Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  Anthony got back to work early the next morning; and from then on he kept his men at it sixteen hours a day — till the slipway was completed and the portage of the galleys began.

  The Byzantines were undoubtedly aware of exactly what was happening, but there was nothing they could do about it. They lacked the men to make a sortie north of the harbour.

  Hamoud now commanded the fleet, but was willing to let Anthony take over half of it. So seventy galleys were transported to the Springs, and floated down the river, while another seventy watched the boom. The Byzantine fleet did not move from its position; while the Genoese carracks were not manoeuvrable inside the narrow confines of the harbour, and could only wait and watch.

  However, they remained formidable floating castles and, although Anthony’s squadron gained the harbour without mishap, Mahomet refused to permit him to lead an assault on the boom from the rear.

  “It will not do for us to be defeated again, young Hawk.” he said. “It encourages the Byzantines too much. Your fleet will be a useful distraction. It will be needed when we decide to launch our great assault.”

  It was now 6 May, and all this while the bombards had been booming at the walls around the St Romanus Gate.

  “I believe the wall is now weak enough for us to try our iron shot,” John Hawkwood announced.

  “Then let it be done,” Mahomet commanded. “And let us have done with this place. News has reached me that a Papal fleet is sailing to relieve the city.”

  “That is but rumour, Padishah.”

  “Who can tell?” Mahomet said. “I am also informed that Constantine has despatched a brigantine in search of this fleet, to urge it to make haste. So he must believe this rumour. Should it appear on the Bosphorus we are defeated.”

  Anthony knew that the arrival of a Papal fleet of any size would indeed be a serious matter, if only because, should it defeat the Ottoman navy — as seemed possible — it would then be able to cut the Turks off from their homeland across the strait.

  *

  Next morning the entire army was assembled ready to launch an assault the moment the breach was made.

  Before dawn John Hawkwood had loaded with a stone shot, and this was fired at first light. It smashed into the wall beside the gate with unerring accuracy, but roused nothing more than the usual shouts of derision from the defenders. They had become too used to the bombardment.

  But next the bombard was loaded with one of the huge iron balls. Mahomet himself stood by to watch.

  “We are making history, Padishah,” Hawkwood told him. “Stand clear.”

  Everyone retreated as John himself applied the match.

  The bombard roared, belching smoke. As the watchers gazed at the walls, they saw the iron ball smash into the stone like an axe-head into soft wood. Splinters cascaded, and this time the cries of the defenders were ones of dismay.

  “We have them,” Mahomet shouted. “We have them. One more ball, Hawk Pasha, and the gate is broken.”

  Feverishly the gunners reloaded the cannon — but with great care. In record time the ball and its wadding were rammed down the barrel, and powder added to the touchhole. Instead of two hours, the bombard was ready in an hour and a half. Mahomet and his staff rode some distance away, the better to oversee the effects of this second shot.

  It was now nearly noon, and the sun hung in a cloudless sky, beating down on both the plain and the city — and the thousands of men accumulated there. Constantinople was silent as the Byzantines watched these preparations in consternation. No one could doubt that this might indeed knock down their gate…and no one in the city had any idea how many of these iron balls the Turks possessed.

  The glowing match in his hand, John Hawkwood looked at the Emir. “To your victory!” he shouted, and applied the flame to the touchhole.

  There was a huge explosion. Pieces of wood and iron, and pieces of men as well were hurled into the air amidst a cloud of smoke.

  For several minutes there was complete silence in both armies, then, as the smoke cleared, the extent of the catastrophe became obvious. The great bombard had all but disappeared: its carriage had disintegrated. And so had the gun crew.

  And John Hawkwood.

  Anthony dismounted from his panic-stricken horse and ran forward. He saw only boots and blood, and a shattered sword. He stared at them in horror.

  Mahomet rode up beside him. “What can have happened?”

  Anthony sobbed, “Too much powder, perhaps. Or too much haste.”

