Emperor's Winding Sheet

by The Emperor's Winding Sheet (retail) (epub)

  The stars were fading in the slowly lightening sky. Behind the walls a faint rose-flush of dawn haloed the domed horizon. The Emperor’s troops slumped wearily to the ground, or leaned against the walls. Their heads lolled with fatigue, their fingers slackened on their swords. Dragging away the dead—the many dead—they moved slowly, leaden-limbed. Sweat and dust disfigured them all. A heavy smell of blood hung round them; someone lying by the inner wall groaned ceaselessly, and a little way off in the fosse a Turk dying in agony screamed. It was still barely light enough to see. Vrethiki wondered why the force of the flares and torches should be sapped by daylight too dim to see by. He was slightly dazed by the noise and confusion of the long night, and was afraid of losing the Emperor in the press of men. He stood back out of the way when the fighting was fierce, but the moment the battle waned a little, he stepped forward again to his master’s side, and offered him water.

  That is what he was doing when there came the wild skirling of pipes; a shower of iron balls and flights of arrows pelted down on them like rain, a gunfire of drums was struck up once more, and the Sultan’s best troops, his famous janissaries, came marching forward, line upon line, solid with arms and armor, gleaming in the shadowy dawn, bearing down on the exhausted defenders. With cries of alarm the Christians scrambled to regain their places. Vrethiki saw Varangian John standing in the front line, yelling to his men, swaying on his feet. In magnificent order the janissaries came on. The discharge of Christian cannon, bows and slingshot tore holes in their lines; the gaps were closed at once, the advance continued unfaltering. And there was so little stockade left to stand behind that in many places the Christians had to hold the line of the crumbled defenses by fighting hand to hand. Wave upon wave the enemy came, fresh, and courageous and well armed. They tore and hacked at the stockade, and clambered up, and fixed ladders … “It’s all over now,” thought Vrethiki, crouched down by the inner wall with a wounded man on either side of him. “I must draw my dagger, choose a Turk, die fighting …” And overhead a bright new day was dawning.

  Yet still the line of defenders held. They were stubborn, desperate. To give way was to lose wife, and son, and daughter; to lose was to have nowhere to run to. And at last it seemed the attack was losing force a little, wavering here and there. The janissaries came now, not triumphing, but with a certain caution, like men who think it possible they may fall. Battle, City, Empire, all seemed to hang in the balance, as the Turkish line came to a standstill on the wall.

  The Emperor turned round and looked for Vrethiki. The boy came running. He took his water flask, wet his lips, and handed the bottle to Theophilus, and to John Dalmata, and Don Francisco, who had been at his side since the battle began. And at that moment a Genoese came to him, a tired soldier, scarcely able to carry the weight of his elaborate Western armor.

  “Lord Emperor, my captain is wounded,” the man said. “He asks for the key to the door through the inner wall, that he may be carried away to get help.”

  It was one of Justiniani’s men. The Emperor stood frozen for a moment, the water flask halfway to his lips.

  “Give me the key, my Lord,” the man insisted. “He suffers. His wound must be dressed.”

  The Emperor and his three companions and Vrethiki went at once. They rode in single file, easing their way through the mass of soldiers on the terrace, making their way northward to Justiniani’s position on the right of the Emperor’s. Vrethiki felt sick. He feared to find Justiniani lying torn, unrecognizable, as Stephanos had been. But the great captain was on his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. His breastplate had been pierced, and he was clutching his transfixed shoulder, the blood welling between the fingers of his clawing hand. He was ash-white; beads of sweat stood on his forehead like dew, and ran down his cheeks. The clamor of the battle raged round them, as the janissaries struggled with the swaying ranks of his men.

  “My brother, not now,” the Emperor said, gently, taking Justiniani’s limply hanging right hand. “All would lose heart without you. I beg you, do not leave the field. Stay where you are to hearten us.”

  Justiniani seemed not to hear him. His breathing was very fast and shallow, as though it hurt him, and he was trembling violently. But he shook his head.

