Crouching, face bent toward the ground, Gregoras listened to the whistle, the ricochet, the strike, his body tensed for intrusion … that didn’t come. After an age, the metal falling ceased as suddenly as the halting of a hailstorm. Silence followed – and lasted for the eternity of ten heartbeats. He knew it in the thumps against his breastplate, saw it pass in the eyes of the man crouched next to him. They had been there before, he and Giustiniani, alone in the waiting silence. Yet as his heart counted down the moment, Gregoras knew something else: he had never been in a fight like this one, the stakes never as high as the ending of the world.
Then with the tenth heartbeat came an end to the silence in a different thump – the strike of one huge drum.
And the janissaries came.
Gregoras was up in a moment. ‘To arms,’ he cried, one of hundreds. He looked both ways along the lines of the stockade, that narrow, fragile gap between the points where the outer wall still stood – after a fashion, for at no place were the stones undamaged. Saw the surge all along it as scores of men rushed forward to its defence. To his right, perhaps a hundred paces along, he saw the banner of Constantine and of the city, the double-headed eagle swooping to the forefront of the fight. Turning forward again, he peered over the lip of his shield.
The janissaries marched, as much in step with their martial music as the shattered ground, a carnage of discarded weapons and broken bodies, allowed. Their standards waved and Gregoras, who had fought them enough, from the Hexamilion and afterwards, saw the symbols upon them and remembered some. Each orta, the cohorts of the force, had its mark. Against red and yellow backgrounds, camels walked, elephants trumpeted, lions roared. He looked for but did not see the red and gold of the household janissaries, elite of the elite. They would be further back, held till the very last. Yet Gregoras knew, as he drew his mace from the sling at his side, that he would be seeing them soon enough. If he lived.
A ladder slapped into the gap beside the barrel he sheltered behind, and into every gap. He could hear few single sounds within a din comprised of so many – the roar of men on each side calling upon God; the shouts of defiance meeting defiance; the ring of blade on blade, blade on helm, blade on breastplate and shield; the scream of death defied, accepted. If the mehter band sent the Turks’ challenge in drum and trumpet, the Greek trumpets answered them, while their water organs wheezed and their bells tolled, deep or shrill, from every holy place.
The ladder top cut into the earth with the weight of the men climbing it. Several, for one would come hard upon the other’s heels. He waited for the first, clenching the leather grip of the mace, and then, when the janissary appeared, his bearded face beneath his turban helmet split by his yelled challenge, Gregoras stepped into the gap and smashed his shield into that yell. The man tottered, somehow did not fall, struck back, his scimitar rising in a great arc behind him, falling with all the weight of the weapon’s folded perfection. Gregoras jumped close, halting the fall with his thrust-out shield before it became unstoppable, swinging his mace sideways into the space above the Turk’s own shield that the man just failed to close. The fluted weapon bit, the man fell. Another man rose.
His blow had taken him close to the edge. Drawing back, readying to strike again, Gregoras heard a cry. ‘Aside,’ Enzo yelled, shoving forward a man, a Greek by his long beard, who held a great slab of stone in his hand. The man raised it high, threw it straight down over the wall, along the ladder. He ducked aside as the Sicilian ordered two other men forward. They held a short, stout ash pole between them, tipped in a forked iron hook. Slamming it into the ladder’s top rung, they heaved. The rung snapped, so they hooked the ladder’s edge and, with Enzo joining them, shoved the ladder, slowly at first then faster as it reached its equilibrium, up and over.
The janissaries came and they came again and there was no pause in their coming, despite the fury unleashed upon them, the terrible toll of their dying. They came like the lions they were, over the piles of their dead, in the presence of their sultan and in the ever-presence of their God, twin names on their lips, shouted even as they died. And Gregoras wondered at them, that relentless courage, even as he killed them, stepping into breaches when another did not, striking at helmet, at turban, at snarling face. All the noises, of trumpet, bell and bullet, of steel on steel, of roars, challenge, defiance, prayer, all resolved for him into one continuous shriek. Within it, his arm rose and fell and murdered, until he could no longer feel it, his arm and the weapon at the end of it one solid club, which he managed to lift and let fall, lift again, let fall again. Somehow the weapon in it changed, he had no memory of how, the mace gone, his wide-bladed falchion in its place, used in its different way, to the same effect. Turks died, he had no idea how many, some on the ladders as they climbed, others who crested the rampart or were pulled behind it to be slaughtered on ground churned by feet, slickened by blood.