  *

  Shattered, Anthony returned to Adrianople to break the news to his mother. His father had been the rock on which his life was founded. Now, of the five of them who had set out from Southampton so confidently five years before, only his mother and himself were left.

  “It is a judgement of God,” Mary wailed. “Your father turned his back on God, when he left England to fight for the apostates. Then he leagued himself with the devil. This is the judgement of God.”

  “It was a cannon loaded in haste, Mother,” Anthony insisted. “Nothing more and nothing less.”

  “A judgement of God,” she repeated. “You alone remain, Anthony. And are you not about to die, also? What will become of me then?”

  He hurried from her presence. Because he was more than half afraid that she might be right.

  Laila attempted to comfort him. “Your father has now gone to join mine,” she said. “My heart bleeds for you.”

  That night she made love to him with more warmth than on any occasion since his return from Wallachia.

  *

  Upon his return to the Turkish camp, Anthony was hailed as the new Hawk Pasha and presented with the horsetail wand.

  “This is fitting,” Mahomet told him. “You will be a more illustrious man than even your father.”

  Soon he was preparing yet another assault — but this too was repulsed. There was now an air of desperation in the Turkish camp. The cannon continued to boom, but the smaller bombards could not do sufficient damage. Next a resort was made to mining, and huge shafts were driven beneath the city walls. But the German engineer, Johann Grant, counter-mined, and grim battles were fought under the earth, invariably to the Turks’ disadvantage.

  Next Mahomet constructed a helepolis, or city-taker, an immense wooden tower able to hold a hundred men, which could be pushed up against the walls, whereupon a drawbridge would be lowered across the battlements, and the Turks could rush across. But Giustiniani destroyed it by rolling barrels of gunpowder down the slope of the fosse against it, and blowing it too to smithereens.

  Mahomet stared at the city in a mixture of dismay and admiration. “How they fight,” he growled. “What I would give to have that man Guistiniani on my side.”

  *

  Turkish prospects were now becoming truly serious. If there was still no sign of the Papal fleet, rumours began to circulate that Hunyadi was contemplating breaking the treaty he had agreed the previous year, and would descend upon the Bosphorus with an army; the Christians would never have a better opportunity to deal the Ottomans a deathblow, while they were so heavily committed…and while their morale was so low.

  More important was the logistical position. Mahomet had steadfastly replaced even his enormous losses by sending for yet more levies of men from Asia, and these duly arrived. But, as May drew to a close, Halil had to inform his master that there was not sufficient food to supply the army for more than another week.

  “How can this be?” Mahomet demanded angrily.

  “Padishah, when we commenced this campaign I ordered food for one hundred and fifty thousand men to last for two months. I could not conceive that the siege would take longer, and I assumed that our numbers would be diminished as the weeks went by. But the siege has now lasted two months, and our numbers are undiminished. I have sent to the Black Sea for more corn, but the weather has been unfavourable…”

  “It was my intention to starve the Byzantines, if need be,” Mahomet grumbled, “not to starve myself. Then
are you saying we are defeated, old man?”

  Halil Pasha bowed his shoulders in shame. The Emir looked around the faces of his other pashas, and saw defeat there, too.

  “We are defeated,” he said.

  “With respect, Padishah,” Anthony began.

  “Ever faithful, Hawk Pasha. Speak.”

  “We have now besieged Constantinople for two months. In that time we have suffered grievous casualties; we have expended nearly all our ammunition; we have eaten up nearly all our food; and we are truly dispirited. We can, if you wish it, now cease this siege and return to our homes, and plan to come again when our strength is renewed. But should we not look at the situation through Byzantine eyes? For nearly two months they have been besieged; in all that time only four ships have got through to them. There is no certain word of any others coming. In that time, have they not also suffered grievous casualties? Have they not also expended nearly all their ammunition? Have they not also eaten up nearly all their food? And, unlike us, they cannot say ‘Enough’, and ride away. They must stay there at our discretion. So is their morale not bound to be even lower than our own?”

  “What of Hunyadi? What of the Papal fleet?”

