowd of bazibozouks in their brown leather armour seemed to form a distant shore. There were nearly seventy thousand warriors in all – the greatest army in the world.

In his right hand, Mehmed held the head of the megadux. He raised it high, and the soldiers before him burst into frenzied cheers. The noise was deafening. Mehmed let it wash over him, filling him with a sense of power. These were
his
men. He would tell them that they fought for Allah, because that is what they wished to hear. But they did not; they fought for him. He would tell them that Allah would watch over them during the battle, but it was he, Mehmed, who would observe their every move. And when the city fell, the glory would be his, not Allah’s. Finally, Mehmed raised his other hand, gesturing for silence. The cheering faded, and the camp fell silent. When Mehmed spoke, the only sounds were his voice and the faint echo of innumerable voices relaying his message to the furthest troops.

‘Yesterday, one of the Christian infidels tried to assassinate your sultan,’ he shouted. ‘You have seen what comes of such treachery and deceit.’ He cast the head of Notaras aside, letting it roll down the slope of the rampart. There was another roar from the army. ‘The infidels wished for my death, but Allah would not allow it,’ Mehmed continued. ‘He protected me, as He will protect you. Allah is with us, and we are the sword in His hand. In the face of their armour, He gives us strength. In the face of their cannons, He gives us strength. Even in the face of the great walls of Constantinople, He gives us strength! Each fighter who falls before those walls will have a place in paradise. Each fighter who lives will have the riches and women of Constantinople at his feet. And the fighter who first breaches the walls will have wealth beyond his wildest dreams!’ His men roared their approval.

‘The walls of Constantinople will crumble before our cannons.
The defenders of Constantinople will tremble before your might. Tomorrow, the Empire of the Romans shall fall, and you shall be its conquerors. Allah is with us! We cannot fail!’ The men cheered wildly. Mehmed waited until the cheering had passed and the men had fallen silent. ‘Prepare yourselves today. Sharpen your weapons, eat and sleep. Tonight we will attack and Constantinople will be ours!’

The sound of Turkish cheering reached Emperor Constantine as a distant, barely perceptible roar, like waves crashing on a distant shore. He stood atop the Golden Gate and looked down at the men who had gathered to hear his final words before the coming battle. Greeks, Venetians and Genoese stood crowded together, their battered and tarnished armour gleaming dully in the light of the setting sun. There were less than eight thousand of them to fight almost ten times that number of Turks. But Constantine had witnessed the bravery of these men. Their armour might be dented, but their heads were not bowed. They would sell their lives dearly, and, God willing, they would hold the city one last time.

‘Gentlemen!’ Constantine called out, and his voice carried over the rows of men. ‘We now see the hour of battle approaching. You have always fought with glory against the enemies of Christ. Now I ask you to fight one last time in defence of your homes and of a city known the world over!’

‘Hear! Hear!’ a few men yelled. The rest showed their approval by thumping the butts of their spears against the ground, creating a loud rumbling. When the rumbling faded, Constantine continued.

‘Be not afraid that our walls have been worn down by the enemy’s battering. For your strength lies in the protection of God. In this battle you must stand firm and have no fear, no thought of flight, but be inspired to resist with ever-greater strength. Animals may run from animals. But you are men, men of stout heart, and you will hold at bay these savage brutes.’ Again there was the heavy thumping of spears.

‘You are aware that the infidel enemy has attacked us unjustly,’ Constantine continued. ‘He has violated the treaty that he made with us; he has slaughtered our farmers at harvest time; he has cut off our commerce and sunk our ships in the sea. Now he wishes to profane our city’s holy churches by turning them into stables. Oh my brothers, my sons! The everlasting honour of Christians is in your hands. The fate of the oldest empire the world has ever known lies with you. Fight in the knowledge that this is the day of your glory – a day on which if you shed but a drop of blood, you will win for yourselves crowns of martyrdom and eternal glory. Fight for each other! Fight for Constantinople!’

‘For Constantinople!’ the men roared, and the low rumble of spears resumed. The pounding grew so fierce that Constantine could feel the wall vibrating under his feet. Finally, he held up his arms, and the rumbling ceased. His tone was sombre.

‘If you have anyone you care for in this city, I suggest you go now to bid them farewell. When it is time, the city bells will call you to the walls. I will see you there.’

The servants of the imperial household had been called to the great octagonal hall of the Blachernae Palace. Everyone was present, from the cooks to the wash maids to the palace blacksmith. There were some forty people in all, standing in four rows. In another row before them stood the most honoured members of the household, including Sphrantzes and Dalmata. The sides of the hall were lined with members of the emperor’s Varangian guard. All present knelt as Constantine entered, dressed in full armour and wearing his crown.

‘Rise, my friends,’ Constantine told them. ‘I have asked you here to thank you for your service over the years. Many of us will not survive tonight’s attack. Because we may not see one another again, I wish to say goodbye to you all now.’ He went to the end of the furthest row, where a young stable boy shifted nervously, his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘What is your name, boy?’

The boy looked up. ‘Petrus,’ he replied.

‘Goodbye, Petrus,’ Constantine said. ‘I thank you for your service, and I ask that you forgive me any unkindness that I may have shown you.’ The boy nodded, unable to speak. Constantine moved on to the next person in the row, the blacksmith. He was a tall man, with strong, muscled arms.

‘Goodbye, John. You have served me well, and I ask your forgiveness for any unkindness that I have shown you.’

‘There is nothing to forgive, My Lord,’ the blacksmith replied. ‘I’ll see that your sword is sharp for tonight.’

‘Thank you.’ Constantine continued moving person by person until he had bid farewell to his entire household, save Sphrantzes and Dalmata. He came to Sphrantzes first and placed his hand on the older man’s shoulder. ‘Goodbye, old friend. You have been my most trusted advisor. Forgive me if I have not always followed your advice.’

‘You have done what you thought was right,’ Sphrantzes replied.

‘If I do not see you again, then let the world know what we have done here. Let them know how we fought, and how we died.’

‘I will, My Lord,’ Sphrantzes replied. Constantine nodded and moved on to Dalmata. The two men clasped hands.

‘Do not say goodbye,’ Dalmata said before Constantine could speak. ‘There is no need. I shall not leave your side during the battle so long as I live. And do not ask my forgiveness either. It has been my honour to serve you, and it would be my greatest honour to die beside you.’

Constantine gripped Dalmata’s shoulder and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. Then he stepped back and addressed the entire room. ‘Thank you all. You have each served me well, and I know you will do the same in the hours ahead. Now I suggest that you rest while you may. We shall have need of all our strength for the coming battle.’

The city was dark when Tristo and William reached their destination: a nondescript inn near the central marketplace of Constantinople. The three-storey building was centuries old and
leaned perilously to the right, looking as if it might collapse if not for the building next to it propping it up. William raised his torch to illuminate a weathered old sign that hung over the door, displaying a barely recognizable bed beside a loaf of bread. ‘Are you sure this is it?’ William asked.