He did it, he saw it done. Saw comrades die because they were too tired to lift a shield or sword, lowering their heads like oxen under a butcher’s maul.
There was no time. There was only the killing, and it went on and on.
And then he felt it, even as he ducked beneath a scimitar swept sideways at his head, as he punched the point of his sword into another neck, just between the mail shirt and the chin. Felt it as he had before with the Anatolians, the slight giving, the slightest hesitation, the thought manifesting in one mind perhaps, spreading to many. Men, instinctive as birds, suddenly doubting as one.
His throat would not let him express it, his voice lost to smoke, shouting and blood. Crouching, he turned each way along the ramparts, saw the ortas’ banners thrown back, ladders toppling, the eagle still aloft. And he wondered, allowed himself to think the unthinkable.
Have we won? Despite it all … have we saved the city?
He turned to the stockade. Another wave was sweeping in. Was it only his hope, or did they yell with less fervour?
He raised his shield, peered over its lip. A few more to kill and then … a vow never to kill again.
This would be enough. Merciful father in heaven, let this be enough.
He had only lately mastered the art, for art it partly was. Selected for his accuracy with the crossbow, the young janissary had been thought to have an eye suitable for a different weapon. Not to load it, that was another man’s skill, his partner in the two-man team. Till the other had done, the janissary could only wait, lying flat in the shelter of the shallow trench over which Greek arrows still sometimes passed.
The powder had been crammed down within its leaf pouch. More had been applied to the breech. Now was the time. The little stone ball was placed at the barrel’s end, released, and even though he could not hear it above the terrible noise, the young man still thought he did, like a trickle of water, the roll of smoothed stone down metal. The wadding was poked down after, the padded stick plied and withdrawn.
It was his time. Rising over the lip of the trench, his partner drove the short forked stick into the earth there. The young janissary took a deep breath then lifted the culverin, a feat of strength in itself, for the metal barrel was long and thick. He did it swiftly, wanted to join his companion now sprawled face down in the mud. He sighted above the heads of his charging comrades, into a gap that suddenly opened. An arm rose there. It held a sword. Sighting just below and to the side of it, he brought the glowing end of rope down into the pan, breathed out as he did, closed his eyes, lowered his head …
… and sent the ball that changed history into the body of Giovanni Giustiniani Longo.
‘They weaken! They fail! Once more for God. Once more for Constantine. Once more for Genoa!’
In the tumult, only those nearest him could hear. But Gregoras was one, watching the Commander raise his sword above his head. It gave him the strength to raise his. Giustiniani had sensed what he had – the attack was weakening.
‘Once more,’ Gregoras cried, stepping towards the Genoan, to be at his right shoulder, just as Enzo stepped to his
left, the ghost of Amir in his saffron cloak completing the trinity to guard his leader’s back.
Then everything changed. Giustiniani’s sword slipped from his hands. His fierce smile vanished, the battle light passed from his eyes, his whole face contracting into puzzlement, into a question, his huge body folding in on itself, knees crumpling. Only because they were so close did Gregoras and Enzo prevent the Commander crashing to the ground. With huge effort they held him up, slipping shoulders under the man’s arms. The sudden weight pulled them close, their heads conjoined like conspirators, whispering some treason.
Which Giustiniani did. ‘Holy Mother,’ he croaked, ‘but I am hit.’ Then he hissed, ‘Bear me up. Do not let them see me fall.’
Men were already turning. Gregoras and Enzo, their shoulders under Giustiniani’s arms, lifted him onto his feet – and the Genoan let out a terrible groan. ‘Ah, Christ! Back! Bear me back.’