  “These are but rumours, O Padishah. Rumours do not fill an empty belly or an empty quiver.”

  “By Allah, but the boy is right!” shouted Zagan Pasha. “Padishah, you remember Alexander the Macedonian, whom we call the Great. He conquered the known world with an army but a fifth the size of yours, overcoming every hardship. Will you let one city stand in your way? Order a general assault, Padishah, and order too that it will not cease until the city is ours. Let us give you victory, or let us die. For we are men — and we are Ottomans!”

  *

  Mahomet’s enthusiasm then returned. He commanded every man in the camp to make preparation for a decisive assault. For the next two days and nights, while the cannon continued to boom, the Ottomans worked in light and in darkness; no less than two thousand scaling ladders were prepared, as well as iron hooks to pull down the barricades which had been erected on the walls, and fascines to fill the ditch.

  During these two days Constantinople seemed surrounded continually by a ring of glowing fire.

  On the second evening after the work had commenced, on 31 May 1453, Mahomet summoned Anthony to join him, and rode away from the camp to where the guns were for the moment silent.

  The wind was in the east, and towards them from the city drifted the sound of bells, and music, and the voices of people singing.

  “Are they mad?” Mahomet asked. “They are celebrating their doom?”

  “No,” Anthony said, recognising the music. “They are holding a Te Deum. They are singing the praises of God, that they may either conquer or die tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Mahomet said. “Tomorrow will be the greatest day of my life, Hawk Pasha.’

  “And mine, Padishah. I would beg to be allowed to take part in the assault.”

  “And be killed?”

  “I have my father to avenge. And my brother.”

  “That is your duty.” Mahomet said. “I would not have you die. But…” He glanced at Anthony again. “I have received sad news today also. My mother, the Emir Valideh, is close to death. It is said I will not see her again. It should be my duty to return to her side, but she has bidden me not to return without victory.”

  Anthony said nothing.

  “Is that not strange. Hawk Pasha? As she is a Christian herself.”

  “The Emir Valideh has identified herself with your cause, and thus you, Padishah.”

  “Yes,” Mahomet mused. “She is an exceptional woman, would you not agree?”

  “I? How may I offer an opinion on the Emir Valideh?”

  Mahomet smiled. “My mother and I have no secrets from each other, Hawk Pasha.”

  Anthony felt his stomach muscles tighten.

  “She saw you the first night you were brought before me,” Mahomet said. “My father had been dead but two weeks. But she is a woman! That night she told me, ‘He is mine, my son’.” Mahomet smiled. “I would have claimed you for my own, but I could not gainsay my mother. I envied you your joy, and begged her for discretion. This she has kept, as have you. If one word of your visits to the seraglio had ever escaped, I would have been obliged to have you flayed alive.”

  “I do not doubt it, Padishah,” Anthony said, surprised to be able to speak.

  “But you have played well the part she chose for you. And I believe you have given much pleasure to her declining years. Yes, I envy you. But you will not see her again. Will you weep?”

  “Yes, Padishah.”

  “All the more reason for us to conquer here tomorrow, in her name. The Byzantines call her harlot, and more besides. Think of that when you assault these walls, Hawk Pasha.” Mahomet turned his head. “You will sit at my right hand, always. Have I not said this? I desire your mind and your support more than your body. But…” he leaned across and kissed Anthony on the mouth. “What lovers we could have been, my Englishman.”

  *

  It began to drizzle as they returned to camp. The time was midnight.

  “All is ready, Padishah,” Halil said.

  “Then have the fires doused, and tell the men to sleep,” Mahomet said. “You also, Hawk Pasha.”

  “Where do I fight tomorrow, my lord?”

  “Do you not wish to command the squadron in the Golden Horn?”

  “They can but fire at the defenders. I wish to take part in the main assault.”

  Mahomet considered for some seconds. “Then you will fight with Zagan.” he said at last. “You will lead the assault on the Xylo Porta. But, Hawk…make sure you return to me.”

