Siege (27 page)

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
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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 sultan’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.

A path led down from the cave to the sea walls, which ran parallel to the shores of the Golden Horn, separating the port from the city. Although not as imposing as the land walls, they were still massive, rising thirty feet high and studded with towers. And because of their position along the Golden Horn, the sea walls were impossible to take unless an enemy completely controlled the harbour. Although the walls had originally marked the limit of the city, over the centuries warehouses had been built beyond them to service the docks there, and in time taverns, inns, bawdyhouses
and churches had sprung up to service the sailors who used the docks and warehouses.

Gennadius and Eugenius took the path down to the sea walls, where a guard loyal to the Synaxis let them through, and then they walked north along the docks to a small Orthodox church. There were no tunnels that Gennadius knew of directly into the city, but this church would do. A tunnel in its crypt led to the basement beneath a monastery in the nearby settlement of Cosmidion, only some two hundred yards north of Constantinople along the Golden Horn. Gennadius and Eugenius entered the church and moved to the back of the sanctuary, where a staircase led down to the crypt. There, behind a row of stone sarcophagi, they located a trapdoor with a ladder leading downwards into the darkness. Eugenius took a torch from the wall and descended first. Gennadius followed, and when he reached the floor of the tunnel he found a man waiting for him, a man from the East, with a broad, smooth face and shaved head. He held a torch in one hand and a small birdcage containing a pigeon sat at his feet. Something about the way the man looked at Gennadius unnerved the monk.

‘What has brought you here, stranger?’ Gennadius asked. This was the beginning of the code that he and Halil had agreed upon.

‘I come seeking wisdom,’ the man replied in passable Greek. It was the correct response.

‘So you are Isa,’ Gennadius said. ‘Do you have what I asked for?’

‘I have brought the poison,’ Isa confirmed. He took out a small leather pouch and handed it to Gennadius. Gennadius opened it and peered inside. It was filled with white powder.

‘What is this?’

‘A powerful poison, made from bitter almonds,’ Isa explained. ‘When inhaled, the powder is fatal. The assassin need only throw it near the sultan.’

‘Then it will do perfectly,’ Gennadius said, carefully closing the pouch.

‘Good. The grand vizier wishes to make it clear that the city is not to fall until the sultan is dead. Those are the terms of the deal. If you fulfil them, then you shall have what you wish.’

‘Tell Halil not to worry. The messenger who will bring the key to unlock the city and the assassin who will kill the sultan are one and the same,’ Gennadius said. ‘I will send him when the time is right, when the siege has grown old and the sultan is desperate enough to listen.’

‘What you do is your concern. So long as you succeed, the less that Halil knows, the better. In the meantime, if you should need to communicate with Halil, you will come here.’ Isa picked up the birdcage and handed it to Gennadius. ‘Use this bird to contact Halil. No message is necessary. Simply release it, and it will fly to Halil. A messenger will meet you here the night that he receives the bird, just after sunset. He will ask you a question to determine your identity. The answer is ‘Edirne’.’

‘I understand,’ Gennadius said. He was impressed. The bird was an elegant mechanism.

‘Then we are done here,’ Isa said and turned to go.

‘God go with you, my son,’ Gennadius called after the retreating figure.

‘God abandoned me long ago,’ the man said as he disappeared into the darkness.

Halil sat alone in his luxurious tent, propped up by cushions and with a portable writing desk across his lap. He had been busy writing since early morning, letter after letter to nearby emirs and beys, in which he requested the delivery of food and other supplies. The sultan’s army consumed enormous quantities, and even after months of preparation, they would not be able to stay in the field for much over a week without fresh supplies. It was Halil’s task to acquire those supplies. The letters he wrote were, of course, a mere formality. If the lords refused to supply the sultan’s army at a fair price, then troops would simply take the provisions.

As Halil started yet another letter, Isa stepped into his tent. ‘Servants, leave us,’ Halil said. ‘Isa, you may sit.’ He gestured to some cushions on the floor, but Isa remained standing. ‘I had expected you back sooner. You delivered the poison and the bird?’

‘The monk has them both, and he promises that the city will not fall until Mehmed is dead.’

‘Did he say anything else about his plans?’

‘No, only that the messenger who brings the secret to conquering Constantinople will also be the one who brings news of Mehmed’s death.’

‘A riddle then,’ Halil said. ‘And one best left unsolved. The less we know of Gennadius’s actions the better. I have another task for you.’

Isa held up his hand, cutting the vizier off. ‘I grow tired of serving as your messenger. You promised me the release of my family if I did as you asked, and I have done all that you asked and more, these three years past.’ He pulled a small pouch from beneath his robes. ‘I am done with this. Release my family, or I will kill you here and now.’

A trickle of sweat ran down Halil’s spine. ‘Do not be rash, Isa,’ he said, managing to keep his voice steady. ‘If you kill me, then your family will die. You know that. Do not throw their lives away when you are so close to winning their freedom. I have but one more task for you, and then your family will be free.’

Isa hesitated, then finally put the pouch back beneath his robes. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Go back to Edirne and kill young Bayezid, the son of the sultan,’ Halil told him. ‘Make his death look natural, but do it quickly. He must die before this siege is through, before the death of Mehmed.’

‘And if I do this, then my family will be freed?’

‘When my men hear that Bayezid is dead, then they will turn your family over to you, and you will be well rewarded for your many services.’

‘I do not want any more of your money, Halil, only my family,’
Isa said. His hand went back to the pouch of poison. ‘Do I have your word that they will be freed?’

‘You have my word.’

‘Very well. For your sake, you had best keep your promise,’ Isa said and left the tent.

Halil watched him go. Isa’s family was his weakness, and it would be his undoing. Halil placed the letter to the city of Chorlu aside and began a new one, this time in code, to his agents in Edirne.

Constantine stood at his post at the Fifth Military Gate, near the middle of the Mesoteichion, and squinted against the early morning light as he watched the Turkish army form ranks in the distance. Dalmata stood beside him, and Notaras was not far off at the Blachernae wall. The siege was now ten days old, and not a cannon had fired, not an arrow had flown. While the men of the city waited on the walls day after day with increasing anxiety, the Turkish camp remained unnervingly quiet. Now, the Turkish army had finally sprung to life. Even though he dreaded the carnage to come, Constantine found himself looking forward to the release of the dreadful tension that had hung over the city.