Enzo was closer and moving fast towards him. He fought with a bastard sword, light and well-tempered enough to be used in one hand, near unstoppable with two. Yet the Turk stopped it, bending to take it on his shield and swat the blow away. And perhaps the Sicilian was surprised, or perhaps just too tired, for he stumbled, and Gregoras, still two paces away, could do nothing to halt the scimitar’s swooping arc.
He was close enough to catch his friend’s body and lower it to the ground, near enough to hear the words he whispered as he died. ‘Tell the Commander …’ was all he said.
The giant was kneeling now, shaking his head as if puzzled. Something had hit him in the forehead, a flung stone perhaps, and blood was streaming. But he wiped it away, smiled, began to rise. Gregoras’s falchion blade was short but Enzo’s bastard sword lay where it had fallen. Snatching it up, Gregoras drove it straight between the man’s knees, up under the mail skirt. The force knocked the giant over, back. He twisted, disappeared, the sword lodged in him and snatched from Gregoras’s weakened fingers. But the planted banner still flew, and Gregoras could not reach it, not with so many janissaries leaping past it over the stockade.
The Muslims had turned like birds in flight, one mind governing the mass. Now the Christians did the same. Where there had been two of the enemy, ten stood. Then fifty. And Gregoras, the falchion he’d dropped lost, gave back as did all there. He did not run to the gate, immediately jammed and blocked by screaming men. Only slaughter awaited there. Besides, over the surge that eagle still flew, perhaps thirty paces away. Somehow he made it, shoving aside men who died beside him, slipping under blows struck or taking them on his hastily raised shield.
Only thirty paces to a different world. Constantine stood amidst the solidity of five armoured guards and his closest companions – John of Dalmata, the aged Castilian Don Francisco, Theophilus Palaiologos, who had come up from the Golden Gate; Theodore of Karystenos, Gregoras’s old mentor, his bow as ever to hand, though his quiver was empty. The stockade before them was still being held. ‘Liege!’ Gregoras knelt, as much from tiredness as respect. ‘It is time to go.’
‘Where, Lascaris?’ Constantine looked about him.
‘Into the city, lord. To a ship. There may still be time.’ He looked at the men about the emperor. ‘Cut our way through …’
Constantine raised his hand, commanding silence. His voice was loud, to rise above the noise, but he did not shout. ‘No. If God decides that the city has fallen, then He has decided that I will fall with it. It is my fate and His will.’ He looked around at his servants. ‘Begin,’ he commanded, ‘for I will not have them desecrate my body.’ They did so, swiftly stripping him of all imperial marks – the gauntlets that bore the double-headed eagle, his cloak where it also flew, the thin circlet of gold round his helm that was his battle crown. As they worked, and his guards held off any who would come near, Constantine looked around. ‘I do not ask that anyone else accompany me. I release you from your allegiance. Save yourselves if you can.’
John of Dalmata stepped closer. ‘I am with you, sire.’
‘Cousin,’ said Theophilus Palaiologos, ‘so am I!’
‘And I.’ The Castilian Don Francisco hobbled forward. His breath came in a wheeze but he spoke clearly enough and with a smile. ‘What unexpected fortune, at my age, to die with a sword in my hand.’ He raised and kissed his bloodied Toledo blade. ‘What better day could I hope to live for than this?’
Constantine was soon stripped of the last of what marked him as emperor. As the eagle flag lowered, he kissed it once, then pushed it away. A plain knight stood there now and his gaze moved to Gregoras. ‘And you, Lascaris? Have you something – someone – to live for?’
Gregoras hesitated. He saw Sofia, Thakos, at the place where they might be safe. But they would need him, to make sure they were. He nodded. ‘I do, basileus.’
Constantine smiled. ‘Then go. You have given enough to your city.’ His gaze rested for a moment on the ivory nose, then was drawn away by a sudden increase in shouting. All turned, to more janissary banners on the walls. ‘Go. Each man to his destiny. And all of us into God’s hands.’
And with that, the last emperor of Constantinople lifted his sword and, with his closest companions around him, charged into the thickest press of the Turks.
A voice sounded in Gregoras’s ear. ‘I am with you,’ said Theodore of Karystenos. ‘For I have a great-grandchild just born who I would see before I die.’
