Siege

by Jack Hight

  'Now, off to your wife,' Murad ordered. 'She has waited long for your return and must be eager to see her husband.' Sitt Hatun sat motionless amidst a profusion of silk cushions, waiting patiently while two jariye — female house slaves — applied her makeup, highlighting her dark, oval eyes and her small, full mouth. Sitt Hatun was accustomed to waiting. After her marriage to Mehmed, she had waited in vain, night after night, for him to lie with her. When Mehmed had been sent in shame to Manisa, she had waited for him to call her to him from Edirne. Then, she had waited for Mehmed to return from war in Kossova. Now, that wait was over.

  Mehmed would be joining her soon. Murad would make him spend his first night in Edirne in her bed. But while he might allow her to pleasure him, he would not fulfil his duty as her husband. Mehmed had made it clear from the first that he was not interested in giving her a son. At first, his rejection had confused Sitt Hatun. Petite but with a curving figure, golden skin and slender limbs, Sitt Hatun drew envious stares from the other women of the harem, and before her marriage she had received her share of suitors. Even now, living in the harem where entry meant death for any man who was not a eunuch or of the royal family, there were men who had risked their very lives to make their interest in her known. Mehmed, however, was not interested. Sitt Hatun knew now that he preferred another type of beauty.

  From the window of her chamber, Sitt Hatun had watched Gulbehar enter the harem. Tall and blonde, with fair skin and high cheekbones, Gulbehar was everything that Sitt Hatun was not. She was a nobody, a slave girl whose father was not even a born Muslim. Yet Mehmed had chosen her as his favourite, and there were even rumours that Gulbehar was pregnant with his child. As bas haseki — mother of the heir — Gulbehar would be entitled to honours that Sitt Hatun would never receive. Sitt Hatun would be sultana in name only, just as she was now wife only in name. Unless she listened to Halil…

  'Wife,' Mehmed called out, snapping her from her thoughts. He was there, in the entrance room to her chambers. Sitt Hatun waved her attendants away and moved to greet him, gliding through her chambers in a transparent, silken gown.

  'Greetings, husband,' she said and curtsied low before him, revealing her ample cleavage. 'I am overjoyed at your safe return.'

  Mehmed took her hand and raised her up. 'You have been well, wife?' he asked, stiff and formal.

  'As well as I can be, with my husband gone,' Sitt Hatun replied with a smile. Mehmed did not smile back.

  'I am sorry to inform you that you will be moving to smaller apartments,' he said. 'You will have to reduce the size of your court.'

  'But why? Have I done something to displease you?' Sitt Hatun prostrated herself, even though she knew she had done no wrong. 'If I have, then punish me.'

  'No, you have not displeased me. Gulbehar will be taking your apartments. As mother of my child, she will need a large court.'

  'I understand,' Sitt Hatun replied. So it was true. This Gulbehar already bore the child that should by right be Sitt Hatun's, and now she took her apartments as well. It was almost too much to bear. Sitt Hatun dug her nails into her palms as she struggled to control her anger. Finally, she stood and managed to ask demurely, 'Would you like to sit? Some wine?'

  'No,' Mehmed said. 'I wish to sleep. I am tired.'

  'Shall I give you a massage, to help you rest more peacefully?'

  Mehmed gave her a long look — whether of desire, pity or both she could not tell — and shook his head. 'I wish to sleep, wife.'

  In their large bed, with its silken sheets and elaborate canopy, Mehmed lay rigidly still, an arm's length from Sitt Hatun. She listened as his breathing slowed to the rhythmic cadence of sleep. She had hoped that tonight would be different, that his great victory would have changed Mehmed, allowing him to put aside his rivalry with his father. She still hoped that someday he would give her a child. Maybe he only needed some encouragement.

  Sitt Hatun eased herself across the bed towards Mehmed. Gently, she placed her hand on his bare chest. He did not move; his breathing was still easy. She stroked his chest gently, and then moved her hand down slowly, slowly. Mehmed stirred in his sleep, but made no move to stop her. Sitt Hatun leaned forward and kissed his ear, moving her hand still lower, past his stomach.

  Mehmed's hand caught hers, gripping it painfully. He was awake, his face right beside hers, his breath hot on her face. 'Wife,' he whispered, his every word a threat, 'you know the punishment prescribed in the Koran for taking that which is not yours?'

