Constantinopolis Page 16

  Still, it appeared Mehmet’s men would eventually succeed. Each ship was now completely surrounded and connected to multiple Ottoman ships. No ship had fallen yet but it could only be a matter of time. The Greeks and Italians were fighting courageously but they were taking casualties. The Ottomans were losing men too, but they had an almost endless supply of reinforcements and could rotate their ships out of the line and replace them with fresh warriors. Mehmet watched anxiously, his sword drawn, shouting his commands and straining to see which ship would surrender or fall first. Victory was his.

  As the sun was setting, the wind began again. He could feel it in the water, beginning gently and picking up. Surely it was too late for the Italians to escape? He watched frantic activity on the enemy ships. Even as they continued to fight off the Ottomans, they also reset their sails, which were soon filled with wind. The ships began to pick up speed, slowly at first and then more quickly. The Italians concentrated on cutting the grappling ropes and soon they were breaking free from the tight mass of Ottoman ships. Mehmet screamed in anger, shouting at his men to stop the ships. There was nothing he could do the Italians were gradually pulling away, turning into the Horn toward the sea chain. Greek fire ships stood off the chain, ready to assist the fleet. Mehmet could hear the cheers rising from across the Golden Horn. The Greeks of Constantinople were celebrating. The Ottomans had failed.

  Mehmet leapt off his horse and fell to his knees in the freezing surf, beating his fists against the sand and screaming. How could this happen! 100 ships to four. Thousands of men against a few hundred! How could Allah allow this? What curse was on him? What curse on his fleet? He had built this fleet so carefully. He had studied why his ancestors and others had failed to take the city. Sea power was one of the key factors. He had addressed it by building this great fleet to stop any relief force and to attack the sea walls.

  But the fleet had proved an utter failure. First they had been denied access to the Horn by the sea chain. Now, and even more disastrous, a tiny fleet had outfought and outmaneuvered his ships, and saved the city. If four ships could defy him, what could 20 do? Perhaps destroy his fleet entirely! This fleet of four ships could not turn the tide, but certainly a larger fleet could. If he could not stop Constantinople from being relieved then his army would fail. He had failed. How could he continue the siege now? Halil had already exerted pressure this morning. Now the conditions were even worse. What should he do? Should he save his position and accept the peace terms? Then he would be even more under Halil’s thumb. He probably would have to dismiss Zaganos and the rest of his faction of ministers. He would become a puppet. But he would be alive. If he defied Halil now and continued the siege, he might be dead in a few days, perhaps even tonight.

  This was Baltaoglu’s fault. He would kill this Bulgarian bastard with his own hands.

  Mehmet looked out over the Golden Horn and watched the Greeks. They were cheering and clapping, even dancing in joy. He could see the happiness in every expression. His own people by contrast watched silently.

  He had hoped for an easy victory to disillusion the Greeks and increase his own people’s morale. Instead he had been defeated with disastrous results. And now the failure of two days ago became even greater. Now his victories at the castles seemed shallow. He had been able to do nothing against the great city.

  Instead, Constantine had defeated him at every turn. His great fleet was a failure. His cannon had proven some value but had failed to give him the city. His men had been unable to exploit the breach they were given. He did not have time for this! His father could afford months and nobody would complain. Nobody would have dared complain. But he was not given that luxury. His advisors circled him like vultures, ready to swoop down and destroy him the moment he was weak. And he was weak now. Weak because of this fool of an admiral.

  He was so angry he could barely see. He mounted his horse and galloped along the Bosporus shore toward the fleet. He arrived back far ahead of the retreating ships and dismounted, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger while he awaited the return of his failed fleet. The ships seemed to take an eternity. The Sultan seethed, all he could think of was punishing this idiot for ruining all of his plans.

  The ships moved closer, including the Admiral’s flagship. Mehmet could see Baltaoglu on the deck, he was carefully watching the Sultan. He must know what was coming.