Gregoras gripped his old mentor’s arm. ‘Come then,’ he said, raising his head above the throng. Everywhere men fought or fled. But the emperor’s last charge had sucked many of the enemy towards it – and away from the bastion from which Gregoras had shot his arrows an eternity ago. From one of its crenels, a knotted rope still hung. ‘Stay close, and follow fast,’ he said, stooping to snatch up a fallen dagger, shifting his shield to his right arm to cover that side.
There was a channel of sorts between him and his goal. And for the Turk, filled with the madness of the conqueror who at last had his enemy by the throat, there were many easier victims than two determined warriors running hard. Gregoras used his strength to shove men aside with his shield, used the dagger only once to open the hand of a man whose own slash he’d just ducked. Used it again to cut the laces between his backplate and breastplate as he had cut Giustiniani’s. ‘Can you climb this, old man?’ he yelled at Theodore.
‘Watch me,’ the old man replied, slipping his bow over his head and then, with the strength in his arms of the archer he’d always been, hauling himself up fast.
Dropping what armour he could, Gregoras steadied the rope and turned each way, dagger before him, warding. But most of the mob was concentrated near the gate, Greeks and Genoans trying to flee through it, Turks striking at their exposed backs, at men who were bunched and could not move. Yet not all fled. Knots of Christians still fought, and the Turks were hampered now by so many men packed into the Peribolos. Many of the living tumbled into the ditch of the dead.
A shout. Theodore had scrambled over the top. Gregoras dropped his shield, put the knife between his teeth, and leapt. As he did, he was aware of a man running at him. He swung to the wall, kicked away from it, kicked the man in the face. The Turk staggered back, came on again – and then an arrow entered his neck. He fell, and Gregoras went hand over hand and fast up the rope as above him Theodore notched a second arrow.
Scrambling over into the bastion, Gregoras lay gasping for a moment. Behind Theodore, the few surviving bowmen stared back, terror on their young faces. The other half were dead. Breath recovered, Gregoras looked to the inner wall, to which the bastion was attached. Some Turks had already swung up onto what their great cannon had all but destroyed. They seemed to be in a race to raise the green banner of the Prophet on the next bastion along, and having to kill the Greeks who were still trying to prevent them.
Gregoras turned back to the survivors. ‘Notch an arrow, if you have one,’ he said, picking up the bow he’d left. There were still two arrows left in the quiver he slipped over his head. ‘And follow me close.’
They descended the stair to the level of the wall. Throwing the bolts on the door, he stepped out. There were Turks along the battlements, and more climbing up the wider stairs below, who yelled when they saw them. But none so far had climbed up the other way. ‘Shoot!’ Gregoras commanded. Of the dozen arrows, three struck home, the others skittering off hastily raised shields or flying wide. The Turks scattered. Gregoras turned and led his men fast the other way.
Soon another stair descended. From its summit, he could see men running into the city. Greeks and their allies now, but Turks would be following soon enough. He had a view both ways along the walls. In some bastions, the defenders’ banners, of the city, of Venice, of Genoa, still flew. In others, the green banner of the Prophet, or of some orta, had been raised. News of the collapse had spread fast and men were fleeing or standing according to will or chance.
A voice beside him echoed hi
s thoughts. ‘Each man for himself now,’ Theodore of Karystenos said. ‘Go with God, son.’
With a last squeeze of his arm, the old man was gone. So too the other bowmen, joining those now fleeing the walls for the city. But Gregoras lingered, peering into the Peribolos. It seethed. He knew the sultan had brought a massive army. He had walked among it for a while. But the horde below! It was immeasurable, with every man in it bent on getting into the city; the mass preventing, for the moment, the entrance of the many.
It was over. Constantinople had fallen. Though its death agony would continue for a time, as the conquerors ravaged, a shroud would soon be laid over its corpse and a thousand years of history, of Rome of the East, of Byzantium, interred in its sacred, storied ground.
Gregoras reached up – to moisture on his face. If it was pink-laced with blood, it was still mostly water. Well then, he thought, shrugging. One tear for my parents. One for my ancestors. And the last for my mother the city, the greatest there has ever been.
