A Place Called Armageddon

by C. C. Humphreys

  ‘Nothing is perfect in siegecraft, Zoran, as you well know,’ Giustiniani said, ‘but this is as close as you will ever encounter. Come, let me tell the Ragusan what he will miss if he leaves before the fight.’ Clamping his hat to his head, he led them from the more sheltered rear of the platform to its blustery front. ‘We stand on the highest, the landward inner walls. Some say we should fight only upon them, cede the rest of the ground to the enemy. I say they are wrong.’

  ‘Why, master?’ asked Amir.

  ‘Many reasons – and this the main.’ Giustiniani reached forward and, with some ease, pulled a chunk of rock from the crenel. ‘The inner walls have been most neglected over the years. This is one of the better-kept ones and, as you see …’ He crumbled mortar between his fingers. ‘They are far worse either side of us. But the second wall …’ he pointed down, ‘has had most of the efforts expended upon it. Its towers are smaller but it stands above that open space they call the Parateichion. Since that can only be reached by a scramble up from the deep ditch and over the last, smallest of the walls, the Parateichion is one of the finest killing zones I have ever seen.’ He leaned over the edge. ‘From up here, our best archers, crossbowmen and culverin men can rain hell into it, over the heads of our defenders at the outer wall. Those few of the enemy who survive will be chopped into separate parts by our soldiers.’

  Gregoras leaned out too. ‘A perfect killing zone indeed, Commander. I shall envy you your fortunes,’ he said. ‘So where is this Achilles heel?’

  Giustiniani sucked his lower lip. ‘Out there. They are bringing it with them. No,’ he snorted. ‘You cannot bring a heel, can you? But you can bring the poisoned arrow to shoot into the hero’s flesh.’

  ‘You mean guns, Commander, do you not?’ Enzo, the blunt Sicilian, said.

  ‘Aye. Cannon. If our spies’ reports are true, such cannon as have never been seen before. Forged by devils to spit fire straight from hell.’ Giustiniani leaned to the side and spat himself, angling it into the wind, a fat gobbet that was caught and splattered into the granite behind them. ‘Murad had some guns but they were boy’s slingshots compared to what his son is said to be bringing. If he places them and hits these walls somewhere between here and St Romanus, again and again by day, and our efforts to repair them at night prove insufficient …’ he shook his head, ‘then the breach he makes will widen and widen and the fanatics he throws at it to die for him and for Allah, of whom he has so many, will keep coming and coming …’ he cleared his throat, hawked again, ‘until eventually even the finest killing ground in Christendom may not prove enough.’

  ‘What will then, Commander?’ As a boy, Gregoras had dreamed of fighting these walls like his father had. The idea of them ever being taken … ‘Prayer?’

  ‘Of course. We pray for a miracle. God will dispose, as ever.’ Giustiniani raised the medallion of San Pietro round his neck and kissed it fervently. ‘Yet until His will is revealed, we strengthen our walls, we sharpen our blades, we place our best men where they are most needed and, yes, we pray – not for lightning bolts from heaven perhaps, but for something a little more plain.’ He pointed out to the valley again, beyond the valley. ‘We pray that the powers of the West, from the Pope to the Roman emperor, from bishops to barons, realise that if they do not stop the Turk at these walls, they will have to stop him at their own. We pray that we can hold these crumbling stones long enough for them to act on that realisation and send a relieving army or fleet. And that,’ he said, crossing himself, ‘will be miracle enough for me.’

  Enzo imitated the Commander and made the sign of the cross. Caught up in the moment, Gregoras did too. Yet his return to his city had affected him this much: his crossing now was the opposite to the Catholics before him, three fingers, not two, and moving right-left across his chest. All saw it, the division between allies. In many ways, Amir’s obeisance to Allah was less disturbing. ‘While that,’ said Giustiniani, ‘is another matter.’ He spread his arms wide, herding them towards the stairs. ‘Now let us go and meet the ‘emperor. He awaits us down there, at the Romanus gate.’

  ‘May I accompany you?’

  The four men, warriors all, started, flinched back – for the black figure that suddenly loomed up behind them did not appear human; or had been once, only to recently crawl from his grave. It was Gregoras who recognised the skinny, mud-clotted frame, mainly by the Italian words that seemed wrenched from the back of the throat. ‘Grant,’ he cried, easing the grip on his dagger. ‘Are you living in a hole?’

