A Place Called Armageddon

by C. C. Humphreys

  ‘Then …’ she smiled beneath her veil, ‘trust in Allah … and in the stars.’

  It brightened him for a moment, until he thought of the other thing she’d said to him, when he’d prevented her reaching Mehmet before. ‘You saw something else for me. Not my … eminence.’ He swallowed. ‘My death.’

  She saw it again, a sudden flash of it, as clearly as she had before. The risen man rising differently, into the sky, in terrible agony. A dragon watched, and a gloved hand plucked out a pasha’s heart. She swayed with the vision, stumbled into him. He steadied her, till she could speak. ‘Every man must die, master,’ she said. ‘Surely all that matters is how he lives?’

  He wanted to ask her more, but they had reached their destination: the rear entrance of Mehmet’s great pavilion. The guard ahead of them moved to the side, the tent flap parted … and revealed the sultan. He was standing among a group of officers and clerks, clad as she had last seen him when he had tested the great cannon before the walls of Edirne, in a crimson coat, unbuttoned now so she could see the chain mail sewn into it, glistening in the last light of the sun. His face, though, under the silver helmet with its ostrich feather, was changed from the youth she’d first met. Thinner, older. There were dark crescents under eyes that brightened when he saw her, then filled again with fear. ‘Come,’ he hissed, beckoning her in, ‘and quickly.’

  He led her into a small antechamber. A canvas wall faced her. Beyond it, she could hear the murmuring of men – his council, ready to hear his words. He showed her no courtesy, made no offer of sherbet, nor of gold. Only the blunt question in his look from a man who needed to know, beyond his doubts. And seeing his, she put her own aside. ‘King of kings,’ she declaimed, her voice strong, ‘possessor of men’s necks. Allah’s deputy on earth. These and many more names are you called. Now, I say, prepare for more titles to be heaped upon you. In three days, all will hail you as “majestic Caesar”.’ She paused, as Mehmet sucked in his breath. ‘And you will for evermore be known by the title you covet most – “Fatih”. For in three days’ time you will be the Conqueror.’

  ‘Ah!’

  His face cleared in a smile as she unfolded the scroll and turned it towards him. ‘See what is in the stars.’

  Mehmet barely glanced at it. He looked back, to the murmuring behind him. ‘I have not time to read it now. Later, perhaps. Later, when all is set in motion. But if you tell me that all … all is well …’

  ‘Lord of lords of this world, all is as I have told you,’ she said simply, firmly, gesturing down. ‘It is written.’

  Mehmet was not a small man, but he grew taller in that moment, till the ostrich plume on his feather almost scraped the tent’s roof. ‘Then I can do nothing but read and follow.’ He turned to Hamza. ‘Pay her. You know the jewel saved for this, an emerald beyond price for the prize she has given me.’ He turned to face the entrance to the other, larger room. ‘And let me give my commands.’

  Adjusting his sword belt, he nodded to the guards either side, who moved to place their hands upon the split in the canvas. But all movement halted at Leilah’s cry, as she threw back her cloak and flung herself down upon the ground. ‘Most potent,’ she cried, ‘I ask for the boon you promised me.’

  Mehmet’s attention had been all forward. But beneath the cloak Leilah had put on only the silken shift she’d worn for Gregoras, and every man in the room could not help but stare. Even the sultan, who turned back. ‘What boon?’ he murmured.

  She peeled back her headdress, so he could look into eyes rimmed in kohl that made their darkness deeper. ‘I crave no jewel, lord, however priceless. I ask only this for my services.’ Her voice was deep, and as silken as the little she wore. ‘There is a church in the city. I want it kept safe from destruction, by your order.’

  Hamza stepped forward. She had surprised him before, but never so much as now. ‘I did not think you were of the Christian faith?’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Then why do you ask such a thing?’

  She had not turned to Hamza, kept her eyes on Mehmet, took a deep breath. ‘For my own reasons. May I keep them hidden, O Conqueror, as many things are hidden?’