He glanced back along the walls for a last time, to the place where a double-headed eagle once flew and did no more. Then he turned north, and wiped his eyes. ‘Let me have no more cause to weep,’ he said out loud, prayer and determination both.
His way lay there, at a rendezvous in a church. Two rendezvouses, he remembered, if both women kept their word. He did not know how he would explain each to the other. But if both were safe, and he could keep them safe, it would be enough, for now.
Shouldering his bow, he ran down the stairs.
– THIRTY-FIVE –
Aftermath
One by one, the bells fell silent, as the Turks swept into the city and took the places of worship. They did not only come from the breached land walls but from the Golden Horn and the Marmara shore as well, for once the news had spread with all the velocity of terror, the defenders along the sea walls abandoned their positions too and made for their homes or sought the ships of their nations.
Theon watched them, from the vantage of the hilltop above his house. Twin surges – the azaps abandoning their vessels to pour through the opened sea gates, bent on looting before the land army arrived; Venetians and Genoans going in the opposite direction, cutting their way to their carracks, hastily placing masts that had been taken down and stored, like a locked inner gate, to prevent flight; raising canvas, seeking wind, dipping oars. He could see the ships were packed with people, see the hordes who jostled on the docks and sought to join them. Mainly Greeks, he suspected, begging passage that the Latins would be unlikely to give. Each would look after their own now. Biting his lip, Theon turned to his.
The narrow alley he took was quiet, the screams from the wharves muffled by the houses on either side, and his boots sounded loud on the cobbles. He heard shutters slamming ahead of him, was aware of eyes upon him, glimpsed between the slats. It was an affluent area, members of the government, merchants, their families living in single dwellings. All knew that the looters would come, seeking booty – and worse. All hoped that perhaps their house would be somehow spared, passed over, like the Jews had been passed over in Egypt. But no sheep blood marked their doorways to turn desecration away. Men bolted doors, slammed shutters, offered prayers that it would be enough. That it would be a neighbour, a friend who was murdered, his wife raped, his children taken for slaves. Someone else.
Theon stopped before his own front door. Round a corner he heard something shatter, a burst of laughter, wondered if the enemy had already come. Then he heard a voice cry out in Greek, slurringly, ‘More, bastards, more!’ Not every citizen was awaiting the doom in prayer, it seemed.
He tapped with his knuckles on the door. ‘’Tis I,’ he called softly, and immediately bolts were drawn, a heavy key turned. He pushed rapidly in, Sofia giving back.
‘Do they come?’
‘Soon enough.’ He leaned against the door for a moment. He had not realised his heart was beating so fast. With a breath, he rebolted the door, then moved past her, mounted the stairs, entered the living area. Three sets of eyes were on him, fear in them – Minerva, Athene the maid and Thakos, twisting the rope of his slingshot between his fingers. Something pressed against his legs. He looked down, saw the cat, kicked it away.
Sofia came up the stair behind him. ‘What are those?’ he asked her, pointing.
‘Bags,’ she replied.
‘I can see that,’ he snapped. ‘What is in them?’
‘Some food. Some clothes. In case we have to …’ She shrugged.
‘You still question me?’ he said, his voice choking on sudden fury. ‘I told you. We are not going anywhere. We are staying here. We will be safe.’
‘I know.’ Sofia came to him, laid a hand on his arm. ‘But … if anything goes wrong, Gregoras says we will be safe at the chur—’
‘Gregoras.’ He threw her hand off. ‘Gregoras lies dead on the ramparts. His noseless head cut off. So put no more hope in him.’ The sudden sadness in her eyes made him laugh, harshly. ‘Yes. Weep for him. But know your only hope lies in me.’
Her eyes narrowed. Her voice, when it came, was calm. ‘My hope lies in God, husband. For Gregoras. For us all.’
He’d opened his mouth to sneer a reply when a sudden burst of shouting came from the street. ‘Bring me the banner,’ he hissed, ‘and swiftly.’
‘The Turks?’ she asked, turned, not moving.
Theon listened, to drunken cursing. ‘Greeks,’ he said. ‘Sewer scum. But the Turks will not be far behind.’ He shoved her. ‘Fetch me the banner.’
