Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  Above them the Byzantine flag swirled in the morning breeze. It was the work of a moment to haul it down, and replace it with the green flag of the Ottomans. Instantly there arose a tremendous cheer from the Ottomans outside, and a howl of despair from the Byzantines within.

  Armed men surged on to the wall to attack the tower. Shoulder to shoulder with his Janissaries, Anthony repulsed them once, then twice, his sword dripping blood, his voice hoarse from yelling orders. The fight continued…

  Then a whisper had rippled along the wall. “Giustiniani is wounded,” it said. “Giustiniani has abandoned the defence.” The Byzantines hesitated, looking over their shoulders. Anthony knew now was the moment for action, but he and his men were exhausted; there were only thirty of them left.

  Then there came another whisper: “The Emperor is dead. Constantine is no more.”

  Suddenly the Byzantines turned and fled for the false security of the inner city.

  Constantinople had fallen.

  *

  Catherine Notaras raised her head. The noise had changed.

  In place of the shouts of anger and defiance, now there were cries of fear, shrieks of anticipation.

  Had the unthinkable happened?

  With every day that passed, the prospects of maintaining the siege until succour arrived had seemed to grow. The day her father had been blown to pieces by his own monstrosity had appeared to set the seal on their security. And, since then, every Turkish assault had been repulsed — as they would always be repulsed, surely? As one day a Genoese fleet would come sailing up the Bosphorus, surely?

  When it became obvious, three days before, that the Ottomans were preparing for a yet more desperate assault, there had been an air of calm determination in the capital. The Emperor had called the faithful to church to reaffirm their confidence in the future of their city.

  The great cathedral had been packed to the doors, and vast crowds had gathered outside. It was as if the people of Constantinople had at last thrown aside their contemptible divisions and petty squabbles, their naive belief that their city was inviolable simply because of the will of God, and had come together as a united nation determined to fight for their right to survive.

  Catherine had gone to bed last night in a mood of defiant optimism. No matter that conditions within the city were desperate, that the dead lay unburied in the streets, that a loaf of bread was almost unobtainable… Thanks to its enormous reservoirs Constantinople had all the water it needed, and if the Turks had opted for one last great assault, then the people of Byzantium were confident that they could be repelled.

  She had lain in her room since the attack had begun before dawn, her pillows over her ears, trying to shut out the noise of combat, awaiting only the moment that someone should come to tell her the Turks were again defeated, and retiring.

  But now…

  She left her bed, pulled her dressing-robe round her shoulders, and gazed at her husband standing in the doorway. Basil Notaras’ armour was smeared with blood, he had lost his helmet and his hair was wild. He could only stare at her.

  “Basil?” she whispered. “What has happened?”

  “We are lost.”

  “Lost?” Her voice rose an octave. “How can that be?”

  His shoulders sagged. “Giustiniani was wounded, and his men insisted upon carrying him to the rear. The Emperor begged him to stay on the wall: even wounded, he would have been worth something. It was at this juncture that some Turks gained access to the city by an unguarded postern. There were not many of them, but they seized a tower and hoisted the Ottoman flag. When he saw that, and with Giustiniani gone, the Emperor leapt from the wall into the midst of Janissaries, and laid about him until he was struck down.” He sobbed. “I saw it all happen.”

  Catherine listened. The noise of fear was overlaid with yet another sound: a swelling paean of triumphant lust. She found both hands clutching her breast; she felt a very real pain there.

  “Quickly,” Basil said. “My father will be here shortly. He says that we are to withdraw to the cellars, and hide there for the first excesses to be exhausted. Then we will declare ourselves for ransom. It is the only way.”

  “What of Anna? We must bring her here.”

  “She must find her own salvation. Make haste and dress yourself.”

  Catherine dropped her dressing-gown on the floor and reached for her clothing, wondering what had happened to her maids. All fled, no doubt. But where could they flee to, in this shattered city?

  “You cannot just abandon your sister,” she protested.

