by Stefan Zweig
EUROPE, HELP!
The besieged are no longer under any illusions. They know that if they are also attacked in the flank that has been torn open, they will not be able to put up resistance for long behind their battered walls, 8,000 of them against 150,000, unless help comes very quickly. But did not the Signoria of Venice solemnly agree to send ships? Can the Pope remain indifferent when Hagia Sophia, the most magnificent church in the west, is in danger of becoming a mosque of the unbelievers? Does Europe, caught in strife and divided a hundred times over by unworthy jealousy, still not understand the danger to western culture? Perhaps—so the besieged say, consoling themselves—the fleet coming to their aid has been ready for a long time, and hesitates to set sail only because it does not know their predicament, and it would be enough if someone made the Europeans aware of the monstrous responsibility of this fatal delay?
But how can information be sent to the Venetian fleet? Turkish ships are scattered all over the Sea of Marmara; to break out from Byzantium with the whole fleet would be to deliver it up to destruction, also weakening the defence of the city, where every single man counts, by withdrawing a few hundred soldiers. They decide to venture only a very small ship with a tiny crew. Twelve men in all—if there were any justice in history, their names would be as well known as those of the Argonauts for such an act of heroism, but not a single name has come down to us. An enemy flag is hoisted on the little brigantine. The twelve men clothe themselves in the Turkish fashion, with turbans or tarbooshes on their heads, so as not to arouse attention. On 3rd May the chain closing off the harbour is let down without a sound, and with a muted beat of oars the bold boat glides out under cover of darkness. Lo and behold, a miracle… unrecognized, the tiny vessel passes through the Dardanelles and into the Aegean Sea. It is the very extent of the crew’s audacity that cripples the enemy. Mahomet has thought of everything but this unimaginable turn of events—that a single ship with twelve heroes aboard would dare such an Argo-like voyage through his own fleet.
But the disappointment is tragic: no Venetian sails appear on the Aegean. No fleet is ready to come to Byzantium. Venice and the Pope, everyone has forgotten the city; absorbed in parish-pump politics, they are all neglecting their honour and their oath. These tragic moments in history are repeated again and again: where the highest concentration of all united forces should be brought together to protect European culture, the princes and their states cannot abandon their petty rivalries even for a short span of time. To Genoa it is more important to outshine Venice, and Venice in turn feels the same about Genoa, rather than uniting against the common enemy for a few hours. The sea is empty. The brave crew desperately row their nutshell of a boat from island to island. But the harbours everywhere are occupied by enemies, and no friendly ship will venture into the war-torn area any more.
Now what is to be done? Several of the twelve, not surprisingly, have lost heart. Why take the dangerous route back to Constantinople? They cannot bring the city any hope. Perhaps it has already fallen; in any case, if they go back, either prison or death awaits them. However—and all credit to those heroes whose names go unknown!—the majority decide in favour of returning. They have been sent to deliver a message, and they must go home to report on the outcome, depressing as it is. So the little ship ventures on the way back through the Dardanelles alone, and then through the Sea of Marmara and the enemy fleet. On 23rd May, twenty days after setting out—by now in Constantinople all hope of seeing their ship again has been lost, and no one expects a message or their return—on 23rd May a few men on watch on the walls wave their banners, for a small ship, oars beating fast, is approaching the Golden Horn, and when the Turks, alerted by thunderous cries of joy from the besieged city, see in astonishment that this brigantine, boldly passing through their waters under a Turkish flag, is an enemy vessel they come up on all sides to intercept it just before it reaches the protection of the harbour. For a moment Byzantium, uttering cries of jubilation, still lives in the happy hope that Europe has remembered them, and this ship is sent ahead as a messenger. Only in the evening is the truth known: the news is bad. Christendom has forgotten Byzantium. The besieged citizens are alone, and if they cannot save themselves they are lost.
THE NIGHT OF THE STORM
After six weeks of almost daily fighting, the Sultan has grown impatient. His cannon have destroyed the walls in many places, but whenever he gives orders to storm the city the attackers have so far been repelled with much bloodshed. There are only two possibilities left for a military commander: either to raise the siege or, after countless attacks at single points, to order a full-scale operation to take the city by storm. Mahomet summons his pashas for a council of war, and his passionate will triumphs over all reservations. That great storm, which will finally decide matters, is to take place on 29th May. The Sultan prepares for it with his usual determination. A festival day is proclaimed; 150,000 men, from the first to the last, are to carry out all the festive customs prescribed by Islam, performing their ablutions seven times in the day, reciting the major prayers three times. All the powder and shot they have left is brought up for an intensified artillery attack to make the city ready to be stormed, and separate troops are given their positions. From morning to night, Mahomet does not allow himself an hour’s rest. He rides all along the gigantic camp from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmara, going from tent to tent, encouraging all the leaders in person, inspiring the men. But as the good psychologist he is, he knows how to bring his 150,000 men to the highest pitch of their lust for battle, and he makes them a terrible promise, one that to his credit—or discredit—he will keep in every particular. His heralds proclaim that promise to the winds, with the sound of drums and fanfares: “Mahomet swears, by the name of Allah, by the name of Mohammed and the 4,000 prophets, he swears by the soul of his father Sultan Murad, by the heads of his children and by his sword, that after his troops have stormed the city they shall have the right to loot it as they like for three days. Everything to be found within its walls, household goods and possessions, ornaments and jewels, coins and treasure, the men, the women and the children shall belong to the victorious soldiers, and he himself will have no part in it except for the honour of having conquered this last bulwark of the eastern part of the Roman Empire.”