She did. He took it, crossed to the window that faced the street. As he reached it, someone began kicking the front door. He listened. It was his own language still being shouted. He pushed open the shutters, looked down. Three figures stood there, two men and a woman, shabbily dressed, swaying. One clutched a large glass jar.
He’d been right. Scum from the streets. The same people he’d taught a lesson when they rioted for bread. He leaned out. ‘Be gone,’ he shouted down. ‘The Turks are coming. Seek shelter and pray for forgiveness.’
‘Ooh, “The Turks are coming! The Turks are coming.”’ The larger of the men, his belly thrust out before him, did a little jig while singing the words. Then he stopped, looked up again. ‘Well, we live here. Why should they take everything?’ He jabbed the jar upwards. ‘Give us silver and we’ll guard your door.’
‘Give us silver,’ the other two called, as one.
‘Give me mine.’ That was the nonsense phrase the mob had chanted, demanding bread. Well, he had silenced them. He would these. ‘Go,’ he shouted. ‘I warn you …’
‘He warns us. Warns us!’ the larger man shouted, and kicked the door again before shouting, ‘Silver. Give us silver!’
The woman joined him in kicking, while the other man ran across the way and returned with a piece of timber, which he began to hammer into the door.
Sofia joined Theon at the window. ‘Come away. Leave them. They will not break the door in. Leave them.’
Theon looked down the street. He thought he’d heard something, shouting, not far away. The enemy was coming. It was time to hang Hamza’s banner. But he could not do that with the rabble below. Besides, the larger man had handed his wine jar to the woman and both men had the timber now, driving it again and again like a ram into the door. It might not hold. These scum were attacking his house. His!
He tucked the banner into the front of his doublet, returned to the main room. His father’s sword was in the corner. His rage made it seem less heavy as he lifted it, unclasping the scabbard, shaking it off.
‘Husband, do not—’
‘Do not tell me what to do, wife,’ he snarled, and pushed past her to the head of the stairs. ‘These are peasants, filth. I will drive them off and then we can hang the banner and be safe.’
She called after him as he walked down the stairs, but he could not hear her words over the thumping on the oaken door. He threw the bolts, jerked back the door. The two men stumbled forward at the sudden opening, then f
ell back.
Theon stepped out, the sword resting on his shoulder, gleaming in the morning sunlight. ‘I say be gone, you curs, now!’ He hefted the sword in two hands. It still felt light and he felt strong. An enemy was before him, more ancient even than the Turk. The mob of Constantinople, who had deprived more than one emperor of his throne, and assaulted their betters in the ruling classes. ‘Rats,’ he said, smiling now, ‘crawl back to your holes.’
He lifted the sword high, feeling what his father must have felt, what his brother felt each day. Delighting as the two men cowered back, turned and began to slink away.
‘Who are you calling rats?’ the woman shrieked and, leaning back, threw the jar. It smashed into the side of Theon’s head, exploding there, covering him in shards of glass, and wine, knocking him sideways. The sword was heavy again and its tip plunged to dash against the cobbles.
Then they were on him, the timber smashed down like a club, striking his shoulder. He tried to raise the sword, could not. He fell to one knee, looked up, his eyes burning with sour wine, near blinding him. He saw a glimmer rising, light refracted through glass, a rainbow on his face. Then the man drove the top of the jar, with its jagged edge, into Theon’s neck.
Now he was looking at a cobblestone. Liquid, darker than wine, was flowing around it, on all four sides, turning it into an island. The rainbow was gone. But Theon wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway.
The men and the woman stepped back, breathing hard. ‘Pig,’ spat the large man, throwing the jar neck down onto Theon’s dead body. Then he looked at the open door. ‘Let’s take what’s ours,’ he grunted.
He made the third step before a heavy clay pot took him in the chest, knocking him backwards. The woman, managing to avoid his fall, looked up and saw another woman at the top of the stairs, another pot raised above her head. ‘Go!’ she cried, before hurling. This jar smashed above them, on the lintel, showering them in thick, pungent olive oil.
The big man lay on the ground next to the body, rubbing at his chest, moaning. The other was staring down the street. ‘I think … I think I hear them.’