Siege (51 page)

‘I told you that I would not leave you,’ Sofia replied. ‘And I will not.’ She drew her sword and stepped forward. William joined her.

The janissaries attacked all together, driving the three friends apart. Longo found himself surrounded by four men. Slowed by the racking pain that accompanied his every breath, it was all that he could do to fend them off. He felt a sword blow nick off his armour and gave ground until his back was against the wall of one of the buildings lining the street. He was light-headed and weak from the loss of blood, and he could feel his arm slowing. He was late to parry a blow, and a sword glanced off his chest-plate. Another Turkish attack slipped past his guard and slashed him across the thigh. He dropped to one knee.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Longo saw Sofia go down. A sudden rage coursed through him, and the pain in his chest vanished. With a roar, he sprang to his feet and went on the offensive. He ducked the attack of one Turk and slashed him across the chest; parried another blow and kicked out, knocking a janissary off his feet and then finishing him with a downward thrust of his sword. Longo left his sword in the dead man’s chest as he spun away from another blow. He grabbed the attacking Turk’s arm and hurled him face first into the wall of the alley, knocking him unconscious. The last janissary facing him fled for his life.

Across the street, Sofia sat propped up against the wall, fighting desperately to fend off two of the janissaries. Longo sprinted forward and slammed into the first Turk from behind, knocking him sprawling face first into the wall. As the other Turk turned to face him, Sofia lunged forward, burying her sword in the janissary’s back. She collapsed back against the wall.

‘Where are you hurt?’ Longo asked, kneeling beside her.

‘My leg.’ Sofia showed Longo a shallow gash on her left thigh.

Longo ripped off one of the sleeves of her shirt and tied it around her thigh to slow the bleeding. ‘Can you stand?’ She nodded and Longo helped her to her feet. They stood leaning on one another for support. William had just finished off the last of the Turks. He retrieved Longo’s sword and then placed himself between Sofia and Longo, propping both of them up. The three of them had just set off when far away down the street behind them, the janissary who had fled reappeared leading another troop of Turks.

‘There are too many to fight,’ Longo said.

‘And we cannot outrun them,’ William added. ‘Not with two of us hurt.’

‘Follow me.’ Sofia, supported by William, led them into a narrow alley, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. They had only gone a few dozen feet when she took them on an even narrower side path. Behind them, they could hear the sound of footsteps filling the alleyways.

‘Where are we?’ William whispered. ‘Are we near the docks?’

‘I am not sure,’ Sofia whispered back. ‘But this is an old part of the city. The alleyways here are all connected. As long as we head north, we should reach the harbour … so long as we don’t hit a dead end.’

The alley ended at another passage, and Sofia took them to the right. The footsteps of the Turks now sounded as if they were right on top of them. They took another left turn. After a dozen feet the passage swung sharply to the right, finishing in a dead end. Behind them, they could hear Turkish voices approaching. ‘We can’t go back that way,’ Longo said.

‘In here,’ Sofia urged, pointing to a door on the left-hand side of the passage. She tried the latch, but it was locked. William stepped forward and kicked the door hard. It swung open and they all hurried inside. They found themselves in a small kitchen, barely large enough for the three of them. William shut the door behind them and they shoved a heavy table in front of it. Limping, Sofia led the way through the next room to a door. She cracked it open. Before them was an empty square, and at the far end of
the square, the Horaia gate. ‘We’ve made it,’ she breathed. ‘Come on.’

They hurried through the gate and into the harbour. Most of the boats had already left, and the docks were crowded with men and women desperately seeking a way across the Horn. Some were jumping into the water to swim. The few small rowing boats that remained were filled until their sides barely cleared the water and were then rowed frantically towards the far shore. Longo paused to look for his ship.

‘There she is!’ William shouted, pointing to
la Fortuna
, which floated at a pier some two hundred yards down the harbour. There were sailors in the rigging, preparing the sails. ‘Thank God she’s still here.’

They hurried towards the ship, but had not got far when behind them the first Turks began to pour out of the gate and into the harbour. They spread out, killing the men and dragging the terrified women away. ‘Hurry!’ Longo yelled. He tried to run, but his legs refused. The world went dim and began to spin. William grabbed him and hauled him over his shoulder, staggering towards the ship. Sofia limped after them.