  “The force of the Turks’ onslaught is spent,” said the Emperor. “If you will endure just for another hour …”

  The captain at his side said, “My Lord, he must go. He can return when his wound is dressed.”

  “My brother!” cried the Emperor in anguish, “I love you dearly, you are flesh and blood to me, it grieves me to the quick to see you hurt, but I beg you, I beseech you, not to desert us now …”

  Justiniani groaned. Then, in a voice that shook and whimpered, he said, “Give me the key!”

  Theophilus cried out, “Coward! You! You of all men, unmanned by the sight of your own blood! Shame on you …”

  And Vrethiki, in a frenzy of rage and anger and grief, was scrabbling at the strap that held his scabbard and dagger on his belt.

  But the Emperor unhooked a key from his belt, and gave it to Justiniani’s man. “Go quickly then, and quickly re turn,” he said.

  The boy tore off his dagger and hurled it in the dust at Justiniani’s feet. He stamped and spat on it. Justiniani seemed not to see. His eyes were glazed and blank. The Emperor said to John Dalmata and Don Francisco, “Re turn to my post and see how things are holding there. I will follow in a moment.”

  They went ahead, returning along the line. The Emperor cast one more long look at Justiniani, who was being laid upon a stretcher, then turned his back, and went after them.

  •

  A HELLISH CHAOS WAS RAGING ROUND THE VARANGIANS. THE battle was so frenzied that it was impossible to see what was happening; none of the Emperor’s three companions was in sight in the fray. Vrethiki stooped over the body of a man lying at the foot of the palisade, and helped himself to the man’s dagger. It was a clumsy crude iron thing, but its owner had had courage unto death. Clutching the weapon to buoy his own courage, Vrethiki struggled through the press of men, back to his master’s side.

  As he reached him, the Emperor looked round, looked back the way they had come, and saw the terrace on the right nearly empty. The Genoese had seen their captain carried away; they had seen the gate to the City open behind them, and they were streaming away through the gate in full flight, leaving the Emperor and his Romans alone.

  “They must lock it again!” cried the Emperor. “Why did he not lock it behind him!” He looked frantically round for messengers, but only Vrethiki was at his side. In the swaying, screaming mass of fighting men, no one else was within call.

  “Vrethiki!” he said, leaning over the boy. “Take this key. Go to the Genoese gate. Get the door locked. Lock it yourself, or get anyone to help you; go quickly, quickly!”

  Sudden dread flooded over Vrethiki. He was certain, not in his head but in the very marrow of his bones, he must not go; he knew he must, must, remain at the Emperor’s side. But the Emperor was saying again, imploring him, “Go, Vrethiki, tell them to lock the door!”

  He could not force his way through the press of men. He struggled for a moment in the throng, and then shot into the nearest tower on the inner wall, and hurtled up the stairway to emerge on the almost deserted upper cat walk. He began to run along it, forcing his tired limbs to speed, slowing up every few moments and looking over at the terrace below on his left to see how far along he had come. The light was dawning now, and a clear and golden morning sky arched over him, the shadows of night had dispersed, and he could see his way. And as he ran, he looked up the rising slope with the wall breasting and mounting it, and saw, just catching the rays of the morning sun, flying bravely from the top of the tower above the Kerkoporta, Turkish flags, Turkish horsetail banners. Vrethiki came to a sudden stop. The City had fallen.

