A Place Called Armageddon

by C. C. Humphreys

  He looked back. Sofia, Grant and Thakos were standing before the final descent, beckoning.

  He ran up the hill. He had to know if his last target was real, not some demon who would pursue him for ever. Nearing, he saw movement, a hand reaching. Slinging his bow over his head, he drew his dagger.

  The man was small, dressed all in black, a turban helmet rolling beside him. A mask hid his face, or most of it. Some had been torn away by Gregoras’s arrow, a jagged line across the forehead, gouting blood.

  He reached and ripped the mask away. Then he stared for a long moment before he whispered her name.

  Someone was calling her. She tried to blink away the blood. The voice – his voice, she now realised – came muffled through that red mist. She did not know if she was dead. She knew her head had hit the ground hard enough to crack her skull.

  Metal on cobbles. Gregoras looked up to see bobbing yellow turbans, armoured men who’d run across a city struggling to run up a final steep ascent. From behind him came the summons of those he loved. Sheathing his dagger, he stooped, grabbed both of Leilah’s arms and lifted her over his shoulder. Then he turned and stumbled down the hill.

  – THIRTY-EIGHT –

  Faith

  Constantinople

  29 May 1453: noon

  Mehmet bent and touched his forehead to the carpet. Glory to my Lord the most high, he said silently. Allah is greater. He pressed his head there for a moment, knowing that when he raised it again his prayers would be almost over and thus so would his solitude. There was much to do, and he was excited about it: commands to give, men to muster again to his will. But for this moment, with his skin pressed into Izmiri weave, it was still just him and God, to whom everything was owed.

  He uttered the short prayer for all Muslims, asked that his sins be forgiven. Finally, he lifted his head, looked to left and right, concluding with the salaam. ‘Peace be with you,’ he said softly, ‘and the mercy of Allah.’ Then he looked to the tent’s entrance. ‘Admit them,’ he called, loudly and clearly. Canvas was lifted, men entered, knelt, bowed. His men.

  ‘Well,’ he said, smiling at Hamza and Zaganos, waving them to their feet. ‘Is all prepared?’

  ‘All, magnificence.’ Zaganos gestured outside. ‘The jackals gather at your horse’s arse, seeing who can be close enough to lick it.’

  Mehmet laughed. ‘And Candarli Halil closest of all, no doubt. Now I have triumphed, he would lay a claim to my victory and pretend he has not spent these months trying to prevent it.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, my grand vizier must take his place, and may ride nearest to me this day. But he will feel the caress of the silken bowstring soon enough. Then you, my truly faithful, will come closer.’ Both men bowed and he continued, ‘What news from the water, kapudan pasha?’

  Hamza studied Mehmet. He had seen the young man change during the course of the city’s siege. Grow older. Now he saw another change in him, a maturing, a certainty. Coolness where before there had usually been flame. It is perhaps what happens, he thought, when one’s life’s desire is attained.

  He spoke. ‘The Latins have broken the boom, and many ships have fled into the Marmara. I think Giustiniani may be amongst them, for I saw his personal banner at the foremast of one carrack.’

  ‘The lion,’ Mehmet murmured. ‘I would have liked to meet him. Offer him rich rewards for his services. What a warrior!’ He sighed. ‘And others?’

  ‘Many other Christians have taken refuge in Galata. Still more have been captured and are even now being herded and counted, readied for the slave block.’

  Mehmet nodded. ‘And the ones I most seek?’

  ‘Chosen men search for them, lord. Among the prisoners. Among the dead.’ Hamza licked his lips. ‘I know you most crave news of Constantine. There is none, beyond rumour. Some azaps say he fled to the sea walls and they claim to have killed him. But they cannot point to his body. Others say he lies yet at the breach, and men are searching in the piles of the dead. But it a long task, for the slaughter there is great.’

  ‘Dead, you think?’ Mehmet shook his head. ‘Perhaps that is for the best. For what would I do with an emperor if he lived?’ He looked beyond the canvas walls. As ever, as background to their every moment, there came the faint buzz of men, shouting. Tens of thousands of men. ‘Do any still resist?’

  ‘In a few places, lord. I have had reports of a company of Cretans who hold three towers and refuse to surrender them. They would rather die, they say, than live as slaves.’

