Constantinopolis Page 18

  The job of porting the ships would be herculean. Unfortunately just like Constantinople, the land between the Bosporus and the Horn rose gradually to a ridge and then back down again. Zaganos had put the men to digging out a portal road and smoothing it as best as possible. There was not sufficient time to dig an actual channel through the ridge, but the men were doing their best to minimize the tremendous work of manhandling the ships over land.

  Mehmet found Zaganos near the harbor. Here more workers were constructing a cradle that angled down into the water. Turks worked furiously with shirts off, lashing the logs together and then greasing them with animal fat until they were so slippery that one could no longer even hold onto them.

  More logs were being placed on the dug out road onward up the hill. These logs were placed seven or eight astride with a small channel in the middle for the keel of the ship. The first ship had already been connected with huge lines, and pulled up to the beginning of the cradle.

  Mehmet greeted Zaganos, congratulating him. “As always, I find my commands to you fulfilled to the limit of my expectations. Would that others could follow them as do you.”

  “Thank you Sultan, I have but followed your orders.”

  “Yes, but you have also exceeded my expectations.”

  “And also mine, Sultan.”

  Mehmet recognized the voice and turned to see Halil, who had apparently just arrived. The Grand Vizier was like a snake in the grass, always appearing, unexpected and unwanted. The Sultan nodded his head.

  “Another brilliant execution,” noted Halil. “How did you come across such knowledge?”

  Mehmet was pleased. He was sure Halil had not expected this. He had surprised his Grand Vizier again. The more he could keep Halil off balance, the longer he could hope to carry on the siege without interference.

  “I had no knowledge of moving ships by land. It simply occurred to me that the sea chain was a bigger obstacle than this hill. Perhaps Allah has blessed me with this knowledge.”

  “Allah blesses us with many things, such as the knowledge of when to go forward and when to step back. Hopefully you will succeed, my Sultan. A failure here will be very damaging. I am not sure the men could take a failure after the defeat at sea.”

  Mehmet held his tongue. He felt it again. That terrible desire to kill Halil here and now. The anger was, as always, mixed with an almost overwhelming fear and loathing he could never shake when Halil challenged him. What did he want from Halil? Approval? Friendship? True service? He was not sure, but he was ashamed of himself for having such strong emotions and feeling so helpless around him. Halil was not the Sultan. He was. Yet he held power over Mehmet even now. Mehmet feared his Grand Vizier. It was something deeper than a threat of future failures. He did not understand it and he hated it.

  For the thousandth time he wanted to draw his sword and remove Halil’s head, but instead he merely nodded grimly. “Yes indeed, we shall have to assure success my friend, for our empire and for Allah.”

  “That is all we wait and hope for.”

  Mehmet did not miss the use of the word “we” a clear allusion to the senior council members. “I shall have to assure I do not disappoint then.”

  Halil bowed and turned his horse, riding away. He was clearly off to report his findings to the rest of the old guard. Why did he not just kill them all and be done with it? Would the people rise up against him? They did not love him. They never had. Damn them and damn the council. Why could he not be loved and obeyed like his father? He must take the city. Then he would have everything he wanted. Without it, he would have nothing. Everything always came back to taking the city.

  He was sick of having to think this way. He was tormented by doubts again and again. Why could he not discipline his mind the way he had disciplined his body. He had trained himself to hide emotion. He could go days without food and could march in cold or heat until other men fell before him. He could not do the same with his mind. Try as he might, he was tormented by his father’s disapproval, by Halil’s betrayal, and by the lack of respect he received from his own people. If only he could conquer these feelings and finally have internal peace.

  Mehmet shook his head hard, physically trying to shake out the dread he always felt around Halil. He knew one cure for his mind: activity. If he kept himself busy, the doubts would recede. He turned to Zaganos. “Let us get the first ship out of the water.”

  Zaganos shouted to several men standing in attendance, who turned and ran down to pre-appointed positions. More orders were shouted and men came running from several directions and were soon positioning themselves along the length of the huge lines. When hundreds of men were in place on each of the giant lines, then Zaganos raised his hand and shouted the order to pull. The men strained forward as one, struggling with great groans. The ship glided up until it hit the wooden cradle and then stuck, refusing to move further forward. Zaganos screamed encouragement. The men pulled harder, veins popping on foreheads and sweat running down their faces. The ship creaked and shuddered. Mehmet feared the lines would snap or the ship would crush the cradle. Finally the ship moved slowly forward and angled upward, the bow rising slightly as the ship began pulling out of the water. Once the ship was caught by the cradle it moved smoothly, but very slowly.

  Mehmet was astounded by the sight of the giant ship slowly coming out of the water. He noticed similar expressions on his men as they watched the ship’s bow, then midship, and finally stern emerge out of the water and glide along the greased wooden road. Within a few minutes, the men had pulled the ship completely out of the water and twenty feet or so along the path.

  Zaganos took a break from directing the movement and came over to Mehmet to congratulate him. The two stood along the side of the ship as it passed slowly by.

