That day made strange by silence began, like so many other days, with a quarrel, brought before the Emperor to settle, voices raised, the sour atmosphere of anger and suspicion. This time it was Justiniani and Notaras, who came to the Emperor’s tent, and, almost snarling at each other, appealed to the Emperor, each asking him to rebuke the other.
The boy, offering them wine, and being angrily brushed aside, tried to make out what was happening. He was lost without Stephanos, and his helplessness frightened him. But he could make out roughly, from manner and gesture, that Justiniani wanted something that Notaras refused him. “Helepolis”—it would seem to be guns. The Emperor thought Justiniani should have them. With a cry of dismay Notaras began to talk about the Golden Horn, the wall there. The Emperor mentioned the Lycus valley. “It’s about the placing of guns,” thought Vrethiki.. And he was glad the Emperor took Justiniani’s part, for he was sure that Justiniani was always right.
The Emperor insisted. Notaras was white-lipped with anger, and would not come with the Emperor to the walls. On the land walls the terrible endless treadmill labor of repairs was continuing. But beyond—outside in the camps of the enemy—there was still awesome silence. No noise; no movement; not a man visible round the tents. The sentries on the walls said the Turks had lit no fires, cooked no breakfasts, neither drilled nor ridden horses, nor prepared their guns. Instead there was that unearthly hush.
“They are preparing to go, perhaps,” said one sentry.
“No,” said Justiniani. “They are fasting. They are placating their God.”
“A day of prayer,” said John Dalmata. “And then? Look at this, my Lord,” and he held out to the Emperor one of those little rolls of paper that came on arrow shafts over the wall. It bore one word: “Tomorrow.”
The Emperor said, “So. Well, we, too, have a God. Let us pray to Him, and all His saints.”
It was at noon the bells began to ring. In a great gathering metallic clamor, they filled the terrifying hush left by the guns with insistent harmonious noise. The citizens flocked into the streets—old men, women, children, monks and nuns, and whoever could be spared from the walls. Images, icons, relics were carried out of the churches, and a great procession escorted them toward the walls. Incense was swung, smoking, in silver vessels; the people took lighted candles in their hands. They Sang; they repeated endlessly, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.
When the procession had gathered strength, the Emperor joined it, bareheaded, with Vrethiki at his side. Some one gave them each a candle. The great throng of people wound along the walls. At each battered and broken place they stopped. The priests in the procession gave Communion and a blessing to the soldiers there; the icons were placed on each battered parapet or rough stockade in turn, that their ineffable holiness might avert the danger. The solemn intoning music of the hymns was swelled by the pleading voices of thousands. Vrethiki, too, found himself praying. “O God, put forth your strength!” he said to himself, over and over. Ahead of him, under its canopy, moved the queen of icons, the image painted by St. Luke, that this time allowed itself to be carried through the streets.
It was four o’clock before the procession was over, and the icon of St. Luke was returned to Blachernae.
At Blachernae the Emperor went to his throne room. He sat on his wide golden throne, with the Gospels open beside him, and he wore his crown. Flocking into the tall marbled room, under the golden roof, came all his nobles and the demarchs of the City. “Another great meeting,” thought Vrethiki, “of which I shall understand so little.” And his heart lurched at the thought of Stephanos, who would have explained. But it was not a conference; it was a speech, the Emperor’s last words to his people, before the crisis came. And one of Isadore’s priests translated it, passage by pas sage, into Latin for the benefit of those who knew little Greek, and so Vrethiki did understand it.
“Noble princes,” said the Emperor. “Councilors, and famous soldiers, our most generous fellows in arms, and all faithful and honorable citizens—the crisis has come. The enemy will now exert his utmost force by land and sea against us, and, if he can, like a lion he will devour us. Therefore I pray you, and exhort you, to resist the enemy of our faith, with steadfast and magnanimous courage, as you have always done till now. I give into your keeping, I commend to you, this most famous and illustrious citadel, our motherland, Queen of cities. You know, my brothers, that there are four things for which any of us ought to be ready to die—for our faith, for our motherland, for our Emperor, God’s anointed servant, and for our family and friends. And if we are bound in duty to defend any one of these with our lives, how much more, now that all four are at risk, should we face death, unflinching! But if, because of my sins, God gives victory to the infidel, still let us face our ordeal in the true faith, bought with the blood of Christ. Yet this is the fifty-seventh day on which that vile and contemptible Sultan has besieged us, and with every possible device, and all his strength, day and night he has not ceased to fight us. And yet till now, by the grace of God, we have repelled him from the walls. For he puts his faith in engines of war, and force of numbers; but ours is in God, our Lord and Saviour.”