They bore him away, the short distance to the little patch of clear ground before the ditch, under the inner wall, lowered him there. Behind them, the next wave of Turks smashed against the ramparts, up and down its line. Enzo ran into the crowd, seeking, while Gregoras knelt and tried to untie the laces that bound the front and back breastplates together. But they were slick with blood, livid and bright, so he used his dagger, slashed them. By the time he was done and was lifting the armour off, to Giustiniani’s constant groans, Enzo was back, dragging a long-bearded Greek, who knelt too, cut away the arming doublet and shirt beneath, reached to seek by touch, for sight was lost to the red flood that pooled in the Commander’s armpit.
‘I … I cannot find …’ The surgeon probed, then raised his voice above the moans. ‘A bullet, I think, still within.’
A silence amongst them within the uproar, as each looked at the other, helplessly. Then one voice broke it. It did not sound like him, the voice high, the tone piteous. ‘Fetch the key. Open the gate,’ Giustiniani cried. ‘I must go.’
A gasp from all there. Gregoras looked at Enzo, who shook his head. Both knew, all knew, what it would mean. One of the reasons the defenders fought as hard as they did was that there was no other choice, no avenue for escape. The gate was locked. They would triumph or die. But if it was opened … more, if the man who in so many ways was the defence fled through it … ‘Master,’ said Gregoras, leaning close, ‘if we do that …’
And then he did not have to make the argument, for someone else arrived who would. ‘What is happening? What?’
Men parted and the emperor came through them, stopping dead when he saw who was sprawled on the ground, kneeling by him a moment later. ‘My friend! What is wrong?’
‘I am hit, basileus. It is bad. I …’ His voice rose as a vibration of agony shook him. ‘I must go. To my own surgeon. The other side of this gate.’
Constantine’s eyes went wide. ‘My friend … do not do this.’
Giustiniani reached up, grabbing Constantine by the gorget at his throat, tugging him down. Two of the imperial guard stepped rapidly forward, but the emperor waved them off. ‘I will leave you my men,’ the Genoan hissed, ‘but I will go. I will return when my wounds are dressed.’
‘Brother, do not!’ Constantine wrapped his own mailed hand around the other’s bloodied one, spoke as softly as the battle noise allowed. ‘The crisis is upon us. You are the rock to which our ship is moored. If you leave, men will know and weaken, here at the last when we need them to be their strongest. Here, in the very heart of it.’ He leaned closer, his lips beside the other’s ear. ‘Stay. Stand. Men will bear you up. Let all see the lion lives. For one more attack. Just one more!’
Giustiniani opened his eyes. There was terror in them, in eyes that had never held it, and all who saw took terror in their turn. ‘No,’ he spluttered, through the blood on his lips. ‘I cannot. I have done enough. Ah, Christ save me, the pain!’ He groaned, and as his gaze and grip moved to Enzo and Gregoras, his voice hardened. ‘I order you to bear me away. Bring the key.’
The Sicilian looked across at Gregoras … who shrugged, rose, turned towards the bastion. A hand grabbed his arm, jerked him round. ‘Where do you go?’ Constantine said. ‘Do not …’
‘Majesty, I cannot disobey my leader’s command.’ He glanced back, shuddered. ‘His last, perhaps.’
‘But what of your city?’ Constantine pleaded.
‘I will stay. I will give my life for it. But I cannot ask him to do so. He who has already done so much.’ He looked down at the hand on his arm. ‘Basileus, please. If I do not fetch the key, someone else will.’
The emperor held him a moment longer then released him with a sigh. Gregoras ran to the base of the bastion. Men were craning over the crenels, staring at the huddle below, and he spotted the young archer to whom he’d passed on the task he’d been given. ‘Throw down the key,’ he called. The man gasped, then obeyed. A moment later, a glitter fell from the tower and Gregoras caught it. ‘Now, keep shooting,’ he yelled before turning back.
Enzo and two other black-armoured Genoans had raised the Commander, who sagged between them. Constantine stepped between him and the gate, his face under his raised visor blanched. ‘Brother, where do you go?’ he cried.