  'Yes, husband.'

  'Good,' Mehmed said. 'Then keep your hand to yourself if you wish to keep it.' He continued to look at her, and the anger faded from his eyes. He ran his hand along the length of her side and then stroked her black hair. 'But if you insist,' Mehmed continued, his voice altered, deeper now, 'then you may pleasure me.' He gripped her hair and forced her head down. Sitt Hatun grimaced in distaste as she placed the tip of his sik in her mouth. She knew better than to refuse.

  Mehmed hardened immediately and arched his back, thrusting against her so that she gagged. Within minutes he climaxed and collapsed back with a moan of pleasure. Sitt Hatun turned aside and spit out his seed, wasted. When she turned back, Mehmed had already settled in to sleep, his back to her. Sitt Hatun lay back, tears in her eyes. It was humiliating to be treated as little better than a concubine, good only for pleasure. She knew now that Mehmed would never lie with her. Nothing would change that, not success at war, nor even his father's death. She would be locked away in the harem all her life, shamed and childless.

  She thought once more of the proposal that Halil had made to her. If Mehmed died, and she had a son, then her child would be the sultan when he came of age. No matter that the child would be Halil's and not Mehmed's. That secret would be theirs alone. Sitt Hatun would be the valide sultana — mother of the sultan — and Halil the ruler until their son came of age. And Gulbehar? Sitt Hatun would enjoy devising a suitable end for the Albanian whore and her bastard child.

  But no, Sitt Hatun sighed. These were just dreams. Reality was sleeping right there beside her. She would be mad to join Halil's plotting. Mehmed was a vengeful man. Sitt Hatun had heard of Boghaz Pasha's gruesome death. Mehmed would not hesitate to do the same to her if she did not keep her place.

  Still, to see her own son seated on the throne, to take her rightful place in the harem, to no longer have to serve as Mehmed's whore… Sitt Hatun wiped away her tears. Crying would not change her fate. Only she could do that.

  Chapter 3

  DECEMBER 1448: CONSTANTINOPLE

  'I proclaim you, Demetrius Dragases, Emperor of Rome, heir to Caesar, ruler of Constantinople, Selymbria and Morea,' Patriarch Mammas intoned. His gold-embroidered white robe was heavy with rain, and tiny drops of water ran off his nose in a continual stream as he made the sign of the cross over the kneeling Demetrius. 'Rise, Emperor Demetrius.'

  Demetrius stood to the half-hearted acclamation of the nobles who surrounded him. Notaras had promised five hundred men, but the day had dawned grey with a drenching rain that had turned the streets to mud and the forum of Theodosius into a quagmire. Less than four hundred nobles had braved the weather, and they were soaked and cold. 'Hail Demetrius, Emperor of the Romans,' they grumbled once or twice. It was clear that they were ready to move on to the warmth of the Blachernae Palace.

  'May God grant me the wisdom to rule with justice and the strength to guard with steel the empire of which he has made me the emperor,' Demetrius declared, his words concluding the ceremony. All around him, men were already hurrying to their horses. Patriarch Mammas had disappeared, no doubt eager to dry off. The moment was not how Demetrius had envisioned it. He had dreamed of cheering crowds, proud speeches, himself framed majestically in the towering Triumphal Arch of Theodosius. Instead, the ceremony had been cut short, and other than the nobles, there were only a handful of citizens who had come out in the rain to watch the spectacle. Behind him, the Triumphal Arch had been transformed into a waterfall, with rainwater cascading
down the front from its broad, flat top. Still, he was emperor, rain or no.

  A servant handed Demetrius the reins to his horse. He mounted and led a dreary procession through the city and to the imperial palace. He arrived in a foul mood and stormed into the great hall, followed closely by the nobles. The hall was dim, the high windows shuttered. In the flickering torchlight, Demetrius was surprised to see his mother, Helena, seated on the throne with the entire court flanking her.

  'Welcome, my son. I have been expecting you. I am disappointed that you could not arrive in time for your brother's funeral. Selymbria is so close.'

  'I came as soon as I heard the tragic news, Mother,' Demetrius said.