The Emperor spoke quietly, in a firm level voice. They listened still as stones, with their eyes fixed on his face. When he paused for his words to be said over in Latin, nobody moved, but heard them out intently.
“Be of good courage, therefore,” he continued. “Wield your swords stoutly. You have good serviceable armor to protect you, which most of them have not; you fight within the walls, they in the open. Remember how long ago a great number of Roman horses were put to flight by the mere sight and sound of a few Carthaginian elephants. And if brute beasts could accomplish that, how much more easily we, who are the thinking masters of animals, can do the same, especially as those who fight against us are like animals, more brutal even than brute beasts! Think of yourselves as hunting a herd of swine, whom you know to be blasphemers, and fight, not like such beasts as they are, but like their lords and masters, the proud posterity of Greece and Rome. For you know, brothers, how the vile Sultan has without any just cause or provocation broken the peace with us, and besieged us, to wrest from us this City, which the great and thrice-blessed Emperor Constantine founded and gave to the Virgin Mary, that she might be its patroness, and its protectress, and that it might be the refuge of Christians. Shall this City, which is the hope and joy of all the Hellenes, the glory of the Eastern Empire, this splendid City, that flourished once like the rose of the field and was mistress of almost all peoples under the sun—shall it now be trampled on by blasphemers, and yoked in slavery? Shall our holy churches, where we have worshipped the Trinity, and sung the Liturgy, and celebrated the mystery of the Word made Flesh, be made shrines for the blasphemy of their driveling prophet Mohammed, stables for their horses and camels? Think of this, when you fight for our liberty.”
The Emperor turned then to the Venetians, who were grouped at his right. “My dearly beloved Venetian brothers in Christ,” he said to them. “Famous and stalwart fighters, I charge you today to defend this City heart and soul. And it shall always be your country; a second mother and father to you.”
And then he turned to the Genoese. “My noble and courageous brothers,” he said. “You know this unhappy City is not only mine, but yours also. We have needed your help before, now we need it again.” And then he spread out his arms, and said to everyone, “If we all fight bravely, I hope God will grant us our liberty on earth. And an imperishable crown awaits us in heaven, and an immortal memory.”
A stone-struck solemnity enwrapped them all. He finished, but they did not move. “Hope against hope,” thought Vrethiki, aching inwardly at the Emperor’s words. “Hope that is nothing but a kind of courage in the face of despair.”
The Emperor had risen from his throne. He had gone down among the throng. He moved slowly from one man to another, saying to each man in turn, “If ever I have wronged you, I pray you now, forgive me.” Notar
as, that stiff man, suddenly burst into tears when the Emperor spoke that to him. He rushed across the room to Justiniani, and the two of them were clasped in embrace like brothers; all round the room men turned to each other with the Emperor’s words, “If ever I have wronged you …” on their lips. They took their leave of one another in tears, like men who expect to die.
It was already dusk when this great gathering dispersed. The Emperor made his way to the Great Church. Don Francisco, Theophilus, and John Dalmata rode with him. The streets of the City were quiet, scarcely anyone was abroad. As they rode, they passed a group of women with roses in their hands, going to decorate the Church of St. Theodosia, whose feast was on the morrow. One of these women spoke a blessing on the Emperor; he stopped and thanked her, and called her sister. So they came to the portals of the Holy Wisdom. Her deep-throated bells tolled endlessly overhead. The Emperor paused in the narthex and put off his crown.