  “It is up to her husband to save her. For God’s sake, hasten.”

  She ran behind him down the stairs, pausing only to look through a window. Smoke already rose above the city, where it had been fired. Crowds of people ran to and fro in the streets, screaming in terror and misery.

  Some were attempting to shift valuables from their houses, as if they had anywhere to take them. While above them all rose that dreadful howl of bloodthirsty triumph. She looked down the stairs at the drapes and the ikons, the luxurious appointments of the ducal palace. What was about to happen to them? What was about to happen to her?

  They reached the lower hall, and found Michael the major-domo standing there, like some immovable statue. With him was the Grand Duchess, weeping and wringing her hands.

  Basil Notaras turned to face the doors, which stood ajar. The servants had fled, but at least the gates were closed. Now they trembled to the force of many shoulders.

  “Oh my God!” The Grand Duchess fell to her knees and began to pray.

  “Mama!” Anna Drakontes ran in from the back of the house. Her hair was loose, the splendid braids a thing of the past. Her face was a white mask of terror.

  “Mama!” she screamed. “The Turks are in the city. They are everywhere. Mama, they are killing all the men…” She paused, staring at the trembling gates.

  “The cellar!” Basil cried. “The cellar.”

  Catherine went to her sister-in-law and put her arm round her shoulders. Already it was too late; the gates were giving way, and men were swarming over the walls.

  She had never seen a Turk close to. Now she gazed in awe at their long moustaches, hooked noses and the fiercest visages she had ever known.

  Her muscles seemed to freeze, as the intruders ran up the steps towards them, waving their blood-stained scimitars. One even carried a lance thrust through the body of a small child, brandishing the corpse like a banner above his head.

  They brought with them the stench of men who had fought, and been afraid, and now had triumphed.

  Behind them rose the stench of burning houses, and burning flesh.

  Michael stepped forward with upraised hands, as if to halt them. A scimitar flashed, and the major-domo toppled down the steps, his head all but severed from his neck. He had uttered not a sound.

  The Turks surged past him, and Catherine closed her eyes. She felt Anna’s body tensing against hers, Anna’s breasts swelling against her arm as the younger girl began to scream.

  Suddenly she was torn from Catherine’s arms.

  Basil fell to his knees. “Spare us,” he shouted. “We are nobles! We are for ransom!”

  Catherine was surrounded by excited, obscene laughter. She had experienced nothing like this since Naples — when Anthony had defended her.

  But Anthony would not defend her now.

  It seemed the Turks took notice of what Basil had to say; the richness of their surroundings suggested this indeed was a wealthy family. As hands seized her arms, Catherine opened her eyes to see her husband being stripped of his clothing and bound.

  But that did not mean the victors would not first have their sport with them.

  The Grand Duchess was already lying naked on the floor. She was a plump, comfortable woman, and the Turks chattered their approbation as they clambered over her.

  Anna was also on the floor; she too had been stripped. Her slender body writhed, her legs kicking feebly, as a m
an knelt between them. Her hair flailed to left and right and thin screams issued from her lips.

  Catherine was hurled on the floor too, her head aching where it struck the marble.

  She gazed at faces leering down at her, heard the ripping of cloth and felt a sudden chill on her belly. She wanted to scream, but could not. As men closed in about her, she could see others climbing on each other’s shoulders to tear down the ikons; others running here and there with priceless ornaments. Everywhere yelling and shouting.

  A man was kneeling between her legs, and she looked down in panic at the whiteness of her naked limbs against the green of the Anatolian’s tunic as he grasped her buttocks and raised her from the floor, the better to thrust himself into her.

  Another crouched beside her, pawing her breasts. As soon as the first man had expended his lust, he pushed him aside and took his place.

  Why do I not die? she wondered. Why do not the heavens open and blast down thunderbolts upon this stricken city?

  Catherine Hawkwood finally wept as the second man rolled off her, and she was turned over on to her face.

  *

  The sun was high over the city, which reeked of blood and fear and smoke, and the flames began to spread.