  'Of course,' Helena replied. 'Fortunately, you have arrived well in advance of your brother, Constantine. You will not also miss the entrance of our next emperor.'

  'You are in error, Mother. It is I who am to be crowned. Surely you have heard that I was proclaimed emperor this morning.'

  'Were you indeed?' Helena feigned surprise. 'And who was it that proclaimed you emperor?' Demetrius thought he saw her make a single, sharp signal with her right hand, and behind him he heard a muffled thump, as if something very heavy were being moved into place. What was it? he wondered. No matter, he had more than enough men to subdue the palace guard. His mother could do nothing to stop him.

  'The very men who stand before you, nobles all, proclaimed me emperor. Patriarch Mammas gave his blessing to my reign.'

  'Did he?' Helena arched an eyebrow. 'I fear your reign will be a short one.'

  'Do not fear, Mother. The men with me are sworn to protect their emperor, with their lives if needs be.' Demetrius drew his sword, and the nobles gathered behind him followed suit. 'I have come for the crown, Mother.' His voice was flat and menacing. 'Give it to me.'

  'Demetrius, surely you would not harm your own mother?' Helena seemed to blanch a shade whiter at the sight of drawn steel. Good, Demetrius thought. She was afraid.

  'Of course not, Mother. These men are here only to protect their emperor. They strike only those who defy me. They would never dream of harming you.'

  'Do you swear it?' Helena asked.

  'Of course, Mother.' Demetrius had never intended to harm her. Once he had the crown, he would send her to a convent in the country.

  'Good,' Helena said. 'Then this audience is at an end.' She nodded her head once, curtly. In an instant the shutters flew back from the windows above them, flooding the hall with light. Archers with bows drawn stood in each opening, their forms black against the white light.

  'The doors!' Demetrius shouted. His men rushed to the entrance, but the doors held fast, barred from the other side. What a fool he had been! He looked to the small door at the far side of the room, past the throne. Already, the courtiers had filed out, replaced by guardsmen. The small door closed, and Demetrius heard the thump of the lock bar sliding into place. They were trapped.

  Behind Demetrius, the nobles swirled noisily, a panic-stricken mass. Several were feverishly hacking at the thick doors to the hall, doing more damage to their swords than to the wood. Others tried in vain to scale the sheer stone walls and reach the windows. Here and there, Demetrius heard cries of fear rising above the general clamour. 'We're dead men!' 'Charge the door!' 'Take Helena!'

  A man charged forward from the crowd, making for Helena. Demetrius heard the twang of bowstrings, and the man fell dead, his body riddled with arrows. A few more men charged, and suddenly the room was filled with the hiss of arrows and the cries of the wounded. A noble, arrows protruding from his chest, lurched towards Helena, and Demetrius himself stepped forward and struck the man down. He had sworn, fool that he was, that no harm would come to his mother.

  'Silence!' Helena's voice rang out imperiously above the din. She stood imposingly before the throne, bathed in light, her hand held high in a sign to desist. The arrows stopped, and the hall fell silent.

  'Gentlemen,' Helena said. 'You have been deceived. The man you have sworn to protect is no emperor. No royal blood flows in his veins, for he is not my son. My son, Demetrius, would not bring armed men into this hall. My son would not defy his mother's wish, or his brother's right to rule. This man is no son of mine. He is an impostor.'

  Demetrius was dumbfounded. What was she saying? Had his mother lost her mind? Was she disowning him? Would he be blinded? Killed?

  'You have sworn allegiance to this impostor, this false emperor,' Helena continued. 'But, since he is not of the royal family, your vows mean nothing. I release you from them. Swear, now, eternal allegiance to the true emperor, Constantine, and as sign of your allegiance, leave your swords here before me.'

  'We swear eternal allegiance to Constantine!' the nobles chorused. One by one, they stepped forward to deposit their weapons at Helena's feet. So that was her game, Demetrius thought. Helena could never have let the nobles live had they knowingly sided with him against Constantine. But, if she killed them, then the rest of the nobility would be embittered against Constantine; he would have no peace with them as long as he ruled. So she was granting them clemency in the only way she could: by denying that he was Demetrius and thus invalidating their oaths. Despite himself, Demetrius had to admit that it was brilliant. She had taken Constantine's worst enemies and forced them to swear allegiance to him.