And once more Vrethiki thought he remembered; thought he knew the great expanse of marble floor, the vast sculptured empty spaces of the shining church—only again he had not remembered how large, how beautiful, and this time it was full of people. A throng of citizens packed the vast nave; they filled the aisles and galleries. The immense airy arcs and domes were vibrant with their voices; a myriad lamps and candles danced, and struck dark gleaming echoes from the myriad facets of the golden roof. At the altar, Cardinal Isadore wearing Greek vestments was surrounded by priests who had denounced the Union, who would never accept his creed. And in the aisles long lines of people stood, waiting their turn for confession, no matter whether Greek priest or Latin priest absolved them. At the altar thirty priests prepared to concelebrate the Holy Liturgy. Only yesterday this church was shunned as a den of iniquity by half the citizens, and now who was absent, save those who manned the walls?
The Emperor stood a moment on the threshold as he took this in. “They have come to my requiem,” he murmured. Then he went to make his confession. There was a lectern, with a Bible and a cross upon it. The Emperor stood before it, with a priest at his side, and named his sins, in a low voice. “And now, Lord God,” said the priest loudly, “forgive your servant Constantine…” The Emperor returned to his place, and other men moved up the waiting line, and the voices of the priests went on and on, “Forgive your servant Theophilus … your servant Lukas … your servant Justiniani … Now, O Lord, forgive your servants …”
Vrethiki gazed, dazzled, at the shining silken robes of all those priests; slowly they moved in their appointed order as in a ponderous dance. And at the people flocking to take Communion, the little fragment of bread soaked in wine, offered them on a sacred silver spoon. Once more the church echoed to the murmurous repetition of thousands of names: “Who are you, who ask for the body and blood of the Lord?”
“Constantine,” said the Emperor simply, on his knees.
Constantine, John, George, Theophilus … Basil … Lukas … Michael … the great roll of names went on. At last the solemnities drew to a close. The great swelling mass of voices rose and filled the church with the people’s hymn, and Vrethiki felt his heart lift with it, to swell and soar, and fill so vast a place … to be one of God’s people, in the light of God’s Holy Wisdom … “I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of Thy house …” sang voices all around him. “Lord, hear my voice …”
Then the priests all blessed the people, saying, “Go in peace.”
A CERTAIN GRAVE TRANQUILLITY LINGERED ABOUT THE DISPERSING people. The Emperor rode in a great crowd of captains and commanders, returning to the wall. They hardly spoke to one another, but carried the silence with them, like a blessing. At the road to Blachernae they parted company, the Emperor going with only a few to the palace. The palace servants awaited him there: his household, his domestic slaves. Many wore armor, having been fighting on the walls these many weeks past, and having come now only at his bidding. Going round them all, the Emperor embraced each one, and said, “If ever I have wronged you, I pray you now forgive me.” Soon everyone in the room was in tears.
The Emperor left quickly. He rode with Phrantzes the whole length of the land walls and back, under the brilliant and unfeeling stars, speaking briefly to each captain in turn, checking everything. On the return ride he dismounted at the Caligarian Gate, and he and Phrantzes and Vrethiki climbed a tower. It was the outermost tower of the newer jutting wall around Blachernae; from it they could look out across the enemy lines, and down to the Golden Horn.
Below them in the darkness there were noises—the jumbled sounds of men at work, things being dragged and moved. And on the dark waters of the Horn, lights were moving, doubled in the glossy water. “This has gone on since sunset,” the watchman told them. The Emperor stood at the window of the tower room, looking out. There was a kind of peace, a serenity in the room. And yet it was not peaceful to Vrethiki—he wanted to cry out against it. The Emperor had done his duty. He had done all he could, and made his peace with God and man. And now he was neither hopeful, nor despairing, nor afraid, only ready.
But the boy, in his heart, was still crying “No!” to Fate.
Chapter 19
It was perhaps an hour they lingered there in the dark tower, watching and listening. Then the Emperor sent Phrantzes away. There was an argument, and Phrantzes shed tears. But the Emperor insisted. He wanted Phrantzes to go and check the reserves of weapons in some other part of the City; his old friend wanted to stay. “Of course,” thought Vrethiki, looking at Phrantzes’ gray head. “The Emperor is saving his life, and he would rather lose it.” But in spite of this flash of understanding, the boy thought there had been quite enough weeping this night, and wished Phrantzes had been made of sterner stuff. Yet when Phrantzes had gone, and the Emperor turned to Vrethiki, and said softly, in hesitant Latin, “My brave Vrethiki, for bringing you to this, and for any unkindness I may have shown you, I pray you now forgive me …” the boy found he could only answer, “A ffendi mou!” half choking on the words, while the tears ran down his face. The Emperor took his hand, and they climbed down the tower.