  ‘Aye, most of the time.’ The Scot reached up and scraped muck from his face. ‘The emperor has had me exploring the ground near some of the bastions. To foresee where the Turks will mine, so we can countermine ’em. I think I’ve found a few likely places. It’s why I want to see him, ye ken.’ He tipped his face into the rain. ‘Man, I could use one of these baths the Greeks are always taking. Though no doubt I’d catch my death from such an effeminate practice.’

  He shook his head and Gregoras laughed. He was fond of the Scotsman, after their time at sea. ‘I will take you to one, if you like.’

  Giustiniani frowned. ‘I thought your task was to provide me with the weapon called Greek Fire?’

  ‘It is. And I have been experimenting. But I need more naphtha, a combustible oil found most in some place name of Irak. Men are searching the town for it.’ He shrugged, spat mud. ‘So I’ll dig and delve until they find some.’

  Giustiniani moved on towards the tower’s entrance. ‘You may report your findings to Constantine. Come, German,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s Scots, your wor— Och, why bother?’ As they followed the Commander through the archway, Grant leaned in and whispered, ‘I’ve set up a distillery too, while I wait. First batch will be ready end of the week. It won’t be smooth but it will slake a thirst. Will ye come?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Gregoras would have been happy to partake of his friend’s al-kohl. But if he could keep in Giustiniani’s vision, and goad him into asking for his gold, he hoped he would not be there at week’s end. And having the Scot beside him as a reminder of the contract he’d fulfilled would not hurt. He clapped his hand onto a sodden shoulder. ‘Come. Let us to the emperor.’

  – TWELVE –

  Old Friends

  Constantine had changed.

  The vigorous warrior Gregoras remembered had been the Despot of the Morea, a land not without troubles but with options and allies. Now he was Emperor of Constantinople – and the burden of that ancient title, in the empire’s greatest crisis, had stooped him. Taken the hair from his forehead, greyed his beard, etched lines around his eyes.

  He stood in a white cloak, head bent, at the centre of a swirl of black-clad figures who squabbled around him like crows around a dove. It was clear that the leaders of the Genoese and Venetian colonies still hated each other. Nothing new there, Gregoras thought. Centuries of struggle to become the greatest trading power in the world, conflict on sea and land with the city as a regular battleground – and sometimes victim – made unity in a cause near impossible. Even if that cause was their own survival.

  Gregoras and Grant placed their backs against the wall near the gate and watched as Giustiniani took a deep breath before pushing into the crowd within the Peribolos, the space between the inner and outer walls. His presence – not to mention his girth and height – brought some silence. A little cluster of gesticulating, cursing men did not see him. But a horn was raised, sounded, its shrill blast bouncing off the stones, making men duck, wince, look around for the source – which Gregoras finally saw as the mob shifted. ‘The devil,’ he gasped, taking a step forward.

  The man lowering the horn from his lips was Theodore of Karystenos. Champion bowman, captain of archers for the Imperial Guard … and the man who had taught Gregoras everything he’d known about war, and not a little about life.

  Gregoras had presumed him dead. He was ancient when he’d taken the young Greek on as a pupil fifteen years before. And t
he man who now stepped up beside his emperor was old, his long beard pure white, the lines of easy laughter that had always danced around his eyes deep furrows now. But he was not bent by age, and if its pains afflicted him he did not show it, slinging the horn over his shoulder, drawing his sword. Muscles thrust out the surplice he wore, marked with the double eagle of the city. ‘Cry silence for our lord,’ he bellowed in a voice near as loud as his bugle blast.

  Theodore! Of all in the city who would have heard of Gregoras’s ‘treason’, the aged bowman would have been the most hurt. He’d regarded Gregoras as his sixth son, and knew him to be the most gifted, of a gifted brood, with the bow. And it was not just a love of feathered flight that bound them. It was to Theodore that Gregoras would come to hear the old tales of war and adventure, and plan his own share of them.

  Gregoras looked down, away from the memories. If any man in Constantinople could persuade him to stay and fight for it, that man was Theodore of Karystenos. He would have to keep masked and far from the old man’s still lively gaze.