Giustiniani raised his head. His voice suddenly was calm, almost normal. ‘Where God and the Turk would send me,’ he replied.
The gate was opened. Enzo helped him through it, but returned immediately. ‘Others will see to him,’ he said, picking up his sword and shield. ‘I stay and fight with you.’
Constantine was staring at the gate. Men had tried to reclose it but a stream of others slipping through prevented them. Now he turned back. ‘For God and Constantinople,’ he cried, dropping his visor, hefting his sword, charging back to the stockade.
Mehmet despaired.
Was now the time? To take off his sumptuous robes, his gold and silver helm, all marks that distinguished him as sultan? To strip to his jelabi, leave his father’s sword for his infant son, pick up a battered shield and a pitted scimitar and charge into the battle, a simple gazi offering himself to Allah, most merciful? Across the bridge of Al-Sirat, paradise awaited the martyr. If he could not have what he most wanted on earth, he could have what was beyond it.
He had failed. Here, at the last, with every man in his army who could bear a weapon attacking every part of the walls, still they held. Each wave he’d sent in had been repulsed. Even the very best of his army, his janissaries, fighting like the heroes they were, even they had not forced the breach. The double-headed eagle still flew over the stockade. The banner with its red cross marked where the lion of Genoa yet roared.
He looked at the men around him. Most avoided his eyes. Only one, Aksemseddin, his spiritual guide, returned his gaze, spoke. One word.
‘Inshallah.’
Mehmet turned back. Yes, it was God’s will. It was time to go and greet Him.
And then he started, peering harder at the rough line of the stockade. To many it was only a seething mob; but Mehmet had stared at it for seven weeks, and his gaze had barely left it in the hour since sunrise. Like a fisherman who knows the different surges of a sea, and what its shades betoken, he knew its infinite variety. And it was … different. There was a giving, there, right in the centre where his cannon had pounded most, where the fight had always been the fiercest. A few less defenders. His men lasting moments longer atop the rampart before they were felled.
He sensed it as much as saw it. Leaping onto his white horse, he drew his scimitar. He would not strip off his splendour, not yet. Not when he had the three ortas of the household janissaries as yet unblooded beside him. He would lead them himself, the very elite of the elite, right to the fosse. Only if they failed would he climb over their bodies and cross the bridge of Al-Sirat.
‘They falter,’ he cried, his voice strong. ‘A thousand gold pieces to the man who plants our standard in their hearts.’
And with that, the mehter band, whose playing had slackened in ardour, struck up vigorously again. The cry came, ??
?Allahu akbar!’ as the household orta, following their red and gold standard and their sultan, swept down the slope and charged the stockade.
He took blows upon his breastplate, on helmet, vambrace and greave. Flesh opened but he lived. And while he lived, he would kill.
Enzo was beside him, killing too. And the Sicilian would know the same as he. The band of Genoans was diminishing with every assault. More Turks were atop the stockade, or through it, each taking longer to kill, their lives, sold slowly, allowing still more of their fellows to step up.
Yet, along the bloody way, the double-headed eagle still flew. While it did, Gregoras would not slacken. He had been on a wall that collapsed, seven years before, at the Hexamilion in the Morea. He had seen the rout that followed. Been blamed for it, lost his nose for that mistaken blame. He had turned away from his city then, his emperor, everything he’d ever loved. But he was here now, and he would not turn again.
He watched it rise, in the jerky steps of a man climbing a wall of bodies. It was a banner, different from those before, this one red and gold. He knew it, had seen it before, from a distance.
The household orta of the janissaries had arrived to try their untried strength.
He was enormous, the man who bore it, holding it within the same vast fist that grasped his shield grips. His other held a huge scimitar and he used that to brush away the first Greek who ran at him, dashing the spear from the man’s hands, slashing him across his neck. He fell away; another defender tried, died. The banner was raised high, driven down into the earth, shield and sword now spread wide as the Turk yelled his battle cry and dared any arrow, any stone, any blade.