  The flagship finally docked and the Admiral jumped down and immediately fell to his knees with his head facing the down and his arms out touching the ground in abject prostration.

  Mehmet rushed forward screaming and delivered a kick to his head. The Bulgarian fell over hard, crashing against the ground and rocking back and forth in pain. Mehmet turned to one of his guards. “Impale this dog!” He commanded. “He failed me and has embarrassed us before the Greeks! Let everyone see the price of failure!”

  “My Lord, surely you will not kill him.” Mehmet was surprised to hear the voice of Halil. When had the Grand Vizier arrived? “I would ask that you spare his life at least.”

  Mehmet glared at Halil and thoughts raced through him. He wanted to kill Baltaoglu here and now with his own hands. Could he kill both of them before anyone attempted to intervene? He raised his weapon to strike but Halil stepped quickly in between with his hands raised. “No Sultan. Please. I ask you to spare his life.”

  What should he do? He started to calm down, forcing himself to think. He was not sure why the Grand Vizier would care one way or another about Baltaoglu but was there an opportunity here. If he spared the Admiral then Halil would be in his debt. Perhaps that would give him a few more days. He needed time. He needed it more than he needed the head of this fool. He hesitated a moment longer and then decided.

  “For you my Grand Vizier I will spare his life. But do not forget this favor.” He turned to Baltaoglu. “You are hereby stripped of all titles, lands, and money. You will be lashed 100 times here and now. Then you will be assigned as a slave to one of your ships as an oarsmen.”

  Mehmet kicked the admiral again then stepped away. His guards rushed forward and seized Baltaoglu. They dragged him screaming to a wooden pylon that had been driven in to the ground near the beach to temporarily anchor ships. The guards lashed his hands to the pole and then ripped off his shirt, exposing his bare back.

  A particularly strong Janissary came forward, holding a menacing horse-whip. He pulled the whip backward and then quickly forward, lashing Baltaoglu’s back. The former admiral screamed, his entire body going rigid. A red mark appeared across his back, and quickly filled with blood. Another lash. A second mark formed and Baltaoglu writhed in agony. A third lash and the Bulgarian passed out, his knees buckling to the ground. Mehmet stood still with Halil beside him, and watched all 100 lashes administered. Mehmet did not enjoy the blood, or the wretched tatters of skin that were all that remained of the admiral’s back. But this served its purpose. Halil was visibly sickened and upset. Their ride back to the city walls was quiet. Mehmet hoped he had made his point.

  Halil and Mehmet arrived at the Sultan’s tent in time for the planned council meeting. Zaganos joined them along with Mehmet’s other field commanders, and a number of the members of the old guard, who sat with Halil. The council ate a late dinner and chatted about trivial matters. After dinner was cleared away, the council turned to the business at hand.

  Not surprisingly, Halil immediately raised the peace overture. He briefed the council and completed his remarks by recommending that the Sultan counter with a huge annual tribute requirement of 70,000 ducats per year. If this was accepted it would cripple the feeble economy of Constantinople and the city would probably fall within a year or two, just from economic collapse. There were murmurs of agreement from a number of the ministers. Mehmet watched the expressions carefully. He was alarmed to see that several of the younger members of the council, members whom he had hand selected, now appeared to side with Halil.

  Zaganos spoke next. He argued against accepting a peace. “I agree with Ha
lil that the fleet has proved a disappointment. We had counted on using the fleet to stop any aid from coming into the city. We now know that that is not going to work. If a big relief fleet does appear, we will do everything we can to block it, but we must calculate that such a fleet would reach Constantinople safely.”

  “All the more reason to lift the siege,” retorted Halil.

  “I was not finished! I agree this is a greater risk, but we are very close to taking the city. We almost broke through. It is only a matter of time before we get through. We should proceed. There will never be a better time. The Hungarians could attack us any time. So far they have not. The Italians are split and indecisive. This religious Union is recent, and the Pope has not yet reacted. If we wait, we may face a united attack, led by Constantine and John Hunyadi. We cannot secure our rear while Constantinople remains behind in enemy hands. Let us end this now!”

