It was like an eclipse, Constantine reasoned, like the one that seemed to spell victory for his enemy and doom for himself a week ago, when things had seemed to be going well for the beleaguered defenders. This was done by the works of Men however, not of God; burnt, trampled grass, the dirty gray smoke of those thrice-bedamned furnaces running night and day producing more and more cannon to savage the mighty ruins of his walls. The flames of the Ottoman forges burned like dull embers, strewn through the wide fields that once held much grain and bountiful herds of livestock for the ancient markets and granaries of Constantinople, and the homes of many of his people, gone, consumed by the Goliath that faced him across the dead plain, strewn with the bodies of Roman and Turk alike.
No help would come for Emperor Constantine XI from the West, he felt it in his spent body– saw it in his trembling hands as if it were etched in fiery capitals. His best efforts to make the Turks lift the siege had failed, his messengers rebuffed, killed even. Ottoman galleys prowled the harbor, so long held secure from attack, and the never-ending crash of cannonfire and the cursed buzzing of their muezzins calling the enemy to worship, the crash and shrieking of the Ottoman military bands a constant struggle of focus upon the few defenders,exhausted from yet another night repairing the shattered walls.
“Four thousand, less maybe…, and all the might of the Sultan gathered still against us. Truly a fitting punishment for an Emperor so lacking in faith, to fight an unwinnable battle against such odds…” he whispered to himself, another tower at the edge of his vision collapsing in a great tumult of stone and bloody dirt as the gargantuan cannonballs fired from the main Ottoman siege emplacement shattered walls that had held against all attacks since the first Emperors had come out of the West many centuries ago.
He thought he spied a broken piece of marble in the wreckage, another symbol of the works of Roman hands reduced to slivers and debris, the commemoration of a great Roman trod under the booted foot of an army unlike anything he'd ever seen. The serried ranks of tents stretching for as far as the eye could see , the numberless cookfires, painted an image of a nation at war so vivid to his tired eyes that for a moment it was as if all the denizens of Hell were loosed upon him.
The bright mail and barbaric standards of the enemy mocked him with their flagrant display of martial power and wealth , the war trumpets braying long and loud as they launched another flurry of attacks along the length of the wall. The booming crack of arquebuses and hand-guns, the roar of the Roman cannon, the dull thrum of crossbow and arbalest, faded away to nothing before the chanting and ululating of the oncoming charge, not even the blasts of scrap and ball falling among them like hail serving to dampen their zeal or speed. Levering his tired body from his field stool, Constantine unhooked his helm from his belt and firmly seated it upon his head.
The time for introspection was over.
Nightmare, that's how he would describe the assault, a gore-spattered macabre dance of steel and shot under the ruddy glare of torches still fitfully burning here and there among the attacker’s scattered corpses. Mehmet's men had gotten the better of him, damn the brilliant, devilish upstart! Constantine ground his gauntleted fist into the carved stone of the merlon. A BRIDGE, how in Heaven had the Genoese missed such an obvious preparation on their very doorstep! A smoldering , irrational anger and suspicion towards Giustiniani and his kin flared before Constantine exerted his will and crushed it with cold, methodical strokes of discipline.
He looked out into the lowering sky, heavy clouds blocking even the tiniest ray of light from reaching the battlefield below him.
Constantine stood upon the great Theodosian Wall, his Varangian guard in a loose cordon around the entrances of the tower in which he decided to locate his headquarters and seeded throughout the tower. The roof, a flat, carefully built span of limestone, was bare and its usual sentries dispatched to the already taxed defenses of the sea walls. “You requested my presence, my Emperor?”
“Indeed I did, Loukas, and I also requested Giustiniani, but as time is pressing, we shall begin without him. To be blunt, we have lost, and the walls will not hold another combined assault like the last.” Constantine gestured at the line of dead Genoese and Byzantine men laying side by side with the slain citizens at the base of the wall, equal at last in death. A stray eddying wind blew away the shroud of one as they both gazed upon it, revealing not a soldier, but a boy of barely 14 summers; his head cloven nearly in twain by an Ottoman axe.
“We were too few before, my friend, and now we are lessened still further, and with the Turks on our seaward shore, Trevisano and Isidore's garrison will not hold. You must begin evacuation immediately, before their naval assets within the Horn can completely surround the ships that might still escape and carry our people and our hope with them.” Loukas squared his shoulders, an iron cast to his features, “You speak of hope, Emperor , and yet you will not go, we have spoken of this before and now, I must beseech you once more to evacuate yourself, for the good of your people. You are overweening in pride, Palaiologos, though it is impertinent of me to say so, being but a doux and minister, those men died for your pride, your unwillingness to seek terms that would have allowed us time to act further upon both the Pope and upon the Enemy’s designs for us.”