  “My Sultan, you conceive of a dream and it becomes reality. May your dream of Constantinople come to pass as well.”

  Mehmet was pleased, both by the progress and by Zaganos’s words.

  “Congratulations go to you as well my friend. You have worked wonders arranging all of these details so quickly. I have no more faithful councilor, general and friend. Truly I am blessed.”

  “Thank you Sultan. I am your servant.” He paused. “I will be honest. I was not sure this would really work. I am still not sure it will work to conclusion although I did not believe the ship would even make it out of the water.”

  “I had no doubt we could do this, it is Allah’s will that we. . .”

  The sound of a terrible cracking interrupted Mehmet, he looked up in surprise to see the ship tilting dangerously toward him. Zaganos reached out and grabbed the Sultan by the arm, almost dislocating his shoulder with the force as he pulled him away from the falling ship. They ran several steps in stride and then dove. They just cleared the edge of the ship as it crashed against the ground. The mast barely missed the two men and broken timbers flew through the air.

  Mehmet felt a burning pain tear through his leg. He stumbled to the ground. He looked down and saw a spur of wood the size of a small dagger sticking completely through his thigh. Blood was pouring out over the wound. He felt searing pain. Dizziness caused his head to spin. He gritted his teeth to avoid crying out. Only a coward would scream.

  Through the pain he felt his anger rising. Again at the edge of victory he had failed. He turned and looked at the wreckage of the ship. He could imagine Halil riding back as soon as he heard the news and staring smugly at the fallen ship. He would comment sympathetically about the unfortunate incident while inside the Grand Vizier would be celebrating another failure. Mehmet would not allow it. These ships would be moved if they had to be disassembled and then rebuilt.

  “Are you all right Sultan?” asked Zaganos.

  “I’m fine. I need someone to pull this out and then bind it. Are you hurt?”

  “I appear unhurt.”

  “Good. I want you to get back to work on this project immediately. Find out what the problem is and then fix it. Obviously we need some l
ines on both sides of the ship, and perhaps the channel between the wood needs to be wider. Whatever the problem is, I want the first ship in the Golden Horn in two days. If we have to work every Ottoman in our army to death to make it happen, we will make it happen.”

  “I will get to work on it immediately. I will get the ships in the Horn or die trying. Now you need to get some attention for your leg.”

  Mehmet was carried on a flat board by a number of guards to a nearby doctor. The doctor immediately examined the wound and went to work on removing the shard. Mehmet gritted his teeth against the pain when the huge wooden sliver was pulled from his leg. He felt consciousness fading but he gritted his teeth to assure he would not call out. He heard screaming and wondered where it was coming from. He realized it was his own voice. He fought against the pain and the darkness but soon he felt it overwhelming him and he lost consciousness.

  Mehmet dreamed. He saw his boyhood rooms in the palace, but he remained a man. He walked through the hallways and was greeted by guards, but not as Sultan. He made his way to the throne room and found a man sitting in his place. He realized it was his father. He approached his father nervously. Mehmet had always felt Murad did not really approve of him. That he was disappointed. He had always sought his father’s approval but never received it. He still remembered the sharp chastisement he had received when Murad had returned to take the throne at Halil’s request. According to Halil, the empire was on the verge of revolution because of Mehmet’s childish decisions and rash behavior.

  What had Mehmet done wrong? How could he have possibly been expected to do better? He had not even been trained as a Sultan when he was a young man. Murad had expected Mehmet’s brother to inherit the throne but the brother had died and Mehmet was forced to try to learn under the tutelage of harsh masters trying to make up for lost time.

  Then his father had given up the throne without ever really directing or advising Mehmet on how to rule himself. So at 12, the young Sultan had done what he could. He received advice from every direction, advice that often conflicted. Nobody seemed to care what he wanted and even though he was supposed to be all powerful, no one listened to his commands or followed them. In a short time they took it all away, and his father had returned to criticize him for failing to learn the lessons his father had never taught him. Now here he was before him, his father, sitting again on his throne.

  “Father,” he humbly addressed him, bowing low to the Sultan.

  “Son. You have disappointed me again. You were told by Halil not to attack Constantinople but you ignored him. Did I not myself advise you to wait until you were ready? Instead you attack almost immediately and rashly.”

  “I did not act rashly, Father. I prepared. I built a navy. I built cannon. I secured the peace with the west.”

  “Hah! You trust the West? They will attack you when they are ready, and they will not worry about honoring agreements. Did not Hunyadi attack me after we swore a peace? He had the agreement declared invalid because I was not a Christian. Your navy? A failure at every turn. The cannon? Have they got you into the city? I spent my lifetime trying to capture Constantinople. You think you can do what I could not? You were not even able to rule.”

  Mehmet felt the pain again. The pain he always associated with his father and with Halil. Disappointment and failure. His father had never given him a chance.

  “I have prepared well. The cannon are breaching the walls. The fleet is out of my control. I will admit I expected more out of them, but what am I to do? The peace agreements should hold the West long enough to complete the siege. What more could I have done to prepare?”