  Chapter 20

  He didn’t know what to do. the now useless key of the gate was still clutched in his hand. Someone had left the litt
le sally port open, the Kerkoporta. The Turks had got through it. Only a few, surely, through so small a door; it ought to be possible to stop them. Yet even as he thought this he saw Turkish soldiers, far off ahead of him, running along the catwalk toward him, throwing bowmen and slingmen off the parapet. From below him on the ter races rose screams of horror and fear. Turning round, the defenders had seen Turks above and behind them. Watching from his high viewpoint, Vrethiki saw men on the outer wall covering their faces and jumping into the fosse, throwing themselves to instant and ugly death. Most of the defenders were panicking, stampeding along the terraces toward him in a great terrified mob. And as they ran they came to the point just below him, and found the door left open behind the Genoese. It was a narrow gate. Pushing and thrusting to get through it, they fought each other for space. Some lost their footing and fell, but the crowd was borne on, regardless, by the pressure of men coming behind. The strong trampled on the weak, and fell themselves to be trodden down. Behind them, on the deserted outer wall, the Turks fixed ladders unopposed, and flew up them like eagles. But coming to the gate below Vrethiki they could not get in because it was blocked by the dead and dying bodies of their crushed and trampled enemies.

  And the Emperor: where was he?

  “I must be with him!” cried Vrethiki. “I must be at his side!” He turned and ran back the way he had come. The Turks were running up and down the terrace below him, looking for another way in. He ran, flying up and down the steps where the catwalk passed the towers of the inner wall, half sobbing, half gasping for breath. When he reached the point where, only minutes before, he had climbed up, leaving the Emperor, he hung over the para pet, desperately scanning the crowd. He could see the Emperor nowhere.

  A pitiful and frantic struggle was still going on below him. Deserted by the Genoese on their right, the Emperor’s Varangians and some of the citizen soldiers had spread out, to try to hold the line. The Turks had gained a foothold on top of the stockade, from which they were now raining death on the Romans below them, and pressed back from the line of the stockade, the Romans had been driven into pits and trenches dug in the terrace floor to give earth and clay for the ceaseless repairs. Losing their footing, and unable to climb out of these slippery pits, they fell on each other, crushed and trampled each other, and were slain. Shuddering, Vrethiki ran on. Cries of despair rose to him on all sides, and he seemed to be the only living creature on top of the inner wall here. Healo he Polis! drifted up to him—the City has fallen! And still he ran, seeking the Emperor.

  When he had run right across the Lycus valley, and not seen him, Vrethiki turned again and ran back. “Oh, where is he, where is he, what has happened?” he sobbed to him self. Cramp from running so far and fast stabbed him, and he stopped, doubled up, leaning on the parapet and only slowly able to straighten himself. And then at last he saw the Emperor.

  He was not on the terrace between the inner and outer walls, where Vrethiki had been looking, but riding along the roadway behind the inner wall, within the City. He was a little way off, riding with his three companions again by his side. They were coming toward Vrethiki from the direction of the Kerkoporta. The Emperor must have been summoned there, and found nothing there to be done. Now he was returning to his own men.

  Vrethiki hastened forward, looking for the nearest stair way down to his master, but just then there was a loud crack and splinter, wood giving way, and through the St. Romanus Gate just below him poured the small battered remnant of the Emperor’s guard. They had broken down the door, and were escaping. They rushed through the wall below Vrethiki, and the Turks dashed after them, a torrent of men cascading into the City between Vrethiki and his master. And even then the terrible struggle was not quite over. Within the gate a few brave souls turned and struggled to re-form the line, to hold the onrush of the enemy.

  Beyond the struggle the Emperor and his friends dismounted. Theophilus cried out loudly, so that his voice reached to Vrethiki, hanging over the parapet some distance off and far above, “I would now rather die!” and he ran into the midst of the seething throng of the enemy. The Emperor as yet hung back. He was casting off his purple surcoat, and struggling out of his corselet and breastplate. He pulled off, and threw away, his ring. He stooped and cut the straps that held his golden greaves, and kicked them away. He bent a leg, and pulled his boots off, and threw them aside. Vrethiki watched him, horrified. But John Dalmata on his right and Don Francisco on his left made no move to stop him, but waited calmly. Then, drawing their swords, the three of them ran forward. The last of those who had resisted within the gate had been cut down, but now, for a few moments, the three alone stood, holding the narrow road. Then they fell from sight, and the Turks rushed over them. Vrethiki slipped down behind the high parapet, and crouched there out of sight, in the shadow thrown by the brightly shining morning sun.