They rode to the Lycus valley, where the Varangians stood in ranks, waiting for their Imperial captain. All along the land walls the defenders had locked the doors in the inner wall behind them, and the captains brought the keys, and gave them to the Emperor.
It was nearly two in the morning when the uncertain light of the waning moon, and the flares that the citizens kept burning on their watchtowers, showed movement in the enemy camp; men were gathering in the shadows. The sentries banged their clappers to give the alarm; the Church of St. George, and the Chora nearby, just within the walls, began to ring their bells, and the ringing spread like wild-fire from church to church the length and breadth of the City. Swiftly the sound was answered from without. Screaming and raving, with a patter of drumbeats and wild tuneless wailing of their mountain pipes, a vast herd of Turks flung themselves at the walls. They came in no order, even elbowing each other aside as they jostled for a likely-looking place on the walls. They brought fire, and hundreds of scaling ladders; they were cut down as they mounted them. They were cut down in swathes, in hordes, but, pouring out of the shadows beyond the fosse, more and more of them came on. For the first time the defenders felt the weight of the vast numbers massed against them; so much of the fosse was now filled in that the attack could be mounted on a wide front, and no reinforcements could be brought to the aid of the Christians, because the whole length of the walls was under attack, even the sea walls, along which ships with scaling ladders at the ready were prowling under the stars. The long-expected general assault had come at last.
“This is not the worst of it yet,” said Theophilus to the Emperor. “These are only irregulars—without armor.” And indeed the arrows of the defense seemed each to kill a man; the stones they hurled into the packed throng below bowled over many of the attackers. The Emperor rode up and down a little way, but from the messages brought to him, and what he could see, it was clear that the main weight of the att
ack was in the Lycus valley, and he settled there, watching Justiniani, his incomparable captain, fighting behind the stockade. The Turks even stood on each other’s shoulders to reach over the bulwark of rubble and stones; they only brought themselves within range of the Romans’ swords. And all the time the noise continued, the shouting, and clashing of arms and beat of drums.
It was an unequal encounter. The Turks were killed in hundreds, fighting with their strange mixture of light weapons and unarmed bodies against the stubborn courage and good armor of the defense. And yet it was two hours before their fear of the Christians grew greater than their fear of the Sultan, and they were driven back. The sight of their backs as they fled away into the darkness brought a great cheer from the men along the walls. The captains began to re-form their disordered ranks; a party of women, among them, Vrethiki saw, nuns and young girls, brought pitchers of water along the lines. Vrethiki filled the Emperor’s wine flask. And then, within minutes of the retreat, there was a blast of martial music, and the Turks were upon them again.
This time it was the Anatolian divisions. Better drilled and better armed, they came up in good order, and one man covered another as they tried to secure their ladders. A length of wall in the middle of their line was left free from attack; suddenly on this length of wall the full force of the cannon was let rip. The defenders were deafened and blinded by smoke; out of the smoke an onrush of troops came dashing against the stockade. The Emperor moved his station a little, and went to the head of his Varangians. He became very excited, and pressing forward to the stockade, himself unsheathed his sword, and hacked at the hands and heads of the enemy as they scrambled up. He shouted to his men, and they answered him with a roar: “Basileus!” And every man was straining muscle and bone in the struggle, laboring like a hero.
This second attack persisted almost as long as the first. The moon had set, and all was wrapped in the darkness before dawn. Then another shattering blast from the great gun struck them. The ball hit the stockade squarely in the middle, and brought down a long stretch of it. There was a shower of flying fragments of wood and earth; dust and smoke fouled the dark air, and in a moment the enemy charged howling through the gap. With a great cry, the Emperor spurred his horse toward them. His men rushed with him, and the Turks who had broken through found themselves brought up short, facing the great inner wall, fired on and pelted by bowmen and slingmen on top of it, and under savage attack from either flank, as the men on the terrace charged and hacked at them. Some few of them retreated the way they had come; several hundred of them were cut down, and their bodies were rolled forward into the missing line of the stockade. With that the whole attack faltered; for a moment the enemy line swayed, poised between advance and retreat; then they had gone.
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