  To his relief, men swirled before him, taking his old teacher from his sight. When they cleared, Giustiniani was stepping forward. ‘Our basileus, Constantine,’ he declared, using the ancient title of supreme general, ‘who has honoured me beyond all measure by giving me the disposition of his forces, has asked that I speak of them today.’ He paused, looked over the whole crowd. ‘You all know me. I have fought beside many of you standing here. I have fought against many of you too – yes, I see you lurking there, brothers Bocciardi of Venice …’ this produced a shout of denial from three men who stepped around others who blocked their view, ‘and you, most of all, Girolamo Minotto, baillie of the Venetian colony. How many times have we exchanged quarrels upon the sea?’

  A tall man, with twice the lace to his doublet than anyone else, swept off his plumed hat, revealing styled curled hair, and bowed. ‘Twice, most excellent. And only the wind saved you last time off Crete.’

  A chorus of jeers arose at that, laughter too, in which Giustiniani joined. ‘I will concede that,’ he replied, ‘if you will concede the wind you emitted when I drove you onto the reefs of Lesbos.’

  More acclamation, denial, laughter. But Giustiniani cut it off with a wave of the hand. ‘But whether we have always been friends or worthy adversaries in the past, on ships and other battlements,’ he continued, ‘what is certain here and now is this: today we are united as soldiers of the beloved emperor. United in our hatred of the infidel. United in our faith under God, and before the face of the Blessed Virgin.’

  Nearly every man crossed himself, murmured amen. After a moment, in a quieter voice, Giustiniani went on. ‘Since my arrival three weeks ago, and in the company of our exalted sovereign, I have studied the rolls of our forces. I have walked the walls – these we stand upon and those that line the shores of the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara – to see how we should disperse those forces. Now each of you who are not native to the empire – you of Venice and Genoa, of Crete and Chios, of Spain and Catalonia – are used to being only under your own command, going where you will, fighting for as long or as little as you think fit. Yet since we are now so united, in faith and fervour for our cause, I ask that you consider these dispositions, and hold your allotted place as long as a single comrade, of whatever nation, holds the one next to you. Let no man fail his neighbour.’

  He turned. Enzo and Amir were standing behind him, each at one end of a large cloth pinned to the stones of the inner wall. Reaching, they pulled it down.

  Gregoras and Grant, like everyone else, stepped forward for a better view. Etched in chalk was the unmistakable dog’s-head shape of Constantinople. The land walls, against which it was drawn, were a vivid red slash down the neck. Small banners marked different sections, some containing symbols, others names. Both were too small for even Gregoras’s keen eyes, but not for those who crowded closer. Once read, they provoked many oaths and exclamations, and a rising babble of dissent.

  One voice was clear above the others. ‘Why are all these Greek names by the harbours of the Golden Horn?’ the Venetian baillie Minotto called out. ‘While the Venetians are here and here and here.’ He jabbed his finger at various points. ‘Why do you separate sailors from their ships?’

  A Genoan voice came from the thick of that city’s merchants. ‘Isn’t it obvious? To stop those sailors sailing away at the first whistle of Turkish shot.’

  ‘You lie!’ The body of Venetians surged, shouting, around their leader, who stepped toward the Genoans. Hands gripped daggers. ‘And you are all safe because of your colony of Galata just across the Horn,’ someone cried. ‘You are the ones who will scuttle for your homes when the first sword is drawn.’

  The babble became a roar. Men stepped closer, as Giustiniani shouted in vain … until the bugle’s blast sounded again.

  ‘Enough!’

  It was Constantine who called, his cultured voice hoarse with use. He stepped forward with arms raised, and men turned to listen to the emperor. ‘Enough, lords, gentlemen, citizens of mighty Genoa and proud Venice. Remember where your enemy is.’ He threw his arm back behind him. ‘There, the other side of the walls. Not within them. There!’ The hubbub died a little, and he continued in a softer voice. ‘This is a preliminary plan only, and we will listen to all your concerns. If some Venetians want to stay with their ships, why would we object? You have all sworn to stay and fight, and the oaths of such men are their honour and so are unbreakable.’ His gaze swept over the crowd, his voice grew stronger. ‘But do you not see why we have suggested this disposition? It is because of Venice’s honour. You can do good service at the harbours, sure. But the main fight will not be there. It will be here.’ He turned, placed his palm at the top end of the dog’s neck, against the red painted lines. ‘Here would stand the intrepid Bocciardi brothers of your city, here where the walls are thought vulnerable. In the lion’s mouth.’