  Mehmet considered for a moment. ‘There has been enough death – on both sides. Let them live … as free men,’ he said. ‘Order that they be accompanied to their ships and sent away with their weapons and flags.’ Hamza nodded, and he continued, ‘And the sack? It yet continues, I hear.’

  ‘It does, lord.’ Zaganos stepped forward. ‘Three days was the irade you issued. But I have been in the city a little ways. From what I have seen, such wealth as remained was stripped from it in the first three hours.’

  ‘But the places I ordered made safe? The libraries? The churches?’

  Hamza frowned. ‘Some, majesty. Your squads secured many. Perhaps not all.’

  ‘It is to be expected, if pitied.’ He sighed, then looked again beyond the otak’s walls. Musical notes were coming from there, musicians tuning their instruments. A drum was struck lightly, its voice deep. ‘It is time,’ Mehmet said.

  Both men nodded, bowed. The sultan clapped his hands, and servants rushed in. He spread his arms wide and a cloak of deepest crimson, trimmed in ermine’s fur, was passed over them. His sword was buckled on, and, lastly, his gilt-inlaid silver helmet was placed upon his head. ‘How do I look?’ he asked.

  Both men knelt. ‘Like a conqueror, lord,’ Hamza replied.

  Mehmet smiled. ‘Then let us see what it is that I have conquered.’

  He stepped from the tent. Immediately he was spotted a roar came, spreading from the troops of his guards, the solaks and the peyk, down through the massed ranks of the janissaries grouped before the gate, all crying the title of Conqueror in their own tongue.

  ‘Fatih! Fatih! Fatih!’

  He took the acclaim, arms raised. Then he strode to his white stallion, mounted it with an easy leap, gentled it swiftly with reins and soft words. When he was ready, he nodded. The mehter band struck up a march and, with kos drums sounding, trumpets blaring and banners dancing, Mehmet rode through what had been the gate of Charisius and now was to be called the Edirne kapi, into Constantinople.

  It was the Meze, the widest road in, and so Hamza was able to ride close to the sultan but to his side, leaving the viziers and belerbeys, the most senior men of the court, to jostle for position at the white stallion’s rump. Yet he was still close enough to see Mehmet’s expression change, from the justifiable pride of the conqueror to something darker, angrier. He knew what that was. The city they rode through was not the magnificence of legend. Broken-down houses were surrounded by fields untended in years. Churches stood ruined that had not been despoiled by his army. Though indeed, as they got closer to the centre of the town, as they passed through the Forum of Theodosius and then beneath the great Column of Constantine, his army’s work could be clearly seen. His stallion’s hooves crunched the shattered remnants of ikon and offertory. Men had ropes on statues, and horses attached to them, tugging forgotten heroes down to where men fell on them with hammers.

  Hamza watched his sultan’s expression lighten, as they reined in before the building all had talked about, though few of their faith had seen. The greatest building in the world perhaps. When Hamza had first seen it, on an early embassy, he had had just such an expression on his face as Mehmet had now. The dome of the Hagia Sophia seemed to reach to the very heavens.

  And then the look on Mehmet’s face clouded again and he was off his horse and striding angrily through the great shattered doors. Men who had glanced up when the Conqueror arrived had returned to their task of gouging pieces of coloured stone from the mosaic floor. �
�What do you do there, fool?’ Mehmet roared at one man, who yelped, then prostrated himself on the ground.

  ‘Lord,’ he gasped, ‘it is only the house of the infidel.’

  ‘It is my house!’ Mehmet shouted, drawing his great sword. The blade fell and all there winced, until they saw that it was the flat of the blade he brought down upon the man’s shoulder and back. ‘Mine! I gave you the contents of the city. But its buildings are mine!’ The squealing man crabbed backwards and Mehmet did not pursue him, stood breathing heavily before turning to shout at the officers behind him. ‘Give the order – the sack is to cease immediately. The army is to take such booty and slaves as it already has and withdraw to the camp. See it is done! If I witness one more man pillaging, it will not be the flat of my sword he feels!’

  Men dashed away. Those who remained watched Mehmet as he sheathed his sword then turned to the interior of the building. His gaze rose to its heights, unparalleled anywhere in the world. Then he looked to its end, where the altar and altar screen had been thrown down. A man stood there in simple dark robes, a holy man who had been sent ahead for this purpose. Mehmet nodded at him and the man ascended the pulpit that only twelve hours before had been occupied by an archbishop.