As they approached, they saw that most of the ship’s crew was at the railing, fending off a crowd of Greek men and women who were desperate to get on board. William shouldered his way through the crowd, carrying Longo with him and with Sofia close behind. They rushed across the gangway, and Nicolo stepped aside to let them on board.

‘Thank God you’re here!’

‘You have done well, Nicolo,’ Longo breathed as he slumped against the railing and then slid to the deck. Sofia rushed to his side. ‘Set sail.’ Longo pointed to the dock. ‘And let as many of those people on board as the ship will carry.’

The sailors stood aside and the people poured on to the ship. The Turks were close behind, and before the last of the Greeks were on board, the sailors found themselves fending off Turkish soldiers. ‘Shove off!’ William yelled from the quarterdeck, where
he had taken the wheel. As the ship floated away from the dock, he called out, ‘Set the sails!’ The sails fell and were tied home. Within seconds the ship was making way towards Pera.

Longo sat near the railing, his head cradled in Sofia’s arms. Together, they looked back upon the city. A hundred yards to their right, soldiers were marching across the floating bridge, joining the other Turks already swarming around the harbour. The Christians left trapped at the harbour were being slaughtered. Further off, past the sea walls, fires were rising up near the palace, casting plumes of black smoke into the clear spring sky. Other than the fires, the city looked almost peaceful. The bells had fallen silent. After watching for a long time, Sofia turned her head. There were tears in her eyes.

‘I cannot believe that Constantinople has fallen,’ she said. ‘I fear I will never set foot in my home again.’

‘But you are safe,’ Longo said. ‘That is all that matters. You will live a long life, a happy life.’

‘We all will,’ Sofia replied and placed Longo’s hand on her stomach.

Despite the pain coursing through his body, Longo smiled. ‘I have seen this day only in my worst nightmares,’ he said. ‘I never dreamed that it would give me reason for joy.’

Sofia leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Nor did I,’ she whispered. She turned and gazed once more at the city through eyes full of tears. ‘Nor did I.’

Chapter 25

SPRING 1453 TO WINTER 1454: AFTER THE FALL

M
ehmed rode his horse towards Constantinople through fields crowded with the bodies of the dead, already food for crows and scavenging dogs. When he reached the fosse, the scene was even worse. The deep, dry moat was filled with the bodies of thousands of dead Turks, and the stench was already overpowering. Mehmed spurred across the fosse and through the broad stretch of the outer wall that had been brought down by cannons. The courtyard between the inner and outer walls was littered with dead janissaries and Christians. The charred remains of portable barricades lay smouldering around the gate to the city. Mehmed rode though the carnage to the gate, where he was met by Ishak Pasha. Ishak’s armour was stained with blood and an ugly gash ran across his forehead; but he sat tall in the saddle, his head held high.

‘Congratulations, My Lord,’ Ishak Pasha said. ‘The city is yours.’

‘What of the emperor?’

‘His body has disappeared. There are many who say they saw him fall, but amongst all this’ – Ishak pointed to the dead littering the ground around them – ‘he will be difficult to find.’

‘And what of his family? Are there any survivors?’

‘Few, My Lord,’ Ishak Pasha replied. ‘The emperor had no son. We have gathered those members of the imperial household that we found living.’

‘Execute them,’ Mehmed ordered. ‘I want no pretenders to
the throne coming back to haunt me.’ Ishak Pasha nodded. ‘And Ulu?’

Ishak Pasha pointed to where the giant man lay, not far from the gate into the city. ‘He was the first of the janissaries to breach the outer walls and reach the gate.’

Mehmed dismounted and walked to where Ulu lay. He stood gazing down at him for a long time, lost in thought. Constantinople was conquered, but it had taken from him all those he held closest. Mehmed himself had sacrificed his father to his ambitions. Gülbehar had betrayed him, then Sitt Hatun, and finally Halil. And now, Ulu too was dead.

‘Farewell, friend,’ he whispered. Then he spoke more loudly. ‘Bury him where he lies. From this day forth this gate shall bare his name, to honour him.’ Mehmed returned to his horse and remounted.