  As Mahomet II walked his horse through the St Romanus Gate, the animal picked its way delicately through mounds of dead bodies. Mahomet gazed around at his Turkish soldiers intent on emptying the houses of everything movable; on raping women and children — or from time to time murdering them, heedless of pitiful pleas for mercy; on dragging Turkish corpses to one side, Byzantine to the other. They castrated the Christians so that their severed genitals could be counted to assess the casualties; it made no difference whether the Christians were dead or merely wounded — they would soon be dead in any event. The morning was filled with shrieks of terror, yells of passion, moans of agony, wails of despair, barking dogs, collapsing timbers.

  The soldiers scarcely paused in their bloody work to salute their Emir.

  Waiting for Mahomet inside the gate were Halil Pasha and Hawk Pasha.

  “I hear it was you who raised the flag,” Mahomet said. “Blessed is the day you came to me, young Hawk.”

  They rode on through the streets, now filled with rampaging bashi-bazouks and Anatolians and Janissaries. At one point they watched a young girl dragged from her house, screaming in terror, to be raped at the roadside by half a dozen men in turn, clawing at her white body in their lust.

  “Can you not stop this, Padishah?” Anthony asked, sickened at the sight.

  “My men have fought long and well, and have suffered grievous casualties. It is right to allow them some pleasure now,” Mahomet said firmly.

  They rode on through the White Gate and into old Byzantium. By then Anthony had seen so much horror it no longer made sense to him. The Janissaries were everywhere inside the old city, looting and raping and burning. A pall of smoke began to drift across the splendid palaces, to match that already shrouding the outer city.

  “The city will be destroyed if you do not stop them,” Anthony ventured.

  Mahomet nodded, and turned to Halil. “Have the men brought under control. They may retain any booty or women they have seized, but the fires must be extinguished.”

  Halil bowed.

  Mahomet directed his horse towards the portico of the Imperial Palace. “Constantine at least died like a man,” he said, “but not all of his people had his courage.” The Emir urged his mount up the steps and into the throne-room, its hooves echoing on polished marble. As he looked around him, he said, “The spider’s curtain hangs before the portal of Caesar’s palace, and the owl stands sentinel on the watch-tower of Afrasiab.”

  Anthony dismounted and held his master’s bridle.

  Mahomet climbed down and began to pace through the palace rooms, his bodyguard hurrying behind him. They came upon terrified women and weeping children.

  “Who are these?” Mahomet asked. “Are these Constantine’s women?”

  “No, Padishah,” one of the captains answered. “They are merely servants.”

  “Take them outside and share them,” Mahomet said. He entered the banqueting hall and sat down in the huge imperial chair.

  “I wish food,” he told one of his aides. “Byzantine food. Have them bring me what Constantine ate.” He smiled. “If there is anything left here.”

  An aide hurried off.

  “Come sit at my right hand, Hawk Pasha,” Mahomet ordered. “You and your father are the architects of my victory, and I am sorry he did not live to share our triumph.” He beckoned to one of his captains. “I wish all the prisoners of noble birth brought before me.”

  Food was placed on the table, and Mahomet ate hungrily. He offered some to Anthony, but Anthony could hardly swallow. He realised that the tragedy of Constantinople had hardly begun.

  Suddenly two men were dragged in by the Janissaries, both bruised and wounded. “Their names are Bocchiardi, O Padishah,” said the captain.

  Anthony recognised them, as they undoubtedly recognised him.

  Mahomet gazed at them, while they endeavoured to face him out.

  “Behead them,” Mahomet commanded curtly.

  “Can you not save us, Monsignore Hawkwood?” one of the brothers asked.

  Anthony made no reply.

  “Courage,” said the other brother.

  They were thrown to the floor, and the scimitars flashed. Blood spilled across the marble floor.

  “Place their heads on the table before me,” Mahomet said, continuing to eat.

  Anthony gazed at the gaping mouths and sightless eyes. I have sold my soul to the very devil, he thought in horror.