Constantine rounded on Notaras, grasping his gorget and dragging the lighter man towards him until they stood but a finger's breadth apart.
“I will not betray my sworn oath to my God, my men, and the Holy Virgin herself to defend this city to the last, to protect it from those who subjugate the last of the Romans to a tyranny so fell and dark that none living can now see the end of it!” Can you not see, Loukas? That which the enemy brings upon our people, just look there, upon the very men building the weapons with which to scale our walls and loot our homes, they are OUR people, Loukas, Romans, in a servitude so vile that they would raise arms against their bulwark for an age, the center of their world. The Flowering City, as the ancient sages of Rome called it in the days of the splendor and majesty long since departed, will fall, and its people must escape, that my duty upon them may be finished, but I have no wish to live on in a world where the City exists no more.”
“My Lord, all is not yet lost, the Pope might still–” “Enough, Loukas, there is no hope of that now, we must not waste what time we have left together with such harsh words and hopeless counsel. Come, let us gaze one last time upon that which remains for a little while longer…”
Constantine released his grip and strode to the edge of the tower, no longer crouched or cautious of the weapons of the enemy, until he could see the entire city spread before him, and despite all the smoke, damage of cannonfire and the sunken hulks of Byzantine ships in the harbor, it was still beautiful in the way that had always thrilled his soul, so ancient and hallowed, golden with love and joy and faith, even when the actual gold had long since fled the way of all the wars and works of Men. Then he saw it, glimmering sunbeams fighting through the clouds to bathe the Hagia Sophia in light, while all else remained dark, as if just for him, she was as in the ancient days, when her summit had gleamed as the sun.
Constantine's despair lifted from him as if it had never been, and when he turned to remark upon it, he found that Notaras was not by side, but rather speaking to the guard at the top of the step with some urgency. “Loukas, what is it? Another attack?” Worse, my lord, Giustiniani has been wounded, and this time they think it is fatal. The St.Romanos gate is hard pressed, we must send reinforcements now or all is lost!”. “Send them what you can, and get as many of our people to the harbor and to safety as you can.” He clasped hands with Notaras. “Godspeed, and may you yet live to guide our people in the new world to come.” Constantine said.
Loukas Notaras, Megas Doux and chief minister, knelt before him, and there, grasping Constantines hand between two of his own, looked into his eyes and spoke with a distant voice, “ I pray, Lord, that this one who seeks death in service to his people, should not die, but live; to rule once more our people as he and his have done with honor from time immemorial, in your Holy grace always. Amen.” Constantine lifted him to his feet, and embraced him. “God does not grant miracles such as those lightly, I shall strive to be worthy of it.” Constantine smiled and with that, his longtime friend and enemy, was gone, clattering onto his horse and galloping towards the harbor with his retinue in tow.
A pitiful handful of men who could be spared quick marched towards the St.Romanos gate, as the sounds of resuming bombardment could be heard further down the line.
Constantine donned his helmet once more, looking back at the great cathedral, but the darkness had painted it in grey once more, and in the distance, he saw torches crossing the Turkish pontoon bridge in orderly ranks.
He turned toward his guard captain, who was standing at attention awaiting his orders “Cleon, bring up the mounts in the nearest courtyard, if the wall is to fall today, we shall not fight in the city, cornered and dying like rats, better by far to meet them under the open sky, I think.”
“Aye sir, twould be a damn sight better the way I see it. Would you like me to gather the men so you can give them a last rousing speech? They've earned it.”
Constantine looked out, saw movement from the enemy positions across from his, a snaking line of janissaries forming into ranks. “Quickly then, we have but little time, go Cleon!”
The first cannonballs started hitting the wall, filling the air with masonry dust and falling stone and dirt.
##########
Constantine sat astride his white Arabian mare, hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, looking upon the faces of his Guard one last time, those who would join him on this fruitless charge for death and glory. Raising his voice to be heard over the bombardment he spoke. “As my city falls, so too do I fall with it, but I ask none of you to do the same, whomsoever wishes to escape may do so, and feel no dishonor, you have all fought like lions these last 53 days, and many have fallen amongst you. I can ask no more of those who have given their lives for me.”