  Her breath had raised her breasts within the silk. She watched his eyes follow them, saw his face tinge near as red as his beard. ‘I asked you another thing that day,’ he said, his voice rougher. ‘Do you remember it?’

  ‘Indeed, lord.’ She lowered her eyes, allowed a blush to take her face. ‘You asked that I … I offer you what I need to preserve, to keep my visions clear.’

  He stepped a little closer. ‘And now you have had the vision of visions, is there any need to hold out longer?’

  She raised her eyes, dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Once you are Fatih, how could any of your subjects refuse you anything?’

  Mehmet smiled, doubts swept from his face. He turned to his scribes. ‘See that such an order is written. Stamp it with my tugra and give it to her. And you …’ He gestured to an officer. ‘Assign a body of my guard – for her gifts I will spare her twenty men – to escort her to whatever place she wants protecting, once we are inside the walls. Let no man touch it, or feel my wrath. You are under her command.’ He bent, ran a finger down from her forehead to her lips, and she did not pull away. ‘And mine – to bring her to me once the city, and everything in it, is in my power.’ For another moment he stared, then withdrew his hand, turning again to face the entranceway. ‘And now …’

  He nodded. The tent flaps were lifted aside and the noise of murmuring doubled, then ceased as Mehmet swept through. Hamza, with one more glance at the kneeling woman and one shake of his head, followed, and the canvas closed behind them.

  The officer, the scribe assigned, came to her, eyebrows raised in question. Leilah, who’d stood swiftly as the sultan left and gathered her cloak again around her, held up her hand to command their silence so she could listen.

  The young sultan’s voice came clear through the canvas. ‘Children of Allah,’ he said. ‘Followers of Muhammad. Sons of Osman. The time has come to put aside all doubts, all divisions. To unite under the green banner of the Prophet, peace be upon him. What he foretold is come to pass. In three days’ time, the richest fruit of all, the Red Apple, will fall into our outstretched hands.’

  A great shout came. ‘God is great! God is great! God is great!’ When it passed, as suddenly as it started, his voice came again. ‘Each shall have his place. All shall join in the last great attack, for we shall attack in every place at once. Thus all shall partake in the glory, either as martyrs sent to an eternal paradise, or to share equally in the fabulous wealth of the city of the Caesars. What was heard in the prayers of all believers, dreamed for a thousand years, is now upon us. It is written in the stars and in the hearts of all God’s chosen people.’ His voice soared in the same cry as before. ‘Allahu akbar!’

  The voices of all within the tent repeated his words.

  ‘God is great! God is great! God is great!’

  The canvas swayed with air and passion. Smiling, Leilah turned and beckoned the scribe, who dipped his quill, looked up at her as she spoke. ‘Let it be known that Mehmet, lord of lords, Conqueror of Constantinople, takes under his protection this church …’

  – THIRTY-THREE –

  Forgiveness

  28 May: fifty-second day of the siege: 10 p.m.

  Like all the women, Sofia could not see the main body of the great church. It was filled with men, crowded for the first time since the union with Rome was declared and most of the Orthodox shunned their former temple as they would anything unclean.

  No one shunned it today. Those who could, and could be spared from the walls, squeezed in, whatever their faith. Those who could not – mainly the poor of the city, for it was the leaders who claimed precedence – were packed into the churchyard to hear the liturgy sung, to add their voices to those swelling within.

  She had loved the Hagia Sophia before she’d even seen it, as a child thinking it was called, of
course, after her; loved it when she found out it was not, that it was named for divine wisdom. And she did not mind that she could not see, that her sex restricted her to the side. She would not have had it any different, for she was in the place she loved most in the old building. In the north-west corner of the north aisle, flush against the column of St Gregory. The Miracle Worker, as he was known, had worked a miracle for her, once. Pilgrims had sought his aid for centuries, pressing themselves against the marble, rubbing a cavity in it in which moisture gathered. That precious liquid, used to anoint, could cure ailments, could bring birth. It had brought her a second child, her Minerva.

