Constantinopolis Read online

  Mehmet paused, looking around the room to gauge the faces of the council.

  “This success means nothing. All of our triumphs mean nothing while this city sits in our midst. This city is an infidel mockery of our faith, of our people. If we cannot take the city, we cannot be a true people, a true empire. The Prophet, peace be upon him, predicted that a blessed people would take the city. We are that people. And the time is now. I propose that we make immediate preparations for the siege and capture of the city. We will take the city for Mohammed, for Osman, for Allah!”

  There were mixed cheers and murmurs from the council. Zaganos Pasha quickly rose to respond to the Sultan.

  “My Sultan. You speak with wisdom beyond your years. It was your father’s great dream to capture the city. Alas, he could not do so before he left for paradise. But you will fulfill his dream. As a general among you I report that we have the forces necessary to capture the city. We need only the will of our leader, our Sultan, and we will prevail. Let it be done.”

  More cheers accompanied Zaganos’s response, although Mehmet noticed these came almost exclusively from his Christian/convert faction.

  Halil now came forward to speak, first bowing before the Sultan.

  “My dear Sultan, and assembled council. I humbly speak as Grand Vizier. I appreciate our Sultan’s enthusiasm for this project, but I must respectfully disagree.

  “I certainly agree that capturing the city would do wonders for our empire, for our people, for our faith. However, our Sultan tells us these things without addressing the obvious problem: how to accomplish the task?

  I would point out that it is not the will of his ancestors that prevented the capture of the city. Certainly it was not the will of Murad who desired this above all things. It is the city itself that prevents this.

  How is the city to be captured? Is not Constantinople surrounded on three sides by water? We have no fleet to speak of my Sultan. We have difficulty enough ferrying a few troops back and forth across the narrow waters of the straights without interference from the Greeks. And the Greeks possess their Greek fire, the terrible weapon they use to burn our ships and kill our sailors. The only time the city has ever fallen is by sea, and then only to the Venetians and other Latins, who did possess a great fleet.

  Should we defeat the city by land? We outnumber the foolish infidel Greeks ten or twenty to one. But they have the walls. As you know my Sultan, the city is only exposed by land on one side. A triple network with a moat protects the land approach to Constantinople, with two huge walls surmounted by scores of defensive towers. The city can be defended against our hundreds of thousands by a tenth of that amount. The walls have not been breached in a thousand years.

  And that is just to speak of the Greeks. What of the rest of the West? Time and again our attacks on the city have served as a lightning rod for the Pope and the kings of Europe to rise against us. We have fought battle after battle to preserve our territory in Europe. When will we prod this hornet’s nest too greatly? Our strength is in the petty squabbling of the Christian kingdoms. Can we afford to unite them? We may lose more than Constantinople; we may lose Europe in the bargain. Think of John Hunyadi my Sultan. He is perhaps the greatest Christian warlord we have faced. We have a truce with him now, but if we attack the city? With our forces diverted to the center, what will stop him from attacking the north? We could lose everything gained in the last hundred years in a single winter.

  My Sultan, I advise caution. Do not repeat the mistakes of your youth. Accept the advice and guidance of this council. In time, you will have the support you seek in these things.” Halil bowed again, a slight smirk on his face. He stepped back amidst several elders who placed supportive hands on him.

  The Grand Mufti, religious leader of the Ottomans now came forward to speak. Mehmet felt tense. Much would ride on the opinion of the Mufti, who he hoped would support him.

  “My Sultan, I agree that it is the will of Allah to capture the city.”

  Mehmet smiled, with the Mufti’s support, he would not fail.

  The Mufti hesitated. “However, there is of course the question of timing. With all respect, you are still young in years, my Sultan. We have many enemies, including not only John Hunyadi but also the White Sheep of Anatolia. These enemies but wait for an opportunity of advantage to attack us. I agree with Halil: if we rob our borders of forces to embark on a lengthy siege of the city, then we leave ourselves open to attack.

  Also, think of what a failure would bring. You have not won any great victories as Sultan. The West watches you closely, perhaps considering you the most vulnerable Sultan in many years. If you fail at Constantinople, you will have lost the faith of your people. We will have expended our treasury, depleted our troops. We will be vulnerable. I agree with Halil. We could lose everything. That is certainly not what Allah intends. We are his keepers on this earth. We cannot gamble recklessly with our duty. I cannot support this plan my Sultan. I too urge caution.”

  Halil came forward again. “My Sultan, you have our support and advice for so much. Please do not react recklessly to our response. It is intended only for your own good. We will be here to assist you in all your endeavors. Forget Constantinople for now. I have many suggestions for you that I believe you will find promising and will assist you in your future rule.”

  Mehmet could feel his blood rising.

  “I see no reason to wait. We have waited long enough to take this city. My father should have captured it when he had the opportunity. These Greeks have nothing left to fight with. He had Constantinople in his grasp, and he let it fall through his fingers. I won’t make this same mistake.”

  “Your father was very wise. He didn’t make a mistake in not taking the city. It was his choice. If he didn’t choose to take the city then with all respect, Sultan, you should heed his actions. He had the love of his people, a lifetime of experience, and the trust of his council.”