  “I will do that, Padishah,” Anthony promised.

  He rode off into the darkness. As the orders were circulated, all the Ottoman camp fires were being extinguished, and the plain was shrouded only in the rain.

  To the east, Constantinople still glowed with light. No one was sleeping there tonight.

  His mother had said that her husband John Hawkwood had sold his soul to the Devil. How much more had he himself done that. Mahomet was a devil, but a victorious one. And having chosen the side of the Devil, no man could afford to look over his shoulder. He would also be a devil, and prosper. The name of Hawk Pasha would reverberate through the world, and strike terror into the hearts of those who would oppose him.

  Beginning with tomorrow, when he led his men into the city.

  Everything would depend upon tomorrow. But tomorrow was now today.

  *

  This time, as Zagan had recommended, the assault was to be carried through without respite until victory was achieved. The main attack was to be launched again along the valley of the Lycus, at the St Romanus Gate. This was intended to draw all the Byzantine defenders to that place, and thus deplete the walls elsewhere for the rest of the Turkish forces. Then the ships in the Golden Horn were required to play their part.

  This time there was no awaiting the hour of prayer. It was still dark when the drums began to sound and the trumpets to blow. As the Turkish camps came alive, men began to shout.

  The rain had stopped but the ground was soggy, as in the gloom the bashi-bazouks moved forward against the St Romanus Gate.

  They were met with the same resolute return fire, and they lacked the courage of previous assaults; too many of their comrades had died. Soon they sought to retreat, but were driven back to the contest by their chaoushes, who ranged up and down the ranks armed with iron maces and chain-whips.

  Thus coerced, they returned to the assault, but after a while Mahomet signalled for them to be withdrawn, and sent in the Anatolian levies instead.

  Watching from their position to the north, where no attack had yet been launched, Zagan Pasha and Hawk Pasha observed the Anatolians actually climb over the outer rim of the defences, to reach the area running between the inner and outer walls — the peribolos.

  “You were right, Hawk Pasha,” Zagan said,
“The defence is weakening.”

  But the Anatolians were soon driven out by the desperate resistance of the Genoese who defended that portion of the wall. However, Anthony, studying the wall by the Xylo Porta, could see more and more men hurrying from there towards the defence of St Romanus.

  Mahomet observed this as well. Again the drums sounded. The Anatolians retired, and now the Janissaries commenced their advance, racing at the walls with loud cries.

  “Now,” Anthony bellowed.

  He dismounted and placed himself at the head of Zagan’s Janissaries, and they too advanced. Waving his scimitar, Anthony was surrounded by shrieks and yells, by flying lead and flying steel.

  The defences around the Xylo Porta had been so weakened that the ladders were soon set in place, and the assault on the outer wall commenced. Climbing up the nearest ladder behind two Janissaries, Anthony gained the battlements and was amazed to find no resistance there at all. The defenders had been withdrawn to the inner, higher wall, whence they were shooting at the intruders.

  “On!” Anthony shouted, and jumped down into the peribolos, followed by his men, who were dragging their ladders with them. All the time the Byzantines continued pouring arrows and rocks and boiling oil upon them. Anthony was ordering the ladders to be set up again, when one of the Janissaries seized his arm and pointed.

  He could hardly believe his eyes. A small door in the wall stood open!

  Pointing with his scimitar, he ran for it, his men at his heels. They burst through the doorway and found themselves in a street of the city. A group of people stared at them in horror, mostly women and children passing food and munitions up to the soldiers on the wall above.

  “To the St Romanus Gate,” Anthony yelled. “We can take them in the rear.”

  Some fifty men had come through the gate with him, but even such a small body could produce a decisive effect in the right place.

  Behind them, Byzantine soldiers hurried down the steps to close and bar the gate they had so carelessly left open. Then Anthony changed his mind: instead of attempting to force his way through the crowded streets to the St Romanus Gate, he would lead his small band up the same steps on to the wall, and rush the nearest tower. Here they found but a handful of Byzantines, who were quickly despatched.