  Three men, almost identical behind their thick beards, swept off their hats and bowed. ‘We will die there to protect it,’ they declared in chorus.

  ‘I know you will,’ Constantine said, smiling. ‘But there is a more dangerous spot even than that.’ He ran his hand up the red line, stopping where it seemed to bulge inwards. ‘For here is my palace of Blachernae – and there is only one man I thought to ask to defend it.’ His eyes sought and found that man. ‘Will you yourself, Minotto, baillie of Venice, protect my home?’

  The Venetian ran a hand through his coiffed hair, then bowed. ‘It is a great honour, majesty, and I thank you.’ His dark face flushed. ‘And, as leader of the men of Venice, I declare that not one of our number shall desert you, while there is life in your body and while the banners of Constantinople fly.’ He turned to glare at his fellow countrymen. ‘Not one!’

  A huge cheer came. Constantine waited for it to die down, and in a quieter voice went on, ‘And I will stand sometimes here at my palace, or here at the gate of Charisius, that some call Adrianople. Wherever the action is hottest,’ he said, a slight smile coming, ‘for since my winters in the mountains of the Morea, I have always craved the heat.’

  There was some laughter. Hands were withdrawn from hilts, as men peered closer at chalked lines and words.

  ‘And have you a place of honour for an old servant, sire?’

  The man who said this was as old as Theodore. But he did not look half as vigorous: gangly, stooped, rain running from the rim of an old-fashioned steel helm like water from battered eaves. His voice piped high, and though one hand rested on the basket hilt of a sword, the other was more heavily supported by a servant’s shoulder to his right.

  ‘Ah, my good Don Francisco de Toledo.’ Constantine smiled. ‘Do you not wish to wield the famed steel of your city beside your compatriots?’ He gestured to a group of sunburned men to the Spaniard’s left.

  ‘My liege,’ replied the don, bowing slightly, ‘if you are referring to the detachment from Catalonia, then no. Castilians and Catalans make the rivals of Venice and
Genoa look like children, squabbling over dice.’

  No one was quite sure who was the most insulted. Before they could decide, Constantine stepped forward and offered the old man an arm. ‘How would you like to fight beside me, Don Francisco? I could use Toledo steel to guard my back.’

  The Castilian unfolded himself from his stoop. ‘An honour to me and my country, sire.’

  As the emperor led the don to a barrel beside the wall, Girolamo Minotto stepped away from it. ‘I have a question, Giovanni Giustiniani Longo,’ he called. ‘Where will you be? You and your seven hundred men? I do not see your name in chalk. Are you leaving us so soon?’

  The Commander, who had stepped back when Constantine spoke, laughed as he advanced again. ‘We will go wherever we are most required. But I suspect we shall be here, or close. Between the palace and this, the Fifth Military gate.’ Amir came and whispered in his ear. Giustiniani nodded, then raised his voice again. ‘Take note of this, all of you. I am reminded that it is a custom of war here to name the military gates after their nearest civilian one. That is a confusion to me, and battle is confusing enough.’ He shook his head, continued. ‘I am here not to jiggle with names but to fight. So know that this gate we stand before will henceforth be known only as St Romanus. When I summon urgent reinforcements, let them not go to the wrong one.’

  He gestured at the tower atop the gate. ‘Now. I have studied the land, spoken to men who withstood Murad’s siege in ’22. And I know the Turk. He will attack the length of the walls. He will raid the shoreline. But his cannon will mostly pound here. His finest troops will attack here. So I will be here.’

  A murmur arose again. Men crowded ever closer to the wall and its chalk. One of the brothers, whom Gregoras had heard named Bocciardi, was having a loudly whispered debate with his siblings. At last he threw a restraining arm off himself and turned. ‘There are many Italian names here,’ he called. ‘Mainly from my own city of Venice, a few less from Genoa …’ his voice rose over the dispute he’d provoked, ‘others from the Papal States, from Tuscany, Sicily, Umbria. But where are the Greek names? I see hardly any. This is a Greek city, is it not?’