He paused, waiting for his men to decide. Seeing no movement, he continued. “For all of us fools here, I propose that we consider then the example of the Carthaginian elephants, how a few dumb beasts could scatter the mighty armies of our forebears like saplings before a hurricane? Tell me then, how much greater shall our charge be, being masters of both men and beast, skilled in the use of arms not even Caesar himself could wield? Present your weapons gallantly, use them wisely and hunt these impious bastards down like the animals they are! They deal not with Arabian rabble, or effete Persian bureaucrats, but their lords and masters, the Romans, descended from the Greeks before them! Consider then, how the commemoration of our death, the song of glory and valor we shall and freedom can be rendered eternal! Whoever is ready to face death, follow me!”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Constantine brandished his sword, raising it towards the heavens, to the acclamation of his men, and rode out, the Imperial standard streaming in the wind of the Byzantine passage through to the field beyond, and was still once more.
“...And here the story ends, or at least our sources do.” The room was bright, large floor to ceiling windows letting in the rays of an spring afternoon, while many students sat at their desks facing an armchair containing a large, sandy-haired man in a tweed jacket, puffing occasionally on a small wooden pipe.
“Some say he cast away the purple, his ornaments of station, dying beneath a pile of slain from wounds suffered in combat. Others, that he was killed by a Janissary captain and his head mounted on a pike brought before the new Caesar, as Sultan Mehmed II considered himself upon his capture of the city. Still others, that he fled the city in a number of ways, most leading to quick capture and humiliating, though discreet, imprisonment for the Sultan's pleasure.”
“Recently acquired documents from the ruins of Paros Anax, an administrative hub of the early era of Romano-Persian resurgence under Parzapes I, known as the Builder, seem to shed doubt on the traditional narratives of the Fall of Constantinople. Long-held is the belief that the Metsparosid Empire was simply a rather free-thinking Armenian offshoot of the Timurid Empire, if you recall the history of Timur the Lame, a rather interesting Turko-Mongol warlord known for his unusual taste in scholarship, being a patron of many of the greatest minds of Islam of his day, Ibn Khaldun, Hafez, and Hafiz-i Abru, among others.
Timur’s unbroken string of military victories are widely seen as clearing the ground for such a revolutionary state, with the immediate fracturing of the empire under the rather less capable hands of his grandson, Khalil Sultan, leading to the loss of the western reaches of the empire, until Timur's son, Shah Rukh, restored order, ending the civil wars in 1411 until his death in 1447. What follows is what I call a trainwreck in slow motion, as every succeeding ruler, though several would contribute to society in lasting ways, such as the astronomer and mathematician Emir Ulugh Beg,who ruled from 1447-1449, being completely incapable of holding the Empire together. However it is the time of the last Timurid ruler, Abu Sa'id Mirza, that interests us today. His rule, from 1451 until his total annihilation by an unknown Armenian Christian warlord only known to history as Bazalte Ark'an, or the basalt king. He is unusual among the men of his time, leading a centralized, multi-ethnic as well as multi-religious coalition somewhere between 1457 and 1459 . This period is rapidly becoming the topic of intense scrutiny, as the Empire seeks to discover its roots and justify its existence in this new age of information we find ourselves in. An age, I remind you, that seems to think empire an anachronism.” His eyes glittered with amusement, “ I look forward to hearing your thoughts about this topic at length, but please, hold all questions to the end, it will be worth it, I assure you.” The Professor peered into the ashes in his pipe, tutted quietly, and began tapping his bowl out into the marble ashtray beside him.
crack…Crack…Crack…
CRASH. Another section of wall collapsed in the distance under relentless cannonfire, and Constantine thought he could detect the sound of cheering troops and the thunder of many horses speeding away towards the source of the noise. His head hurt. It was excruciating, the pain that radiated from his head in coruscating waves through his entire body before returning to plague him again, rendering what little vision through his slitted eyes, gummed with blood and dirt, hazy and faint. Between waves of pain, he felt his surroundings, fingers hesitantly probing where they lay. Is that… a nose? His right hand moved no further, restrained as if by a heavy weight. I've been buried by corpses. What a fate for an Emperor, reduced to charnel. Constantine started gingerly moving his left hand, finding it unencumbered, he lifted it to his face, feeling the caked blood thick across his bearded face. He winced as he shifted slightly, his already obscured vision going red as pain threatened to render him unconscious again. He didn't clearly remember what had happened to him before he ended up buried…and in fact, he was having trouble recalling his words to his men before they charged out– even the faces of men which he'd reclaimed the Morea with alongside …what was his name… Focus, you have to get out of this pile, or you'll be dead for real this time.