  ‘Allahu akbar!’ Aksemseddin intoned, as soldiers poured into the space, into what was now a mosque, and, imitating the Conqueror, flung themselves to the ground.

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

  Hamza had lost Mehmet then, first to prayers of thanksgiving, then to crowds of acclaimers. He had himself gone straightaway to fulfil his sultan’s orders. As kapudan pasha, the navy was his responsibility, and sailors were as much engaged in the sack as anyone else. It was midnight before exhaustion made him stop, and by then perhaps half his charges were back aboard. He would have to go out with more squads in the morning. He had not had any sleep for two days. He would have given half his considerable share of the city’s plunder for an hour of it.

  Yet it was to be denied him still. A solak came to summon him, and brought him to the long-abandoned palace of the old emperors, the Bucoleon. The archer left him at an entranceway where two other guards stood, its doors long since rotted away. Hamza stared into the darkness until flame drew his eyes, and a voice softly called, ‘Come.’

  The Conqueror was standing in the small pool of light his lantern cast. Beyond it, Hamza was aware of a vast hall. ‘Can you feel their presence?’ Mehmet murmured when he drew near.

  ‘Who, lord?’

  ‘The emperors.’ The sultan lifted the lamp, causing the spill to shift. ‘The great Constantine began this palace when he founded the city. Justinian stood here and planned the Hagia Sophia. Basil went forth with his armies from here to shatter the Bulgars. And where are they now, those great men?’ He swept his foot across the floor. ‘They are still here. But they are dust.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Do you remember what that witch said, in Edirne, a year ago?’

  ‘She said many things.’

  ‘And all have come to pass, have they not? But the first was that my sandals would stir up the dust in the old palace. And here I am, doing it.’ He passed his foot across the floor again. ‘And what became of her, my sorceress?’

  Hamza shrugged. ‘The captain of the peyk you assigned to her said she disappeared. She ran ahead of them and vanished. He returned to the church, secured it, as was his order.’

  ‘Vanished, eh? That seems … appropriate. Well, I have no doubt she will appear again. Look!’ Mehmet raised the lamp a little higher, moving away. ‘Do you see the cobwebs? Do you remember what the Persian poet said?’ His voice dropped as he softly spoke the lines.

  ‘The spider has turned watchman in the palace of the Caesars,

  And has woven his curtain before the door.

  The owl makes the royal tombs of Efrasib

  Echo with his mournful song.’

  ‘It is a beautiful verse, lord,’ Hamza murmured.

  ‘Beautiful, yes. But what of their beauty? The women and the men these emperors loved.’ He stirred the ground again. ‘Dust, too.’ He turned. ‘As we shall be. Before very long. Only dust.’

  ‘It is true, master. Our bodies shall be. But our souls …’ He smiled. ‘They will be in paradise. For Allah, most beloved, will be pleased with us.’

  Mehmet stared at him. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I am certain, Fatih. After this night’s work? The Prophet’s promise fulfilled? The holiest church in Christendom turned to a mosque? How could we not have earned our place there?’

  ‘I hope you are right, my friend. An eternity in paradise.’ The Conqueror nodded. ‘But here? Such a short time before we join these Caesars in the dust.’ He moved a few paces away, sweeping the ground before he turned. ‘So what shall we do with our brief span before that, Hamza Pasha?’

  Bey no longer, thought Hamza. A pasha. My father the tanner would be … pleased. He took a step nearer, used a title too. ‘What would you do, Sultan of Rum?’

  It was one many sultans had claimed. But only he who stood before him now had the right to own it.

  ‘Sultan of Rum? I have taken the Rome of the East, it is true. The Hagia Sophia is the Aya Sophia cami now, a holy place for the true faithful to worship within.’ A smile transformed Mehmet’s sadness, a gleam came into the eyes that Hamza recognised. ‘But why stop there? What say you that we turn St Peter’s into a mosque as well? What say you if now we go and conquer the Rome of the West?’

  Hamza smiled too. ‘Of course, lord. I am your servant, as ever. A warrior for you and Allah most merciful. Let us go and conquer Rome.’ Then a great yawn came that he could not help, so he added, ‘But can we not do it in the morning?’