  “And I do not have that trust!”

  Halil bowed. “Of course I do not claim that. However the more time you are in power the easier it will be to accomplish what you wish. You have already had a revolt while you were in power. I certainly would not wish for that event to be repeated. Let your people see you leading them wisely. Listen to the advice of those who advised your father. In time you will have the people’s trust, and when the time is right we can consider attacking Constantinople again, if appropriate.”

  Mehmet was incensed. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and behead Halil right here and now. He let the anger burn through him without showing any emotion, simply staring thoughtfully at the council. He saw that almost exclusively the old guard backed Halil and the Grand Mufti. Only a few of the younger members surrounded Zaganos and obviously supported him. His hands were tied.

  “Very well,” he conceded finally. “I will wait for now. But this decision will not be long delayed. It is my destiny to take the city! I will take Constantinople! I suggest you all reconcile your position with this and begin working toward a solution. I am the Sultan! I will not be denied what I want!”

  He was losing control and he hated it. He sounded like a petulant child. He couldn’t afford to show weakness before these men. He saw a slight smile on Halil’s face, and the Grand Vizier looked around knowingly, making eye contact with several other council members.

  He had heard enough, and showed too much. He dismissed the Council, waving even Zaganos away. As the servants extinguished candles the room fell into darkness.

  Despite his orders Zaganos held back. He approached his Sultan carefully. “I admire your courage and your enthusiasm, but I caution you again to be more patient. You are letting your emotions govern you. You cannot afford to show weakness, particularly to Halil.” With that Zaganos bowed and left Mehmet alone.

  Mehmet sat in the blackness in impotent rage. Why was he not loved and trusted like his father? Was he not Allah’s shadow on earth? Was he not ordained to lead his people in triumph against the infidels? W
hy did his father place him in charge before his time?

  Could he even trust Zaganos? He seemed to be on his side but so had Halil before he betrayed him and sent for Murad again. He could trust no one. He must rely only on himself. He could use Zaganos and count him as a supporter. However, he must never trust another again. They must all be watched, spied on, checked on.

  Mehmet felt himself boiling up again. They would pay. All of those who had laughed at him, threatened him, who had sat smugly on the sidelines while he lost his throne and was sent away in humiliation. First he must obtain true freedom of action. The key to his freedom was taking the city. He must convince the council to allow him to proceed with his plans.

  As for Halil, he may have felt he won and stopped Mehmet’s plans. He was wrong. The council had presented their concerns. The council feared the walls, the sea, and western aid. They did not believe the city could be taken because of these problems. Mehmet believed in one thing. He believed in himself and his destiny. If the council needed assurances to proceed then with the help of Allah he would answer these fears, and he would lead his people in his rightful destiny.

  He spent the night in the darkness, in prayer, and contemplating the solutions to these seemingly impossible obstacles.

  With the dawn, he rose and pulled out a number of maps, spreading them out on the floor. One particular map, inherited from his father, was immense. The map showed the city and the immediate surrounding area. He paced back and forth over the map, studying the lay of the land, the surrounding seas, and the ever-imposing sea walls. He would take the city. He just had to decide how to convince the council. He wasn’t sure how to accomplish that yet, but he was beginning to formulate some plans.

  One thing he knew for sure, he would keep these foolish Greeks busy while he made his decision.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1452

  Constantine wept. He wept quietly, facing away from the city and looking out over the broad blue expanse of the Sea of Marmara to his right and the Bosporus Sea to his left. From the heights of the extreme northeast corner of Constantinople, near the ancient Acropolis, Constantine could survey the waters leading both directions into the ancient city, meeting at the end of the peninsula and flowing into the natural harbor of the Golden Horn.

  Constantine XI Palaiologos, Greek Emperor, successor of the Roman Emperors, was in his late middle age, having turned 48 in the past year. His black hair was peppered with grey now, his beard even more so. He was tall, well built and still in excellent physical condition. His face was careworn. The weight of the world had sat on him for too long.

  As he looked out over the serene waters of the Bosporus, gateway to the Black Sea beyond, he felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the impossibilities before him. He ruled an empire that had once encompassed all of the Mediterranean and in ancient times, when the seat of power was Rome itself, had ruled most of Europe as well. Now the empire, if it could be called that, extended barely beyond the walls of the city. Constantine could claim to rule a few scattered islands in the Mediterranean, the Peloponnesus, and a few villages and fortresses near the city itself.

  Constantinople itself was a mere shadow of its former self. Built by the Roman Emperor Constantine in 330 AD, on top of the ancient Greek city of Byzantium, the city became the capital of the eastern half of the Roman Empire. After the fall of western half of the empire, Constantinople carried on the legacy of Rome. With a population of more than 500,000, the city was the largest and most opulent in the Christian world for a thousand years.