Constantine moved his hand to the site of the greatest pain, and with clinical detachment, he noted the terrible clotted furrow along his skull was no longer bleeding,but the instability of his skull along the edges of the wounded area informed him that it was probably fractured. A miracle indeed, Loukas. He finished his inspection, wiping his eyes and blinking quickly against the now bright light while he pushed against the body on top of him. A protesting creak from his ribs warned him that he probably had at least a broken rib, but he gamely kept pushing until in a clatter of metal, he moved the corpse onto its side, causing it to tumble away, freeing him. Constantine sat up, rubbing his right arm briskly to restore feeling as he examined his surroundings.
It was a farmhouse, he thought, its walls holed by cannonfire, with the ruined sockets of large windows and lack of furnishings indicating it had been pillaged by the Turks before he had come or else despoiled by his men before the siege began…was that January? It seems so long ago now. Across his booted feet lay a man who he thought he must know well, a bear of a man, betokened as one of his own, hewn so fiercely that his spine was visible through the gaping hole in his chest, his armor rent by the same irresistible force. “C-Cleon? Yes it must be him, If he's here–”, Constantine gently lifted the head of the veteran, smoothing the flaxen hair streaked with gray back from his lined face.
Funny, I never remember him looking this old, but then so am I. A pair of fools we were in those days…
A crunch of gravel from outside the window violently interrupted his reverie, and with as much care as he could, he moved the old soldier off of his legs and pulled himself to his feet.
He glanced down at himself, noting the damage to the chain mail at his side, his missing scabbard, and his empty holsters for the…what had Giustiniani called them…pistoli? The unsettlingly loud, fairly inaccurate things were almost more trouble than they were worth,and yet…a thought skittered along the periphery of his mind, quickly lost as he realized that his
mind was wandering again. He was having trouble remaining standing, the room starting to move before his eyes.
Fighting to stay focused, Constantine examined his surroundings in more detail. Perhaps a dozen corpses littered the room, four Varangian Guard, all with the same strange but devastating wounds and shattered shields, and twice their number of Janissaries, their shining mail rent by axe and sword, those by the door pierced by crossbow bolts. One of the janissaries was different though, his armor lighter, and carrying no blade save a curved knife still hanging from his belt where he lay, a Italian pugio through his throat. Instead his weapon appeared to be a long tube of metal, finally tooled, with a stock reminiscent of a crossbow.
Constantine unhooked the dead man's knife and scabbard, drawing the knife with a rasp of steel. He sank to the ground by the doorway, as footsteps could now be clearly discerned on the weathered tile floor. The footsteps paused, and for a long second, both held their breath, listening intently for the other. Then the heavy tread approached again, until a tall, bearded man in the uniform of a Ottoman high captain, his dark, calculating eyes scanning the room with dispassionate intelligence, entered the room with his wickedly curved sabre held at the ready.
Constantine raised his blade– or at least attempted to, his body barely responding to his demands amid a renewed wash of pain from his skull. In spite of himself, he hissed in pain, his grip on the knife tenuous at best. The Ottoman whirled, his blade as swift as the wind, striking the knife clean out of Constantine's shaking grip.“Go ahead, kill me you dirty savage. I've already died once today, what's another? I ask only that you make it swift.” Constantine said with genuine weariness, tugging his mail away from his throat.
To his surprise, the man's eyes lit up with recognition, and he lowered but did not sheathe his sabre. “ The ‘Emperor of all the Romans’? Today I must truly be guided by the will of Allah to find the most valuable man in all of Greece alone and helpless as a babe to resist me.” He bowed mockingly, his sword tracing a extravagant flourish. “You are aware then, ‘my lord’, that your head is all the Sultan desires, preferably with the rest of you handily not attached. But where are my manners? I am sure you know of me, as I am the right hand of the Sultan Mehmet II, may Allah bless his radiant name. My name is Zaganos, as your people mark such things. Zaganos Pasha.” He smiled widely, squatting before the incapacitated Emperor with his saber before him.
Constantine grunted acknowledgement, shifting himself to a more comfortable position on the hard floor. “I do know you, in fact, you could say that without you, my city would still remain free. I would curse you, if I still had the strength and desire to. Lacking those, I fail to see why you have not struck me down and just have done with the matter. I am powerless to resist you.”
Zaganos made an indelicate sound. “Is postponing your death really so trying? I merely wish to know some things of mutual interest to us both, yet of little use to a dead man. I require information you see, about the beloved Halil Pasha, our inestimable Grand Vizier , and I know you have it, and as a notional Roman myself, I would reward you handsomely for it. Such as, say, your life, short as it may be. That's quite a nasty head wound.”
Is he crazy? He'd let me live just to surpass Halil? Constantine wondered at the sheer bloody-mindedness of Ottoman politics. Constantine looked closely at him, he seemed completely genuine in his offer, as insane as it seemed.