The soldiers receive this dreadful proclamation with roars of jubilation. The loud noise of it swells like a storm, and the cry of Allah il Allah from thousands of voices reaches the frightened city. Jagma, Jagma—loot, loot! The word becomes a battle cry, with drums beating, cymbals and fanfares sounding, and by night the camp turns into a festive sea of light. Shuddering, the besieged see, from their walls, how myriads of lights and torches burn in the plain and on the hills as their enemies celebrate victory even before it is won with the sound of trumpets, pipes, drums and tambourines. It is like the cruelly loud ceremony of heathen priests before a sacrifice. But then, at midnight, all the lights are extinguished on orders from Mahomet, and the fervent roars from a thousand throats end abruptly. However, the sudden silence and the oppressive dark weigh down on the distraught listeners even more terribly than the frenetic jubilation of light and noise.
THE LAST MASS IN HAGIA SOPHIA
The besieged citizens do not need anyone to make an announcement, any defector from the enemy camp, to know what lies ahead. They know that orders have been given to storm Byzantium, and presentiments of the monstrous commitment of the Turks and their own monstrous danger loom over the entire city like a storm cloud. Although it is usually split into factions of religious strife, the population gathers together in these last hours—as always, only the utmost need creates such a spectacle of earthly unity. So that they will all be aware of what they have to defend—their faith, their great past history, their common culture—the Basileus gives orders for a moving ceremony. At his command, the people all assemble, Orthodox and Catholics, clergy and laymen, children and old men, forming a procession. No one is to stay at home, no one can stay at home, from
the richest to the poorest they gather devoutly together in that procession to sing the Kyrie eleison as they pass through the inner city and then go along the outer walls. The sacred icons and relics are brought from the churches to be carried at the head of the procession, and one of those holy images is hung wherever a breach has been made in the walls, in the hope that it will repel the storming of the city better than earthly weapons. At the same time Emperor Constantine gathers all the senators, the noblemen and the commanders around him, to inspire them with courage in his last speech. He cannot, however, like Mahomet promise them unlimited plunder. But he describes the honour they can win for Christianity and the whole western world if they withstand this last decisive storm, and the danger if they are conquered by those who have come to burn and murder: Mahomet and Constantine both know that this day will determine the course of history for centuries.
Then the last scene begins, one of the most moving in Europe, an unforgettable ecstasy of downfall. Those doomed to death assemble in Hagia Sophia, still the most magnificent cathedral in the world at that time, a place abandoned by the faithful ever since that day of the fraternal alliance of the two Churches. The whole court gathers round the emperor, the nobles, the Greek and Catholic priests, the Genoese and Venetian soldiers and sailors, all in armour and carrying weapons, and behind them thousands and thousands of murmuring shadows kneel in silent awe—the people of the city with their backs bowed, in a turmoil of fear and anxiety—and the candles trying to rival the darkness of the vaulting overhead light up the crowd kneeling in prayer as if it were a single body. The soul of Byzantium is praying to God here. Now the Patriarch raises his voice strongly, urging them on, and the choirs answer him. Once more the holy and eternal voice of the west answers him in the music filling this place. Then one after another they go up to the altar, the emperor first of all, to receive the consolation of the faith, until the huge cathedral is filled to high in its vaulting by a constant surge of prayer. The last Mass, the funeral Mass of the eastern Roman Empire has begun, for the Christian faith has lived for the last time in Justinian’s cathedral.
After this overwhelming ceremony, the emperor returns fleetingly to his palace once more to ask all his subjects and servants forgiveness for any wrong he has ever done them in life. Then he mounts his horse and rides—like Mahomet his great enemy at the same hour—from end to end of the walls, encouraging the soldiers. It is deep night now. Not a voice rises, not a weapon clinks. Moved to their very souls, the 1,000 wait inside those walls. They are waiting for the day and for death.