  Laughter rang out then through the palace of the Caesars, and as they left, the two men’s feet raised the dust of emperors, and broke the spider’s curtain at the door.

  EPILOGUS

  ‘A Surer Possession than Virtue’

  Ragusa

  September 1460: seven years after the fall

  He finished reading, then let the paper curl back into its cone. He thought of placing it beside him on the wall where he sat, but there was a breeze blowing off the sea this morning, a small but welcome respite in the summer heat. Perhaps he would want to read it again later. Perhaps she would. So he let it drop to the tiled floor behind him where it could roll on the terrace, safe.

  For a moment, Gregoras watched the swallows swoop, soar and drop, hearing their sharp cries, then closed his eyes to the sunlight, enjoyed its heat upon his face. If he sat there longer, he would have to change his silver nose for the old one made of ivory. He should not sit; there were things he should be doing this day. Yet the breeze felt so good and the city markets would be hot and crowded. No. He would move back into the shade and watch the vessels busying past. Later, when the worst of the day’s heat was done, he would slip down to the water and swim. He sighed, content with his decision.

  ‘Sad news?’ she said, coming as silently as ever, slipping her arms around him.

  ‘You can read, if you would like.’

  ‘I would prefer it if you tell me.’

  ‘So.’ He opened his eyes, squinted at the horizon, sails upon it. The breeze here was a wind out there, pushing the ships east. ‘Another irade has been issued. All who once lived there are again asked to return. To repopulate the city. Help it rise. This time Mehmet has promised a bounty – of money, tools for their trades, a home. And all are still free to worship as they please.’ He tipped his head to the paper, caught in an eddy of air, drifting toward the entrance of the house. ‘Though Thakos says that those who go to church or synagogue must pay an extra tax and that many are converting to Islam to avoid that. I think …’ he shrugged, ‘I think he is considering doing the same. He says he will rise higher, faster if he does. And he is ambitious, as most fifteen-year-olds are.’

  ‘And does he consider what his mother will say?’ She released him, moved away as she spoke, her tone light. Since he knew that
often meant danger, he turned to look at her where she now leaned upon the wall.

  ‘I am sure he knows well,’ he said carefully. ‘Since she is the recently appointed abbess of the nunnery of Santa Maria.’

  Leilah reached up, smoothed fingers along the white scar that ran half the length of her forehead. Another warning sign. ‘You could return,’ she said bluntly, less coolly, turning to him. ‘Take the sultan’s offer. Find a house with a view there.’

  He looked her up and down. Made his look obvious. She was wearing only the light silken robe she’d put on when they’d risen a short time before, and her body pushed through it at certain points. He smiled. ‘A better view than here?’

  She did not smile. ‘Abbesses renounce their orders. Sons convert to Islam to rise. You could finally tell him that you are his father. You could tell him what you and his mother … are.’

  ‘Heya,’ he said, moving closer, though Leilah folded her arms against him like a barricade. He stopped, his voice lowering. ‘What is the matter, my love?’

  ‘I … do not know.’ Her hand reached again, rubbing puckered skin. ‘Yes, I do.’ She pulled her arms beyond his grasping hands. ‘I had the dream again last night. Of Jabir ibn Hayyan’s book. It was in my hand at last. But I could not decode any of its symbols. I tried and they just blurred.’ She dropped her hand, jerked her head to the horizon. ‘Sometimes all this feels like the dream. I think I must wake up and it will end.’

  ‘Heya,’ he said again, gentling her with his voice, reaching slowly to uncross her arms and step between them. ‘I have no desire to return there. Not one. That city is steeped in blood and memory. It took many things from me … and yet it also gave me so much.’ He pulled her close, raising the chin that fell, looking into her dark eyes. ‘It gave me you.’

  He kissed her, gently. It took a moment before she responded. But then she did, in the way she always did, completely. They turned, pressed close, to stare out at the Adriatic Sea. ‘I told you once what the old poet said,’ he continued. ‘Here, in the old shack when first we met. “A room with a good view is a surer possession than virtue.” And in the whole of Constantinople I cannot think of a better view than this. Nor better company.’ He heard a cry from within the dwelling, and smiled. ‘Nor no other son.’