  There were murmurs of agreement from some of the council, but clearly Zaganos now represented the minority position. Mehmet was running out of time.

  Halil hesitated. “I disagree with Zaganos, but as always, this is your choice my Lord.”

  Mehmet stood and looked around slowly, meeting the eyes of each of the councilmembers. He paused as if considering what to do. “I appreciate everyone’s advice. I think we should follow a compromise position. Let us continue the siege for now, but let us send a counter offer to Constantine. If he leaves the city, he can have all of the Peloponnesus as his kingdom, AND we will grant him a peace treaty and a yearly stipend for the rest of his lifetime. We will also agree to a mutual defense treaty against any attack by any power on his territory. He may take all wealth and all people with him that he is capable of transporting. This would give him wealth and security for his lifetime.”

  “Those are generous terms Sultan,” said Halil, “Perhaps some would say the terms were too generous. But he will not accept it. He will never leave the city.”

  “So be it. We will make this generous offer and if he accepts it or not it is Allah’s will. I am not going to worry about fleets and armies that have not arrived. The Hungarians and the Italians may be coming, but they are not here now. We are here. We have our men in place. We will attack until we breach the walls. If we fail, it will be my failure. I will face the consequences, whatever Allah wills. The siege continues.”

  The councilmembers bowed, acquiescing at least for now to the will of the young Sultan.

  “Let us hope we can prevent further reinforcement from the sea My Lord.” This was Halil’s parting shot and he was clearly emphasizing the Sultan’s failure.

  “Yes indeed, let us hope and pray.” Mehmet would do more than pray. He would act.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FRIDAY APRIL 20, 1453

  Constantine sat mounted near the Acropolis and watched silently in great tension as the naval battle unfolded. He had been torn from so many conflicting emotions. First the excitement of a relief fleet, followed by disappointment that it was only four ships. Then horror at the massive Turkish fleet attempting to block the Italians and finally elation when the wind picked up and the ships escaped toward the Golden Horn. Surely this was a miracle from God. How could four ships evade 100, particularly when they were surrounded for hours with no wind?

  Now as the tiny fleet made its way through the sea chain that was opened for them, he felt peace and happiness. He acknowledged the cheers and waves of his people as they shared this great moment of victory. He bowed his head and prayed, thanking God for delivering this precious fleet to the city.

  He was joined by Sphrantzes, and the two of them rode down along the sea wall to the harbor, where they would anxiously await the docking of the fleet. The harbor was crowded with Greeks and Italians, smiling and celebrating. Constantine looked around. In the crowd he spotted Zophia. She was looking at him. He waved and smiled. She smiled back, knowing how much this small gesture meant to him. He did not try to approach her He knew she would not speak to him, but he was happy she was here, sharing this great victory with him, even if it was from afar.

  He had been given another respite, a gift that only God could have granted. Indeed, only the divine hand of God could have led the meager flotilla of ships past the massive Turkish fleet and safely into the harbor. Now, not only had they enjoyed another victory at the hands of their Ottoman foes, but they were going to be reinforced with at least some provisions and men. Constantine had the greatest hope that the men arriving would have news of additional reinforcements, and some sense of when they would arrive.

  The Italian ships and the imperial transport floated into the docks. Constantine saw that they were all badly damaged by cannon fire and the decks were slick with blood. Wounded men lay in various places, some of them screaming in pain. The passage had been hard fought and the damage was more extensive up close, but they had made it through.

  A middle-aged man with grey hair, dressed in black, jumped down from the nearest ship and called for wine. He was clearly a captain. Constantine dismounted and walked over to him.

  “I am Emperor Constantine. Who are you?”

  The man appraised the Emperor and then bowed. “I’m Francesco Lecanella.”

  “Are you the captain of this ship?”

  “I am the captain of this fleet.”