  FOR SOME WHILE THE RUSH OF TURKS THROUGH THE GATE below him continued. Howling in triumph, the Sultan’s regiments crowded in, and then fanned out and dispersed in all directions, looking for plunder. But after a while no more poured through the gate. From the ceasing of the guns, and the distant uproar in the Lycus valley, Vrethiki judged that there was nothing to stop them now from flooding through the breaches in the torn and fallen walls. They would not come through a narrow gate clogged with the dead, when a wide way lay open to them. Telling himself this to keep his courage up, Vrethiki crept along the wall. The staircase was just beyond the gate. Had he only run farther, sooner! He slunk down it, and found himself alone in the street behind the walls. In the distance the sound of tumult rose and fell like the surge of the sea.

  Within the gate lay the pile of the slain. They had killed the Emperor, and left him for a common soldier. Vrethiki crept nearer, nearer. He was sick, afraid of what he would see. He stood in the shadow trembling. A wave of outrage swept over him.

  “He is the Emperor, the Emperor!” he told himself. “He should not be left like carrion lying in the dust. There should be prayers for him and flowers, seemliness and ceremony! Oh, God, what had he done to deserve this!” Vrethiki’s knees gave way, and he slipped down, and sat, leaning at the foot of the wall. But it came to him at once that the Emperor did deserve it; that was just what he had deserved—what he had wanted—a valiant death, a nameless burial. And that he was likely not to have it, because something had been forgotten. The boy knew; he had seen him forget. The Turks would insult and dishonor him; they would cut off his head, and put it in a bag …

  “But I can’t!” the boy wailed, answering his innermost heart, and looking where his master’s body lay hidden, crushed and pressed in that hideous pile, from which a dark vintage was already seeping across the stones. “I can’t!” he thought. But he knew that he must.

  He was still moaning, “I can’t,” to himself when he staggered to his feet, and began to look for his master. He rolled two or three bodies off the pile, before he found him. He saw first the bloodsoaked hem of his undershirt, with its woven fruits and flowers, but he could not move Don Francisco’s body off his master’s because it was pinned down by several others. He dragged at John Dalmata, until at last the body slipped, and then he could see the Emperor’s right side uncovered, his face turned toward him. Try though he might, he could not get the Emperor’s body clear; the dead were heavy, and he was not strong enough.

  He was trembling violently, as in a fever. To reach the Emperor he had to tread on soft human flesh, and looking down he recognized Theophilus, with his head lolling back, and his throat cut. Vrethiki’s gorge rose, and he shrank away. Then he forced himself to take Theophilus by the ankles, and heaved and dragged at him to pull him out of the way. He was heavy. As Vrethiki pulled at him one of his boots came off, and the boy had to take a new grip round the bare anklebone. He was gasping for breath from the effort. At last the body slipped a foot or two on a wet patch of ground, and he could get to the Emperor treading on nothing worse than the slimy flagstones of the road.

  But why, he wondered now,
had he wanted to? What was he doing here? His head swam. There was something he had to do, something … He laid his fingers on his master’s eyelids, and weighed them down to shut them over the dark empty eyes. Something else … He hesitated. Then he remembered. The Emperor had cast off all his purple, had wanted to be unrecognized. But he had for gotten his undershoes, his silken slippers. Vrethiki tried to take a grip on himself, to think clearly, to stop trembling. Then he pulled off the under-shoes. There was something unbearable to him in the sight of the Emperor’s naked feet, soft and helpless in the sunlight, projecting from under Don Francisco’s shoulders, where he lay across his cousin, face down. Vrethiki looked away, hastily. Then he went and put one of the undershoes on Theophilus. “This is the last thing you must do for him,” he told the body. But he couldn’t get the second one on. Theophilus’ leg seemed to be broken; it wouldn’t stay stiff while he pulled the silken legging up it. Vrethiki gave up, feeling sick, and looped the second slipper through his own belt.