  “You could have waited. Always, you are in a rush. That’s why you lost your throne in the first place. The one thing you have failed to gain is the confidence of your people, of your advisors. Some doubted you before this siege even began. The doubt is growing. If you had won some victories in the field first, and allowed some time to go by, you would have the full confidence of your people. Without this confidence, you cannot maintain a long siege. You have gambled everything on one throw of the dice. That is not the Ottoman way. If you fail, at best you will be dethroned and perhaps killed, at worst the Ottomans will be driven out of Europe. You could erase more than a hundred years of history.”

  Another voice could be heard. “I have tried to tell him Sultan. I have tried to lead him, but he is the same as always, he will not listen.” Mehmet looked over. Halil had stepped out of the shadows, an arrogant smirk on his face.

  “Ah my Grand Vizier. You have done everything you can with this boy. You know what you must do.”

  “Yes my Sultan.”

  Mehmet grew angry and terrified. “I am the Sultan not you! You are dead!” He turned to Halil. “You will serve me! You will call me Sultan.”

  Halil turned to him. “For now.”

  Mehmet woke in a start in bed. He felt weak and his clothes were soaked. He recognized his personal physician. “Sultan, you have had a bad fever from your wound. The fever has broken. You must stay in bed for a few days though.”

  Mehmet thought about that. He started to rise, although he was dizzy. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “About twenty hours.”

  Bad, but not as bad as it could have been. He rose further and pulled his legs out over the edge. He had to get back to the siege. “Bring me my boots, mail and sword.”

  “Sultan, you cannot go now. You need to stay and rest.”

  Mehmet stood shakily. “Bring my things, I do not have time.”

  His belongings were brought and he dressed as quickly as he could, assisted by the physician and a few guards. He then limped slowly out of the tent. His leg was wrapped in clean bandages that were stained red in the front. The pain was almost unbearable. He thought of returning to his bed but dismissed the idea. He had no time.

  Mehmet left the tent and looked around. He realized he was still near the walls of Galata. They must have shifted his physician’s tent over to assist the Sultan near where he was wounded. His horse was waiting with guards, who were already mounted.

  He slowly and painfully pulled himself up into the saddle. When he was mounted he turned his horse and rode off at a slow trot. He needed to see what progress was being made. Zaganos had better not have failed him.

  He rode slowly up the center ridge of Galata and crested the hill. He smiled then. Before him, a long line of wooden ships were slowly moving along the land, as if by magic. He peered out to his left at the Horn. A few Ottoman ships were already in the harbor and another was about to slide in. He looked further out into the Horn to see if the Greeks were forming to attack. So far they were not. He wondered if they would brave it. Mehmet had ordered that a number of cannon be brought over from the main assault and placed on the shores of the Horn. If the Greeks threatened his fleet, they would face a significant bombardment from land. Perhaps that was what was holding them back now. He soared with pride. Pride for himself, pride for Zaganos and pride for his people. His fleet was in the Horn. The Greeks would be hard pressed to stop them now if they mounted a significant attack on the chain. They might even be able to fight their way into the harbors and take the city the way the Italians had more than two hundred years ago.

  He thought of Halil and his father. He thought of his people. Perhaps they did all think him rash and a fool. Perhaps they thought he gambled too much. He didn’t care. He would make this gamble. He would never listen to Halil, unless he had no options left. He would prove to them all that he was a great man. The dream of the Ottomans was always Constantinople. Islam had desired the city since the formation of the faith. If it was Allah’s will he would give the city to his people, to his faith. Or he would die trying. He would take the city, he knew it. If only he had time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1453

  Constantine, Notaras and Sphrantzes stared grimly out over the Golden Horn at the Turkish fleet. They had watched Mehmet for days slowly porting the ships over the
wooden road he had constructed until there were 70 Turkish ships in the Horn. Constantine was thoughtful. Again, as with the cannon and the fleet, he had to grudgingly admire the Sultan. He had badly underestimated his abilities. While many people were relieved when Murad had died, Constantine had known he was facing an aggressive, even rash opponent. He was not surprised that Mehmet attacked the city so early in his reign. What had come as a shock was that he would do so in such an organized and innovative way.

  But Constantine had received no information about Mehmet that would have led him to believe he was capable of such organization or brilliance. When he had come to power, many Italian leaders congratulated Constantine, sure that they would have years of peace. The Emperor had known better, and had worked as hard as he could with the limited resources available to him to prepare for a siege he knew would come sooner rather than later. He had planned for the attack of a rash youth. He was not ready to face such a sophisticated and well-prepared leader. Mehmet had come to Constantinople with more men than his father. He had brought a navy. He had brought cannon. All this and he showed tremendous ability to adapt to changes in fortune. Constantine had hoped that the series of defeats Mehmet had undergone since the siege began would erode the leader’s resolve and he would give up and leave. Instead, with each defeat, the Sultan just adapted and tried new and innovative tactics. Constantine knew he would be very lucky indeed if Mehmet did not find some way to conquer the city.