  “Where are the rest of your ships Captain?”

  “There are no others my Lord. I was hired by the Pope to outfit three ships to reinforce the city. I have over 200 fighting men, and also weapons, powder and some coin. I came across your imperial grain ship in the Aegean near the entrance of the Dardanelles. I invited your captain to travel with me up the straits. We passed the strait without incident and made our way into the Sea of Marmara. We had good weather and fair winds and passed through to the city without incident. I was surprised to find the Turkish fleet here. I did not know they had anything that large. I thought we were doomed. Thank God these infidels cannot sail or fight at sea to save their lives. Four against hundreds. What a tale that will make for the generations to hear!”

  Constantine was disappointed that there were not more ships, but he did not let it show. He clapped Lecanella on the back. “Do you bring news of additional fleets?” asked the Emperor hopefully.

  “Alas, none that I know of Emperor. I would imagine additional ships will be coming any time. I do not have hard information but as I was outfitting my fleet, I certainly heard rumor of additional reinforcements.”

  This statement pleased Constantine greatly and he smiled in appreciation. “Thank you for your brave assistance. I have never seen such expert sailing and fighting. Constantinople welcomes you with open arms. I’m afraid you might be stuck with us for awhile, unless you care to brave the Turks again.”

  “Thank you my Lord. I’m happy to have made the trip. I knew it was likely I would have to stay in the city for at least awhile after I arrived, although I must admit I had no idea the Turks had such a massive fleet. Had I known that, I would not have come here in the first place. Thank God they are as hapless at sailing as my Venetian brothers or I might not be here to tell the tale.”

  “Do you have any other news?”

  “Yes. When I left Rome the Pope had just sent a messenger to the Venetians to request additional aid. He also sent a message to John Hunyadi. It can only be a matter of time before a very large force arrives by either land or sea to assist the city. You must simply hold out for a month or two.”

  “I think we can do so my friend. My main concern was not the land walls, although we have been surprised by their cannon, which have done some considerable damage to our walls. My greatest concern has been their fleet. Thankfully we were able to keep the Golden Horn clear with our sea chain, and now we also know that a relief fleet of any size should be able to fight off the Turks at sea and reinforce the city. A fleet large enough might even allow us to go on the attack and wipe out the Ottoman ships.”

  “Surely we could do so with fifty or so ships. If we can put together a decent sized fleet,
I would be happy to lead an attack.”

  Constantine was excited. This was truly the greatest news he had received in months. Huge relief forces were apparently on their way. If he could just hold out he should be able to drive the Turks from the walls, and potentially even go on the attack. The next relief fleet, assuming it was large enough, would give him the fifty ships he needed to destroy the Turkish fleet. Without a fleet, Mehmet would likely retreat and if not… well, the Hungarians would soon be here as well.

  He could not help falling into a bit of fantasy. What would he do if he ever caught Mehmet? Would he kill him? Would he hold the knife himself and slit the throat of this brash bastard? He had respected Mehmet’s father. He was a terrible force but also civilized. A man of his word. A man of culture and honor. Constantine’s feelings for Murad were complex and deep. He held Mehmet in much less regard, although he feared him greatly—even more than Murad, he realized. Mehmet could not be bargained with or reasoned with, at least not without giving up the one thing that defined Constantine, the city. Yes he would kill the Sultan if he ever fell in his hands. He would relish it. He prayed the Sultan never captured him—he was sure of what would await him.

  Constantine considered additional opportunities. The incompetence of the Turkish fleet not only meant possible relief from Italy, but it also meant there could be aid from the Black Sea. This meant a Georgian relief fleet was a possibility. He had struggled with whether to drop the marriage proposal, at least publicly in the city. He desperately missed Zophia. To have lost the true love of his life at the moment he needed her most tortured him constantly. But he could not bring himself to do it. While the city had hope, he would sacrifice his happiness, his honor, his soul if need be, to protect his people. For now he was forgetting himself, and leaving his guest waiting.