  The doors to the hall swung open and the nobles began to file out. 'You, impostor,' Helena called to Demetrius. 'Come with me.' She led Demetrius through the small door behind the throne. At the door two guardsmen took his sword and then fell into step behind them. Demetrius followed Helena through twisting hallways to a tower, where they climbed the stairs to the highest room, a small chamber containing only a bed and a single chair. Once they were inside, the guardsmen closed the heavy door behind them. Helena motioned for Demetrius to sit. She remained standing.

  'If I were not your mother, you would already be dead.'

  'Mother, I…'

  'Silence,' Helena snapped. 'I do not wish to hear my son beg. Now, who aided you in this treason?'

  'No one, Mother.'

  'I know you, son. You did not plan this treachery; it is beyond you. Who then? Gennadius?'

  'No.' Demetrius did not trust himself to say more. He swallowed. Helena was watching him closely, her face only inches from his own.

  'Notaras?'

  'No,' Demetrius said again.

  Helena turned away from him, her head nodding slowly. 'They were wise to keep their distance,' she said. She sighed, and her shoulders slumped, making her look suddenly old and tired. 'Why must our best men be always pitted against us?' Then, she straightened, and when she turned back to Demetrius, Helena was once more regal, in command. Her voice was like ice. 'Swear upon your life that when your brother arrives, you will hail him as emperor.'

  'I swear it.'

  'Good. I will hold you to your oath. In the meantime, you will be confined to this room. If you attempt to escape, I will have your tongue and eyes removed, and you will spend the rest of your life locked away in a monastery. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, Mother.'

  'Good.' Helena stepped forward and took Demetrius's head in her hands. She kissed him softly on the forehead. 'Welcome home, my son.'

  Helena moved to the door and knocked softly. It swung open and she left. The door closed behind her with a thud, and Demetrius heard a metallic rasp as the bolt slid to. He turned and stared out the window, watching the rain pool in the streets. His short reign was over.

  JANUARY 1449: MISTRA

  On 6 January, the eve of the Orthodox Christmas, Longo stood at the front of the Church of Saint Demetrius in Mistra, capital of the Morea, and waited for the entrance of the man who was to be crowned Constantine XI, Emperor of the Romans. A vast crowd of nobles and dignitaries had filled the church. Longo was on the first row, squeezed shoulder to shoulder between the emperor's bodyguard, John Dalmata, and a short, portly Greek official who kept elbowing him in the ribs. The rich dress of the crowd — a profusion of silk dalmatics,
belted robes with wide sleeves and collars embroidered with gold — was in sharp contrast to the rank odour that came from so many overheated men and women in close proximity. The smell was made even worse by the attempt of some to mask their stink with cloying perfumes. Longo breathed shallowly and reminded himself that it was a great honour to have been invited to the coronation.

  A muffled roar, as of waves crashing on a nearby shore, came from outside the church as the crowd of commoners surrounding the building caught sight of Constantine. Longo turned with the rest of the crowd to face the church doors. He was curious to see this new emperor, the man who would be responsible for defending Constantinople against the Turks. Outside, the roar of the crowd grew louder and louder, and then the doors of the church swung inward. The sweet smell of incense filled the air as two rows of young men swinging silver censers on long chains passed through the doors. Constantine followed, wearing plain white garments, white shoes and white gloves. He was tall and thin, with tanned skin and a strong, handsome face. His hair and beard were both neatly cut and startlingly white, but Constantine was no old man. At forty-four, he had maintained much of his youthful vigour, and he walked down the central aisle with a determined stride and his head held high. He mounted the steps leading up to the dais that had been erected before the altar, and turned to face the crowd. Close up, Longo could see that he had kind, grey eyes.

  'I swear to uphold the one true, unified Church and to protect the faith,' Constantine said, his deep voice steady and solemn.

  'God will preserve a Christian emperor!' the crowd responded in unison, although Longo noted that some around him kept silent. Constantine's policy of union between the Catholic and Orthodox churches was not popular.

  'I swear to defend, with my blood and my life, the empire that God has granted me.'

  'Lord help the pious!' the people replied. 'Holy Lord uplift Thy world!'

  'I swear to rule justly, the shepherd of my people,' Constantine concluded.