  Now, as the very last sung note rose from the thousands of voices there and seemed to echo forever inside the great dome, Sofia reached and touched the cavity, seeking another miracle, one sought by every single person around her, everyone inside and outside the great church, everyone in the city, in that moment. ‘Holy saint. Holy Gregory. Bring us salvation this night. Let your shining light guide us to triumph over our foes. Help us. Bless us. Save us.’

  Though so many had reached before this night that the fullest well should have been dry, she still felt a touch of moisture on her fingertips. Perhaps it was only the transferred tears of those who had been there before her, for nearly everyone present wept. But she took it as a sign of grace and brought it to her lips.

  The last note clung still, sustained by yearning. Everyone who heard it knew that when it ended, it could – could! – be the last Christian song ever heard in the great cathedral. If their prayers went unanswered. If God had chosen to punish them. If the infidel stormed the city this night, as he had vowed to do.

  Then it was gone, and with its going, people began to move, swiftly leaving. God and the saints had been called upon, and now men had to make their earthly dispositions. She let the other women jostle past her. She would have a last moment with her saint and then she would follow, for there was also much she needed to accomplish this night.

  ‘Wife.’

  The familiar voice. She turned. Theon had been kneeling with the emperor, right before the altar screen. He had partaken of the holy mystery, been shriven and blessed. In the flickering light of a thousand candles she thought she still saw the wine upon his lips. ‘Husband,’ she answered.

  They looked at each other. There had been a formality in their greeting, as if they were acquaintances. Indeed, she had seen little of him in the recent weeks of the siege. He slept near the emperor, ready for any command. The times he returned to the house, she was often gone. Lately she had led a party of women, daughters of the city like herself, to carry materials to the walls for the stockade that needed constant repair. With her son at her side, she worked as much as she could, slept little, ate less and less.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said, continuing the formality, echoing her thoughts.

  ‘As do you,’ she replied.

  He did. The armour he was forced to wear had never suited him, and he looked small within it, as if he’d borrowed it from a much bigger man. He saw her stare, and perhaps something of what she felt showed on her face, because he came to her more briskly, took her arm. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I will see you home.’

  ‘I do not go home.’ She moved with him, as they both headed towards the doors.

  ‘And where do you go, if not there?’

  ‘The same place as you. I go to the walls.’

  He stopped, stared at her in shock. ‘The walls? Do you not know that the Turks will attack them this very night? Not as before. Again and again and again till they have stormed them or all died trying.’

  ‘I know this. But until the moment that they do attack, there are stones to lift. It is my duty.’

  ‘Your duty is to your family.’

  She slipped his grip, kept moving, threading her way through the crowds, seeking. ‘Thakos will be with me, for boys work beside the women. Minerva is with Athene, at the house.’

  He followed, caught her arm again, halting her. ‘And you must join her there. With our son. You must obey me.’ Anger coloured his voice now. ‘Obey me!’

  She stared at him for a long moment. ‘I hear you. At any other time I would seek to please you as I always have,’ she said softly. ‘But there are others I must obey before you now, Theon. The emperor who has ordered that monks, women and boys do the work that soldiers cannot be spared for. The Blessed Virgin, who protects us and urges that we protect ourselves. And …’ she hesitated. ‘Myself. My will.’

  ‘Your … will?’ He looked incredulous. ‘When have you ever had a will?’

  ‘Since the Turk first came to take everything that I love,’ she replied, gently pulling her arm from his grasp.

  He let her get a few paces, followed, grabbed her yet again. She turned, and there was fury in her eyes. Just like her damned cat, he thought, ever ready with its claws. He thought of striking her. He’d done it before. But they had come to the front of the building, Constantine was close, men who knew him. Wives had to be struck in private. Besides, he did not need her to be humbled here. Time enough for that pleasure later. He only needed her to obey him. ‘Listen to me,’ he said softly, releasing her arm. ‘No, I do not command, as is my right. I ask you to hear of something that, if the worst happens, may save the lives of our children.’ He saw he had her and he continued, emphasising each word hard. ‘If the Turks triumph, they will be thinking only of pillage. Of rape. Then, after both, of enslavement. But certain places, certain people, will be spared. So when you have done your duty at the walls, you must return to our home—’

  ‘How do you know this?’ she interrupted him, something she would never have done before.