As he passed through the gates into Constantinople, a cheer went up amongst the Turkish soldiers nearby. Other soldiers stopped their pillaging and came to line the road as Mehmed rode down it. ‘Mehmed
fatih
!’ they chanted. ‘Mehmed the Conqueror!’ Indeed, Mehmed thought, I am a conqueror now. He had lost much, but it was a price he was willing to pay. It was the price that one had to pay for glory. And this was glory. Mehmed straightened in his saddle and held his head high as he spurred his horse forward at a trot. As more and more men lined the road, chanting his name, Mehmed continued into the city, alone, triumphant.

Gennadius knelt inside the chapel of Saint Saviour in Chora, praying alongside the frightened men and women who had crammed themselves inside before barring the door. Outside, he could hear cries of agony and loud shouting in Turkish. Then, there was a great boom, and the doors to the chapel shook violently. A woman screamed, and the people nearest the doors scrambled back towards the altar. Another boom, and this time one of the bars on the door began to splinter. The praying had now dissolved
into hysterical screaming and wailing. Gennadius stood and backed away into a shadowy alcove behind the altar. A final boom, and the doors burst open.

Turkish soldiers spilled into the chapel, their swords drawn. The people tried to scramble away, but in the limited confines, they had no chance to escape. The Turks cut down the defenceless old men and dragged the women and children outside, where they were shackled together in long lines to be sold as slaves. Gennadius stood in the alcove, trembling despite himself. One of the Turks was only a few feet away now, using his dagger to strip gold foil from the sides of the altar. He looked up and saw Gennadius. The Turk grinned and drew his sword.

‘Wait!’ Gennadius called out. ‘The sultan promised me his protection! He promised! Stop. Stop!’ But the Turk did not stop. He stepped towards Gennadius and raised his sword. ‘But I am to be patriarch!’ Gennadius squealed in terror. ‘I am Gennadius! Gennadius!’ He crouched down and closed his eyes.

But the blow did not come. Instead, he heard a series of sharp orders in Turkish and looked up to see an older Turk, with steely grey hair, striding towards him. ‘You say you are Gennadius?’ the Turk asked in Greek.

‘Yes, yes!’ Gennadius nodded vigorously. ‘I am the monk, Gennadius. The sultan promised to spare my life.’

The Turk looked Gennadius over and then shouted an order in Turkish before turning and walking away. Two men stepped forward and took hold of Gennadius’s arms, shackling them together at the wrists. ‘Wait! What are you doing?’ Gennadius cried. One of the Turks punched him hard in the stomach. As Gennadius doubled over, the other Turk attached a long chain to the monk’s shackles. The Turks jerked on the chain, pulling Gennadius after them.

They left the church and marched to the forum of Constantine – the heart of ancient Constantinople. A thick crowd of Turkish soldiers surrounded the square. The man leading Gennadius pushed through to the front of the crowd. Gennadius
was surprised to see Halil in the centre of the forum. The former vizier sat slumped on his knees between two guards. He still wore his robes of rich golden
serâser
, but everywhere his skin was bleeding and red, as if he had been badly burned. Halil’s eyes were glassy and vacant.

Around Gennadius the crowd began to chant rhythmically: ‘Mehmed
fatih
! Mehmed
fatih
!’ The crowd parted, and Mehmed himself emerged, riding a tall horse and surrounded by janissaries in black armour. The sultan rode to the centre of the square and dismounted. He drew his long, curved sword and held it high. The crowd cheered loudly.

‘Behold!’ Mehmed shouted. ‘This shall be the end of all who dare to betray their sultan!’ He walked to where Halil sat. The two guards holding Halil took hold of his arms, stretching them out to either side and lifting Halil up. He slumped between them, his head hanging. Mehmed bent down and whispered briefly in Halil’s ear. Then he stepped back, raised his sword, and with one vicious downward blow, severed Halil’s head. The crowd roared its approval. Halil’s head rolled away and came to a stop only a few feet from Gennadius. Halil’s eyes seemed to be looking right at him.

‘Come,’ the guard leading Gennadius barked. He yanked Gennadius forward into the centre of the square. Ahead, Mehmed stood waiting, his sword dripping blood. Gennadius felt a flood of warmth around his loins as he wet himself, a stain spreading across the front of his cassock. The crowd of Turks hooted and jeered. Gennadius’s legs went weak, and he collapsed. Two janissaries rushed forward and picked him up. They deposited him at Mehmed’s feet.