  Three women were then brought in, their fine clothes torn and dishevelled, their hair loose and tumbling past their shoulders. Anthony’s heart surged, but they were not those he sought.

  “They say they are Paleologi, Padishah,” the captain said.

  “Throw them to my Janissaries,” Mahomet said.

  The women stared at him in horror. “Kind sir,” one ventured.

  “Take them out,” Mahomet said. “And when my men are weary of them, strike off their heads.”

  There was a reason for this terrible vengeance, Anthony realised: Mahomet was purposely inscribing the terror of his name on history for all eternity.

  So the grim work went on, and the line of dripping heads on the table grew. Mahomet continued his meal.

  Two hours later there was a row of twenty heads on the table. It was then that Hawkwood caught his breath as one particular group of captives was driven into the room.

  Anthony started to rise, but forced himself back into his seat. His mind had become so attuned to horror that he had not immediately recognised them. The men and the women had been stripped naked, and had been thus marched through the streets for all to see. One was a tall and auburn-haired woman, with a magnificently full figure and tear-stained cheeks: he had never seen his sister naked before. The second was slender and dark beside her, small breasts trembling as she looked from left to right in terror. The third, short and plump, had once been the wife of the most powerful subject in the empire.

  With the women stood four men. Anthony now recognised the Grand Duke and Basil and Alexius. The fourth man he did not know, but he guessed him to be Count Drakontes.

  As they stared at the heads on the table, the blood on the floor, the women shuddered and held each other close.

  The Grand Duke stepped forward. “I am the Grand Duke Lukas Notaras,” he said as boldly as he could. “My wealth is beyond measure. I will ransom myself and my family, Emir.”

  Mahomet stared at him. “Notaras,” he said. “Yes, I have heard of you.”

  Notaras endeavoured to meet his steady gaze but could not.

  “Behead him,” Mahomet commanded abruptly.

  Anthony gasped.

  Notaras stared at the Emir in terror.

  “No!” shrieked the Grand Duchess, and fell to her knees. “For the sake of Heaven�
��”

  The Janissaries seized the Grand Duke and threw him to his knees.

  The Grand Duchess screamed again, and fell to the floor in a swoon as the head of her husband rolled across the floor. The heads of the other three men followed immediately.

  Anna and Catherine had also fallen to their knees, still holding each other close.

  Anthony rose to his feet, staring at them.

  As did Mahomet. “By the beard of the prophet,” he said, “Is that your sister, young Hawk?”

  “Yes, Padishah,” Anthony said.

  Hawkwood gazed at Catherine, who seemed to have only just recognised him.

  “Anthony?” she whispered. “Oh my God, Anthony? You have murdered our husbands.”

  Anthony could not reply to this.

  “Stand, woman,” Mahomet said.

  Catherine hesitated, then rose to her feet. Anna Notaras rose with her, afraid to let her go.

  Mahomet stroked his beard as he appraised her. “Truly you are Hawk Pasha’s sister,” he said. “Had you not already been married…but no matter. I give her to you, young Hawk. Take her home to her mother, and let them both grieve for her father and yours.”

  “I would rather die,” Catherine cried. “You are heartless murderers, devils from hell both of you. I would rather die!”

  “And be sure you whip her soundly,” Mahomet said. “She is in sore need of it.” He turned to the captain, who was arranging the bloodied heads of the Grand Duke, his sons and Count Drakontes on the table. “Give the other women to my soldiers.”

  The Grand Duchess moaned from the floor. Anna clung even more tightly to Catherine.

  “I know it is what they deserve, O Padishah,” Anthony began. “And you have been more than generous in the matter of my sister. But this is a woman whom I once wished to love…”

  Mahomet raised his head. “Indeed? Come closer, girl.”

  Anna shrank away from him, but was seized and thrust forward by one of the Janissaries. She stumbled to her knees before the table, staring in horror at her father’s head immediately before her.

  “You wish her as well?” Mahomet asked.