Siege

by Jack Hight

  'Jump!' William called to Portia. She leapt from the loft, and he caught her, falling as he did so. They scrambled to their feet and ran out leaving the prone form of Carlos behind.

  William put his arm around Portia and pulled her close to him as they stood in the cold night, watching as the flames engulfed the building. Behind him, William heard the thunder of hooves and turned. It was Longo and Tristo. They reined in, and Longo leapt from the saddle. 'Are you all right?' he asked. 'Both of you?'

  William nodded. 'There was a man, Carlos. He tried to kill me,' William said. He pointed to the barn. 'He's in there.' Just then, the roof of the burning structure gave way and collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the sky. 'Do you know why?'

  'Paolo,' Longo explained. 'I fear we have not seen the end of this.' A long wail of pain reached Longo where he stood at the low wall that surrounded his villa, waiting for the birth of his child. Julia's birth pains had started the previous night, shortly after Longo had returned with Tristo and William. After hours of waiting, Longo had finally fled his quarters to the wall, where the cold rain was preferable to Julia's terrible screaming.

  The news of Paolo's betrayal had upset her, and she had entered labour early. Longo was worried for her, but even more for the child she carried. Ever since his childhood, he had been tormented by dreams of the scar-faced Turk who had murdered his family, but now when he dreamt, he often dreamt of a son. He knew that his child might well be a girl, but in his dreams the child was always a boy. Longo would teach him to read or to ride, or they would fish or walk the vineyards together. The boy would have a good life, the life that Longo had not had.

  A particularly loud, anguished cry from Julia drew Longo from his thoughts. And then there was silence, broken almost immediately by the loud bawling of an infant. A moment later, Tristo's wife Maria and the midwife emerged from the villa. The midwife was covered in blood; she cradled a wailing infant in her arms. There were tears in her eyes.

  'What has happened? Is it a boy?' Longo asked.

  The midwife nodded, and showed Longo the bundle she held. It was a boy, with fine blond hair and Longo's blue eyes. The child cried in the cold, and Longo took him and held him close.

  'Julia asked that he be called Carlo, after her brother,' Maria said.

  Longo nodded. 'How is Julia?'

  The midwife turned away, choking back tears. Maria placed her hand on Longo's shoulder. 'I am sorry. She died giving birth.'

  Longo held his child closer as he turned away and looked out over the rows of pruned vines. He had not loved Julia, but he had grown fond of her, and he felt for his newborn child, who would never know his mother. Carlo was only a babe, and already his life was marked by loss.

  'We are in mourning,' Longo said. 'Cover all the mirrors and close up the shutters of the house. I will ride to town to inform her father.' Longo rode into the Grimaldi palazzo and was shown immediately to Grimaldi's private quarters. Grimaldi sat at a small table, drinking coffee. He rose when Longo entered. 'If you have come about Paolo,' Grimaldi began, 'then I must again apologize for my son.'

  'It is not that,' Longo told him. 'Julia has given birth.'

  Grimaldi's face lit up. 'A son?'

  Longo nodded. 'That is not all. She died in childbirth.'

  Grimaldi sank back into his chair. 'I see,' he said, his head down. 'I am sorry, Longo. She was a lovely child.'

  'She was,' Longo agreed. He sat across from Grimaldi. 'I have a request to ask of you.'

  'What is it?' Grimaldi asked, looking up.

  'I want you to take my son. His name is Carlo.' Grimaldi's eyes went wide. 'I have no reason to remain in Genoa,' Longo explained. 'Julia is dead, and I fear there will be more bloodshed between our families if I stay. I am leaving for my lands on Chios. The East is no place for a child. Our merchants returning from Constantinople say that the sultan is preparing for war, building castles and forging cannons. He will strike soon, if not this year then the next. Carlo will be better off here.'

  'You are sure of this?' Grimaldi asked. 'You are his father.'

  Longo looked away, fighting to keep tears from his eyes. 'Yes,' he said. 'And I will do what is best for my child. The boy has already lost his mother. He should not have to watch his father die as well.'

  Grimaldi nodded. 'I will raise him as my own son, signor.'

  'Thank you,' Longo said. 'I will return for him once the war is over. If I die…'

  'I will see to it that he inherits your lands,' Grimaldi promised. Longo nodded his thanks. 'When do you leave?' Grimaldi asked.

