The Dream of Ruin

The soft light of the sun shone on the dome of Hagia Sophia.

“Solomon, I have surpassed thee,” said Constantine.

Golden light from heaven illuminated the church. Drums sang his glory, and lyres spoke of his victories. People opened their mouths in nothing but praise. He had achieved what no other could.

“A city for our eternal empire. Protected by God. The City of Mary herself.”

His statue stood atop a monolith, his crown shining like a star, a testament that the city glorified not only God but also him.

As he went to bed, a smile adorned his face.

Thunder woke him. He strode outside, and a cannonball struck down his statue. His face shattered into a million pieces and scattered like mere dust. The roars of cannons struck his heart like a hammer.

“What kind of cannons are these?”

“It’s called the Basilica,” said a hawk perched on the wall.

“What’s happening?”

“Can’t you see?” The hawk nodded toward the red flag with a crescent moon waving on the Kerkoporta. “Your city is falling.”

“No, it is impossible! This city is protected by the Lord Himself.”

Lightning struck the dome of the Hagia Sophia, illuminating the entire city.

“Your God has left you,” said the hawk. “He stands with Mehmet now.”

“Mehmet? That sounds like those barbarians to the south—the Arabs if I am not mistaken.”

“It’s Turkish, actually.”

“Turkish? I never—” The bird flew away. “Halt!”

He chased the bird until he found a Roman flag stained with blood. The flag covered an eagle’s head, its gaze turned westward.

“Who dares attack my empire? We are the rulers of the world!”

“Not anymore,” said the hawk.

He blinked and found himself in a busy marketplace. A mother begged for a loaf of bread as people passed by, unaffected. He blinked again, and night fell. Her son wept over her lifeless body.

“Mater, mater,” the boy cried, hoping his tears would bring his mother back. The sight tore at Constantine’s heart.

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He clutched his chest. “Where is the Emperor? Does he not see his people’s misery?”

He turned toward the hawk and found himself in the middle of a war.

“There’s your Emperor,” said the hawk, nodding to a general on the right. “And there’s your Emperor too,” it said, nodding to a general on the left.

“It’s a civil war,” Constantine whispered, his eyes darting from one general to the other.

He turned again and was thrust back into the battle. The relentless bombardment mixed with the screams of the people made his heart race like a chariot. It was as if someone had ripped his heart out and placed it near his ear—the once God-protected walls burned in a firestorm.

“This is all a lie! A lie!” he pointed at the hawk. “No Mehmet can destroy God’s City.”

“This city is called Constantinople, not God’s City.”

Constantine grunted. “I... I... made...”

“You made this city to glorify yourself. Now, that glory has drawn someone else.”

“I made this city to glorify my God. To stand as a testament to my faith.”

“Repeating it won’t change the truth.”

The hawk flapped its wings and perched on the city gate’s wall. Lightning struck, and it clutched Constantine’s skull beneath its claws.

Constantine shook and stumbled backwards.

“Alas! Alas! Alas!” cried the hawk. “Thy drums have hushed, and thy lyres have sung defeat.”

It spread its wings and enveloped him in darkness. The hawk struck the skull, splitting it in half.

Constantine gasped as he woke. Sweat dripped from his face, and a stabbing pain pierced the middle of his head—where the hawk had struck him in the dream.

As he walked, the fires of his nightmare flashed before him. An old woman begged for bread in the marketplace.

“Get this woman as much bread as she wants!” Constantine roared above the market chatter, and everything fell silent. A black hawk flew away in the distance.

The city might fall someday, but he would not let its glory be stained today.