KERKOPORTA, THE FORGOTTEN DOOR
At one in the morning, the Sultan gives the signal to attack. The great standards are unfurled, and with a single cry of Allah, Allah il Allah 100,000 men fall on the city walls with weapons and ladders, ropes and grappling hooks, while all the drums are beaten at the same time, all the fanfares blare and the kettledrums are struck, cymbals and flutes mingle their high notes with human cries and the thunder of the cannon into a single sound like the roar of a hurricane. Pitilessly the irregular troops, the bashi-bazouks, are flung against the walls—their half-naked bodies serving the Sultan’s plan of attack to some extent, but only as buffers intended to tire and weaken the enemy before the core troops are brought into action for the final storm. Whipped on, the bashi-bazouks charge the walls in the dark, climb the battlements, storm the fortifications again and again, for they have no way of escape behind them, they are worthless human material marked out only for sacrifice. The core troops are already standing ready, driving them on to almost certain death. The defenders still have the upper hand; their coats of mail withstand the countless arrows and stones that come their way. But their real danger—and here Mahomet’s calculations were correct—is weariness. Constantly fighting against the light Turkish troops pressing forward, always moving from one point of attack to another, they exhaust a large part of their strength in the manner of defence forced upon them. And now—after two hours of skirmishing day is beginning to dawn—the second line of attack, the Anatolians, are storming forward, and the battle becomes more dangerous. For the Anatolians are disciplined warriors, well trained and also wearing coats of mail; moreover, they are present in superior numbers and are well rested, while the defenders have to protect first one and then another breach against the enemy’s incursions. But still the attackers are being thrown back, and the Sultan must turn to his last reserves, the janissaries, a troop of picked men, the elite guard of the Ottoman army. He places himself at the head of 12,000 young and carefully chosen soldiers, the best in Europe at this time, and with a single battle cry they fling themselves on their exhausted adversaries. It is high time for all the bells in the city to be rung to summon to the walls the last men capable of fighting, for sailors to be brought from the ships now that the crucial battle is in progress. To the undoing of the defenders, a rockfall strikes the leader of the Genoese troop, the bold condottiere Giustiniani, who is taken to the ships severely injured, and his fall makes the energy of the defenders falter for a moment. But then the emperor himself comes up to prevent the Turks breaking in, and once again the storm ladders are fended off. Determination stands against ultimate determination, and for the span of a breath it seems that Byzantium is saved, the worst of its need has withstood the wildest attack. Then a tragic incident tips the balance, one of those mysterious moments that history sometimes brings forth in accordance with its unfathomable will, and at a stroke the fate of Byzantium is decided.
Something wholly improbable has happened. A few Turks have made their way through one of the many breaches in the outer walls, not far from the real point of attack. They do not venture to attack the inner wall, but as they wander aimlessly and full of curiosity between the first and second city walls they discover that one of the smaller gates in the inner-city wall, known as the Kerkoporta, has by some incomprehensible oversight been left open. In itself it is only a small postern gate, meant for pedestrians in times of peace while the larger gates are still closed. Simply because it has no military importance, its existence has obviously been forgotten in the general turmoil of the previous night. Now, to their astonishment, the janissaries find this door in the middle of the sturdy bulwark usefully open to them. At first they suspect some trick of war, for it is so absurd that—while otherwise thousands of bodies are piled outside every breach and gap, every gate in the fortifications, while boiling oil and spears rain down—the gate here, the Kerkoporta, stands open to the heart of the city as if on a peaceful Sunday. For safety’s sake they call up reinforcements, and without any resistance at all a whole troop makes its way into the inner city, suddenly attacking the unsuspecting defenders of the outer wall from behind. A few fighting men become aware of the Turks behind their own ranks, and the fatal cry rises, more murderous than any cannon in every battle, the cry of a false rumour. “The city is taken!” The Turks pass it on, louder and louder. “The city is taken!” That cry breaks all resistance. The troops of mercenaries, thinking themselves betrayed, leave their posts to get down to the harbour and the safety of the ships in time. It is useless for Constantine to fling himself and a few loyal men against the intruders; he falls unnoticed in the midst of the turmoil, and not until next day will anyone know, from the sight of crimson shoes decked with a golden eagle in a pile of bodies, that the last emperor of the eastern Roman Empire has lost his life and his empire in the honourable Roman fashion. A mote of coincidence, the forgotten door of Kerkoporta, has decided the course of the world’s history.
THE CROSS FALLS
Sometimes history plays with numbers. The looting of Byzantium begins exactly 1,000 years after Rome was so memorably looted by the Vandals. It is terrible to say that, true to the oath he swore, Mahomet the victor keeps his word. After the first massacre, he indiscriminately leaves houses and palaces, churches and cloisters, men, women and children to his men to be plundered, and like devils out of hell thousands of them race through the streets to get what they want ahead of someone else. T
he first to suffer are the churches where vessels of gold shine and jewels sparkle, and whenever the looters break into a dwelling house they hoist their banner over it, so that the next arrivals will know that the loot here has already been claimed. That loot consists not only of jewels, fabrics, money and portable goods; the women are goods for sale to seraglios, the men and children are bound for the slave market. The unfortunates who took refuge in churches are whipped out again, the old people are killed as useless mouths to feed and unsaleable ballast, the young ones, tied together like cattle, are dragged away, and along with robbery senseless destruction rages. What valuable relics and works of art the crusaders left, after indulging in what may have been an equally terrible episode of looting, are now wrecked by the victors, torn apart, valuable pictures are destroyed, wonderful statues smashed to pieces, books in which the wisdom of centuries, the immortal wealth of Greek philosophy and poetry were to be preserved for all eternity burnt or carelessly tossed aside. Mankind will never know the whole of the havoc that broke in through the open Kerkoporta in that fateful hour, or how much the intellectual world lost in the looting of Rome, Alexandria and Byzantium.