  'After the funeral,' Longo said. 'As soon as my household is in order.' Longo scanned the horizon as he paced the deck of la Fortuna, which swayed gently beside the pier, riding low with the ebbing morning tide. All was ready for departure. The ships were loaded, and Longo's men were all aboard with him or on a sister ship, la Speranza. A few wives had joined them, including, to Tristo's chagrin, his wife Maria. Nicolo was on la Fortuna, complaining already of seasickness. The one person who was not yet on board was William. The night before he had gone to bid farewell to Portia. Longo half hoped that he would stay with her. William had grown into a capable young man, and Longo had come to rely on him. But if William stayed in Italy, he could have a better life than that of a soldier. He would be wise to choose love over revenge.

  The sun was only minutes from cresting the distant hills. Soon the tide would set against them, trapping them in the harbour. It was time to depart, William or no. Tristo had been standing at the crosstrees, watching the horizon for William, and now he slid down a backstay and on to the deck. 'We can wait a bit longer, I think,' Tristo said.

  'No.' Longo turned from the shore to face the sea. 'We should be underway before we miss our tide. Give the orders to cast off and make sail.'

  The orders were given, and la Fortuna drifted away from the dock and slowly gathered way. They were gliding towards the centre of the harbor, followed by la Speranza, when the lookout caught sight of a horse charging into the dockyard. He hailed the deck, and Longo turned to look. Two people dismounted, and an argument ensued with a group of sailors on the dock. Finally, a boat shoved off with the two riders in it, rowed by four sailors. Longo ordered the sails slackened, and the boat quickly gained on them. William was one of the passengers sitting in the stern. The other was cloaked against the spray, and Longo could not make him out.

  Within minutes the boat pulled alongside la Fortuna. William clambered aboard first. 'Sorry I'm late,' he said.

  Tristo laughed and engulfed him in a hug. 'Nonsense. We're just glad you made it.'

  'We are indeed,' Longo said, taking William's hand.

  'I still have a score to settle with the Turks,' William said. 'When the war comes, I will be there.' He withdrew his hand and turned to help the other passenger into the boat. 'And now, the reason for my tardy arrival. May I present my fiancee, Portia Fiori.' Portia stepped on to the deck and pushed back the hood of her cloak, freeing her hair to stream in the gusting wind. A few low whistles of appreciation were heard from the hands on deck. Portia blushed.

  Longo bowed. 'My Lady,' he said, 'you are most welcome aboard my ship.' Portia blushed an even deeper shade of crimson and curtsied. 'William, show her to her quarters. She can sleep with Maria and the other women. Tristo, give the order to make all sail. Let's take advantage of what little tide remains while we can.'

  The ship moved ahead once more, and Longo walked aft to stand at the rail. The sun finally crept over the mountains, transforming the sea into molten gold. The wind teased his hair, and Longo breathed deeply of the tangy ocean air. For the first time since Julia's death, he permitted himself to smile. Love and revenge. There was, Longo supposed, room in the world for both after all. Part II

  Chapter 13

  SUNDAY 1 APRIL TO THURSDAY 12 APRIL 1453, CONSTANTINOPLE: DAYS 1 TO 12 OF THE SIEGE

  Sofia prayed silently as she knelt on the stone floor of the Haghia Sofia. It was Easter but the great church was not even
half full. Ever since Union had been declared the previous December, the Haghia Sofia had been avoided by the populace. Few had come today to listen to the mass performed by the official papal delegate, Archbishop Leonard. Sofia was not listening either. In her late-night snooping about the palace, she had heard reports of tens of thousands of Turkish soldiers massing on the Bosphorus. She had also seen the official estimate of soldiers in Constantinople. They numbered less than seven thousand. A few Italians and Spanish had come to defend the city, but no new troops had arrived for weeks. Despite his promise to Constantine, Longo had not come. So while Leonard preached, Sofia prayed for Western aid.

  Archbishop Leonard began the Easter communion and Sofia stepped forward to receive the sacrament. She had just knelt before the altar when a dust-covered messenger entered the sanctuary and hurried to Constantine's side. The messenger whispered in Constantine's ear, and the emperor rose immediately. 'My apologies, Archbishop,' he said, before striding from the church. As he went, he called to Dalmata: 'Send messengers to the other commanders. Have them meet me at the gate of Charisius.'