  The city and the empire fell into decline gradually, and in the thirteenth century Constantinople was captured and sacked by crusaders from Europe who were supposed to be attacking Egypt but were diverted to the city by the Doge of Venice. The Latins controlled the city until 1260, when it was recovered. However, Constantinople never truly rose again. The city was a ghost town, with fewer than 100,000 inhabitants and the vast wealth of the city stripped and carted off to Venice and the west. Constantine wondered what it would have been like to rule during the Golden Age of his empire, with a bursting city and legions of warriors to command.

  What would his life have been like if he wasn’t constantly having to scrounge and beg for a few resources to battle the impossibly powerful Ottomans? Would he hold his borders or expand? Build up the treasury? Build great works in the city? He often dreamed of leading the once great empire of the Romans and the Greeks, not the feeble shadow over which he presided.

  How much longer could he hold on to even these remaining scraps? His few territories were surrounded for hundreds of miles in each direction by the tremendously powerful Ottomans. He was forced into the humiliation of serving as a vassal to the Ottoman Sultan, and paying a tribute each year for the protection of the Ottomans, a tribute he could not afford and that made it impossible for him to invest in food stores, or arms, or to hire mercenaries, or even to perform the necessary maintenance to the essential city walls. What hope did he have to change anything? He was doomed. His city was doomed. Rome would finally fade into the oblivion of the past.

  Constantine felt a hand on his shoulder. A gentle but firm grasp from slender fingers. He turned and smiled. Zophia was here. He looked into her dark eyes, smiling at her youthful, beautiful face and long black hair. Zophia, his love. A daughter of nobility, she was only 24, but so wise. Wise and beautiful. She smiled too, just for him. Knowing. Understanding. Caring.

  “Do not weep Lord. I know you weep for our city, for our people. Do not weep Lord. God will protect us. You will protect us. You have always protected us.”

  Constantine felt her warmth flow over and through him. He closed his eyes as she embraced him. He felt immediately calm. He felt the warm day, the sound of birds singing nearby and the rustle of the light wind against the trees. He always noticed the little things when he was with Zophia. All the problems of the world would flow out of him. She could always keep the world away, if just for a little while. She was so beautiful. Not tall, yet her powerful presence made her seem taller. She had dark long hair and skin as pale as marble. She was dressed in light blue robes flowing down to delicate sandals on her slender feet.

  How could this young woman have such an effect on him? No person ever had before, woman or man. Constantine prided himself on his control, his ability to keep his emotions in check, and to present a strong leadership persona to his people, even to his close friends. He had developed this talent during his exceptionally difficult youth and early adulthood, when he was constantly at risk of kidnapping and even death—not only from the Ottomans, but even from his own brothers, who constantly conspired for the throne.

  Somehow Zophia saw through all this. Even worse, he couldn’t seem to even make the effort to try to present this front to her. After she mocked him a few times, he gave up trying to do so. Now he craved the moments when he could be alone with her and let down, let her cradle his head and tell him it would be all right. He knew this peace could not last forever. He was pushed from every direction to marry, marry quickly, and marry for the greatest possible political advantage. The city needed allies, allies that could provide money and troops to defend against the Ottoman attack that must come at any time—that was threatened and had been constantly attempted for more than a century.

  Already Constantine had received marriage feelers from several eastern kingdoms, including Trebizond and Georgia, concerning potential princesses for his consideration. He knew that eventually he would have to give up his darling Zophia. He could not bear to think about it. He would enjoy her, breathe her in, experience every part of her, until he was forced to let her go. They had discussed his fate many times. She did not like it, did not agree that it was worth compromising for a few soldiers or a little gold. This topic provided their only source of conflict, the first scars in an otherwise perfect relationship. Eventually they stopped talking about the issue. Their love was like the city itself: ignoring grim realities and holding on until whatever inevitable end
God had in store.

  For now, for this moment, it was only Zophia. Zophia and his city. The two things in the world he lived for and would die for. They mounted their horses and rode through the city, trailed at a discreet distance by Constantine’s personal guard. They rode down the gently sloping hill of the acropolis, past the crumbling palaces of the former emperors to the Goth’s column and then to the sea wall itself. The sea wall of Constantinople, a single but formidable barrier wrapped continuously around three sides of the peninsula, connecting finally with the massive triple Theodosian land walls.

  They rode west above the sea wall, along the Golden Horn, passing the two inner walled harbors of the city. They could look out north across the Horn, barely 500 yards to the walled independent city of Galata, granted to the Genoese in 1273 by the Greek Emperor. Galata was much smaller than Constantinople but contained an important port and the stunning rounded tower Christea Turris (Tower of Christ), which dominated the skyline, built in the fourteenth century. Most of the sea trade now stopped at Galata instead of Constantinople, except for the portion that interacted primarily with the Venetians in the city. The Greeks had lost their commercial power with the decline of the empire itself. They still had a few ships plying the waters of the Mediterranean and Black Sea, but they had been first challenged, then completely surpassed, by the Italian city-states.

  This loss of sea trade further weakened the city, as there was only a trickle of new money into Constantinople. This meager income hardly paid the cost to feed the city, and left nothing for building new ships, paying soldiers, or maintaining the vital sea and land walls.