“Okay Zaganos, I'll play along. If you were looking for incriminating evidence on your ‘beloved’ Vizier, I have some for you. Halil Pasha was, has been, and as far as I know, still is working for Roman interests in pursuit of his own goals for the Ottoman Empire. Since the reign of Murad II, he has been in close contact with my minister, Loukas Notaras, and coordinated with him to cause instability in the Empire and disrupt the morale and effectiveness of any army tasked with the duty of fighting against my people.
Zaganos's face was tinged with red, a vein pulsing in his forehead, his face frozen for a moment in a rictus of anger before he schooled his features to his normal, cheerful mask. “You must know that you are my enemy, I require more surety than just the words of a dying infidel to convince my Sultan to remove or execute a trusted advisor of his caliber, even given his recent…indiscretions. Can you produce any such? Letters? Diplomatic seals or the like?” Zaganos rocked forward on his heels, a starving wolf reaching for a morsel hanging enticingly close.
Bless you, Sphrantzes, for your obsession with documentation. You may get to share your history with the world yet, if you live.
A thin smile spread across Constantine's face. “In fact, I happen to have both. Under the care of the Lord of the Wardrobe, George Sphrantzes, are transcribed copies of every letter passed between my Court and the good Vizier as well as a simulacra of his personal seal. You should find him in the Palace, probably standing in front of the treasury, empty as it is save dusty parchment and old relics, wielding his staff of office as if it were a war-spear. It may not help you, but tell him Historia vero testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuntia vetustatis, qua voce alia nisi oratoris immortalitati commendatur? He will know from whence you came, and retrieve what you ask without complaint.”
Zaganos rocked back, his keen eyes narrowing with suspicion, yet not confusion. “Latin? Are we not a little far from Rome?” In a show of nonchalance he waved a hand dismissively, rising to his feet. “ No matter, I shall set a guard upon you, with orders to kill you should you attempt to leave, though I doubt you could, until I return either with my surety in hand, or for your head.” Done speaking, Zaganos barked out terse commands to the two janissaries in his personal livery that had promptly entered. His long legs carried him from the building and shortly afterwards the whinny of an Arab stallion and the crack of a horse whip drifted through the window.
The day progressed, and all was still and dark within the farmhouse, even in the sticky heat of a May evening. The sounds of men at work, of digging and hammering, whinnying horses, of the distant clash of arms could be heard once again. It was some time before Constantine realized that the cannonfire had stopped, his grip on coherent thought weakening as the hours dripped by, his wounds aching terribly as the cold floor injected a damp chill into his bones. It was the flies that bothered him most, settling on the corpses of the men now tidily stacked along the far way, on his wounds, on the streaks of blood across the floor. It was the buzzing, a tinny cacophony that seemed to intensify the pain in his head more than anything else.
Thus it was that when the sounds of the cantering horses approached,followed by the now familiar tread echoing down the hall, he greeted them with not a little anticipation. The guards lit torches, placing them on sconces around the room, taking care to remain outside of his reach with hands always close to their weapons. Zaganos Pasha was ebullient, his manner expansive and jovial as he greeted the guards, praising them for a job quietly done and a portion from his share of the spoils for their service and silence.
Zaganos turned towards Constantine, kicking him like one does to wake a drunk or stubborn dog. “Are you dead yet, Palaiologos? If not, I come bearing good news. Your man was exactly where you said he would be. He was most cooperative once I spoke your password and it is fair to say that I am a far richer man than I was yesterday as a result of our little…transaction.” He cast a critical eye over the slumped Roman before clapping briskly and issuing orders to the burly servant who answered the summons. The man nodded and departed at a trot down the passage, returning with three more men and a stout canvas tarp rigged with poles for carrying wounded.
Constantine did not resist, could not, as he felt the first chills of a bone-fever set in.
Zaganos helped the men load Constantine onto the stretcher, before leaning over him and speaking softly near his ear. “ I believe in never owing debts, and never dishonoring a worthy enemy. As such, my men and doctors will tend to you, and should you live they will let you leave. In this, I lay upon you two conditions, firstly to speak of this to no one, and second, that you leave these lands forever and never again raise your hand towards My lord Sultan. This is non-negotiable and should you refuse, I will kill you right here like a dog. This is my price, do you accept these terms?” There was not a flicker of good cheer in this Zaganos, no room for diplomacy, this was a merciless zealot, devoted to his lord, who would not be stayed by sweet words or cunning counsel.
God forgive me.
Constantine tried to speak several times, his voice a croaking rasp, but with a supreme effort he managed to say a single word.
“Yes.”
As if let loose by his utterance, his pain rose in a mighty crescendo, and the blackness overtook him.