  The service faltered as rumours spread like a wildfire through the congregation. Cries of 'The Turks are here!' were heard, and men began to leave in ever greater numbers. Sofia took advantage of the confusion to slip out of the sanctuary, leaving her escort behind. She caught up to Constantine and followed discreetly behind him. Outside, she took the horse of one of the emperor's guardsmen without asking, simply hauling herself into the saddle and riding away with the emperor's party. The dumb-founded guardsman said nothing. Sometimes, Sofia reflected, royalty had its advantages.

  They took Constantinople's main thoroughfare, the Mese, to the gate of Charisius, and climbed to the top of the gate tower, some seventy feet above the surrounding countryside. Notaras was there waiting for them. He noticed Sofia and raised his eyebrows questioningly, but said nothing. Taking care to stay out of Constantine's sight, Sofia got as close to the edge of the tower as she could. She need not have worried: the emperor's attention was fixed elsewhere. He stood gazing into the distance, his knuckles white as he gripped the wall. Sofia followed his eyes but saw nothing, just fields and scattered villages stretching across the rolling hills to the empty horizon.

  'Where are they?' Constantine asked.

  'They will be here soon enough,' Notaras replied.

  As they watched, a thin, dark line appeared on the horizon and spread quickly, like ink spilled on parchment. Soon, the distant hills were covered with men on horseback — a solid wave of motion that turned the hills black. The line of men stretched for miles across the horizon.

  'My God,' Constantine whispered. 'There are so many.'

  'That is just the advance guard,' Notaras said. 'The main body is still several days behind them.'

  'The time has come, then,' Constantine said. 'Dalmata, have the bridges across the moat burned and close the gates. Notaras, have the great chain put in place to seal off the Golden Horn. No one leaves the city without my permission. Is that understood?' The two men nodded and hurried away. Constantine remained on the wall with a few guards and Sofia. Below them, men set fire to the bridge leading to the gate of Charisius, and the black, acrid smoke reached to the tower, stinging Sofia's eyes. In the distance, men continued to pour over the horizon. 'We are at war,' Constantine murmured. 'God save us.' Mehmed arrived at Constantinople four days later with the last detachment of the Turkish army. By this time the Turkish camp had already been laid out and the sprawling red and gold tent of the sultan had been erected on a hill beside the Lycus river. From it, Mehmed could see almost the entire stretch of Constantinople's walls, running in an unbroken line for over two miles from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmora. The defences were three-tiered. First there was a ditch, or fosse, some sixty feet across and flooded in places, with a low breastwork immediately behind it. Past the fosse, an outer wall rose some twenty-five feet high, studded with towers. Beyond that was the inner wall, which had never been breached. It was forty feet high and up to twenty feet thick in places, with towers reaching as high as seventy feet. The walls had turned back many an invader, including Mehmed's father. But Mehmed was not his father.

  Mehmed had spent his entire life preparing for this siege. He knew the walls' weaknesses, and he would exploit them. From his tent he had an excellent view of the Mesoteichion — the weakest part of the walls, where they crossed the Lycus valley. This would be the focus of his attack, and he wanted it constantly under his eye.

  He looked away from the walls, allowing his eyes to drift over the field before him. Some two hundred yards from the walls, his men were busy building their own fortifications — a deep ditch backed by an earthen rampart, topped with a wooden palisade. The fortifications would discourage any night-time raids by the Christians, and they would provide a platform for the cannons. Between the fortifications and Mehmed's tent lay the tents of the janissaries. And finally, surrounding Mehmed's tent, were the tents of his own private guard.

  Mehmed's generals and advisors were making their way through the tents towards him. Ishak Pasha and Halil were at their head. After them came Baltoghlu, a Bulgarian-born pirate, famed for his raids against Venetian and Genoese merchant ships. Mehmed had appointed him admiral of the Turkish fleet. Next to him waddled the bazibozouks' short, fiery commander, Mahmud Pasha, and Kardja Pasha, the commander of the over ten thousand European troops provided by Mehmed's vassals and allies. Bringing up the rear was the brilliant Hungarian cannon maker, Urban. He had worked for the Greek court until Mehmed had lured him away, offering him four times the pay. Ulu already stood beside Mehmed. The huge supreme aga of the janissaries rarely left the sultan's side. When the men reached Mehmed at the entrance to his tent, they all bowed.