  He swallowed his anger. Sphrantzes was beckoning him and he did not have time for it. ‘I know. I know how they will do it, too – with the marks of important men placed upon doors. With flags. You will find one such flag under our mattress. If the Turks break through …’ He bent, to catch once more the gaze that left him at his words. ‘Yes, I say “if”. I will try to come. But if I do not – or cannot – do you hang this flag from the upper windows. And then do you lock our doors, shutter our windows, and seal yourself and our children with you on the roof.’

  She looked at him for a long moment. ‘What have you done, Theon,’ she whispered, ‘to earn such a favour from our enemies?’

  He felt the itch come again, his rising hands moving into fists. He breathed, let them fall. ‘I have done only what a father should do. A husband. I have prepared for the worst that may come.’

  She stared at him a moment and then was moving again, darting between horses that prevented him following. By the time he could, she’d reached a cart, two asses in the traces. Other women were crammed on it, two helping her up, all as haggard and determined as she. He pressed up to the edge, as one of the women took the reins. ‘Did you hear all I said, wife?’

  She looked down at him. At the restrained fury in his eyes. But for all his politician’s guile, he was also a husband. A father. Trying to care for his own. And though she had prayed, though she believed in miracles given by saints, though she would do all she could of her duty, she was a mother and there was a part of her that needed some other hope too. Some plan if God and man failed. Perhaps a flag beneath a mattress, however it had got there.

  ‘I did. And I will … obey,’ she said, as the woman at the reins shouted, ‘Huh!’ and the cart lurched off. Standing, she looked back at him, suddenly wondering if she would ever see him again. ‘I will. Go with God, husband. May the Virgin and all the saints protect you this night.’

  Ignoring the calling of his name, which had become more insistent, he watched the cart recede into the crowd. His hands were still balled in fists and he lifted them, looked at them. That was how we parted, he thought, my last touch of her an angry grip upon her arm. Was there not a kiss for me, Sofia? I would have preferred that a thousand times more to Christ’s blood upon my lips.

  Then another thought came, and he looked sharply up. But the cart
was lost in the swirl of men and women scattering about their tasks, the city’s, their own. As he turned away to the insistent call, he wondered this: if the kiss she’d spared him was saved for another. A man whose armour fitted him well. And whether it was duty that took her to the walls at all.

  Gregoras had tried to keep Thakos close, and his head down. Though it was night, enemy archers still had an eye for a target, and arrows constantly fell to harass those who were ceaselessly filling and repairing the gaps in the stockade. But the boy was ever curious and would rise up to look at the Turkish lines and the wonders there.

  ‘Why are they burning so many fires, Uncle?’

  ‘Two reasons. They feast – can you not smell that succulent lamb?’ Gregoras’s mouth flooded with saliva at the thought. ‘Because they have fasted this day to prepare their souls for the assault and now need to feed their bodies for it. And they do it to show us their numbers, to make us afraid.’

  ‘But we are not afraid, are we, Uncle?’ Thakos said, looking frightened.

  ‘We are. We should be. Only the lunatic is not afraid. But a man controls his fear, uses it.’

  ‘I see.’ The boy nodded. ‘And do they play that music to fright us too?’

  Gregoras listened. The drums, the trumpets, the ney and sevre and all manner of stringed and piped instruments had been sounding the day long so that he had almost forgotten them, a constant clamour against every thought. ‘They do. And to fill themselves with courage.’

  ‘We have trumpets too. I can play one. I wish I had brought mine and not …’ He lifted the slingshot from the ground beside him. ‘Is it time to practise again, Uncle?’ he asked, a quaver in his voice.