  'We have much to discuss,' Mehmed said and led the way inside. A table covered with maps, diagrams and lists of figures stood in the centre of the tent. Mehmed shoved these papers aside to reveal a large, detailed map of Constantinople. He pointed to the long line of walls drawn on the map. 'I have heard grumbling in the camp that these walls are impenetrable, that they cannot fall,' he said. 'That is nonsense. I want any man heard to utter such talk punished with a whipping. Each of you, gather your men tonight. Tell them that Allah is on our side, and that their sultan has perfected a plan to bring down the walls of Constantinople. Tell them of the riches and glory that will be theirs, that the first man over the walls will not only win a special place in paradise, but also a fortune to last a lifetime.'

  The men around the table nodded, and Mehmed continued. 'You will each move your men into position tomorrow. Baltoghlu, you will bring the fleet here, to block the Bosphorus and to control the entrance to the Golden Horn. You will cut off any ships that try to bring aid to the city. Ulu, you will place the janissaries along the Lycus, across from the Blachernae quarter and the Mesoteichion. Ishak Pasha, you will position your men along the wall to the south. Kardja Pasha, you will place our European allies across the Golden Horn, to cut off any possible Christian retreat. Mahmud Pasha, you will hold your bazibozouks in reserve behind the lines, until such time as they are needed.'

  'When do we attack?' Mahmud Pasha asked.

  'Soon enough. But first we must weaken the walls. Urban, when will your cannons be in place?'

  'I need a few days more,' Urban said. 'The mud has made moving the cannons difficult. When they are in place though, they'll knock down the walls of Babylon itself.'

  'You have seven days,' Mehmed told him. 'Take as many men as you need.'

  'Yes, My Lord.'

  'Seven days?' Mahmud Pasha asked. 'But Sultan, my men have come here to fight. They will not like this standing around.'

  'Never fear, Mahmud Pasha. I plan to keep your men quite busy. Take a look at these plans.' Mehmed took up an old, battered scroll and unrolled it across the table.

  There was silence as the men took in the detailed, sometimes fantastical sketches: ships on land, floating bridges, networks of tunnels. They were all in the su
ltan's own hand. It was Ishak Pasha who spoke up first. He pointed to the sketch of the ships, apparently sailing across land into the Golden Horn. 'Forgive me, Sultan, but is this even possible?'

  'There is no question of possible, Ishak Pasha,' Mehmed said. 'It will be done. You have three weeks to make this happen, no more. I am sure that you will not fail me.' Gennadius wound his way through the dark catacombs beneath the Church of Saint Saviour Pantocrator, a torch lighting his way amidst the dank crypts. He was wrapped in a black cloak instead of his monk's robes, and he had left behind the conspicuous golden cross that usually hung from his neck. Eugenius followed, dressed much the same except that he wore a sword at his side. If they were seen by the men that Notaras had stationed outside the monastery, Gennadius hoped that they would be taken for a merchant and his bodyguard. But Gennadius did not plan on being seen.

  They came to a narrow staircase and followed it down to the edge of a huge underground reservoir with a low ceiling supported by hundreds of pillars. The cistern dated from Roman times, and the monks still drew their drinking water from here. The flame of Gennadius's torch reflected off the water, causing strange lights to play across the many-vaulted ceiling. Before him, wooden walkways wound their way between the pillars and over the water, stretching off into the darkness. The walkways had not been repaired for decades, and the wood was slowly rotting in the damp air. It creaked and groaned under foot as Gennadius set out across the cistern. He had only taken a few steps when he saw something long and scaly move in the dark waters beneath them. Giant fish the size of a man were said to live in the waters, and Gennadius had no desire to discover if the legends were true. He picked his way forward, carefully avoiding the loose planks.

  The walkway ended at a heavy wooden door, and Gennadius produced a key and unlocked it. When he pushed the door open, bright morning sunlight poured into the tunnel. He stepped into a shallow cave that had been carved into the side of the hill that the church of Saint Saviour Pantocrator crowned. Below him, the Golden Horn sparkled in the sun. Christian ships were moored beside the great chain that had been stretched across the mouth of the Horn on wooden floats. Beyond the chain, Gennadius could see the Turkish fleet patrolling the Sea of Marmora.