Siege

Chapter 3

DECEMBER 1448: CONSTANTINOPLE

'I proclaim you, Demetrius Dragases, Emperor of Rome, heir to Caesar, ruler of Constantinople, Selymbria and Morea,' Patriarch Mammas intoned. His gold-embroidered white robe was heavy with rain, and tiny drops of water ran off his nose in a continual stream as he made the sign of the cross over the kneeling Demetrius. 'Rise, Emperor Demetrius.'

Demetrius stood to the half-hearted acclamation of the nobles who surrounded him. Notaras had promised five hundred men, but the day had dawned grey with a drenching rain that had turned the streets to mud and the forum of Theodosius into a quagmire. Less than four hundred nobles had braved the weather, and they were soaked and cold. 'Hail Demetrius, Emperor of the Romans,' they grumbled once or twice. It was clear that they were ready to move on to the warmth of the Blachernae Palace.

'May God grant me the wisdom to rule with justice and the strength to guard with steel the empire of which he has made me the emperor,' Demetrius declared, his words concluding the ceremony. All around him, men were already hurrying to their horses. Patriarch Mammas had disappeared, no doubt eager to dry off. The moment was not how Demetrius had envisioned it. He had dreamed of cheering crowds, proud speeches, himself framed majestically in the towering Triumphal Arch of Theodosius. Instead, the ceremony had been cut short, and other than the nobles, there were only a handful of citizens who had come out in the rain to watch the spectacle. Behind him, the Triumphal Arch had been transformed into a waterfall, with rainwater cascading down the front from its broad, flat top. Still, he was emperor, rain or no.

A servant handed Demetrius the reins to his horse. He mounted and led a dreary procession through the city and to the imperial palace. He arrived in a foul mood and stormed into the great hall, followed closely by the nobles. The hall was dim, the high windows shuttered. In the flickering torchlight, Demetrius was surprised to see his mother, Helena, seated on the throne with the entire court flanking her.

'Welcome, my son. I have been expecting you. I am disappointed that you could not arrive in time for your brother's funeral. Selymbria is so close.'

'I came as soon as I heard the tragic news, Mother,' Demetrius said.

'Of course,' Helena replied. 'Fortunately, you have arrived well in advance of your brother, Constantine. You will not also miss the entrance of our next emperor.'

'You are in error, Mother. It is I who am to be crowned. Surely you have heard that I was proclaimed emperor this morning.'

'Were you indeed?' Helena feigned surprise. 'And who was it that proclaimed you emperor?' Demetrius thought he saw her make a single, sharp signal with her right hand, and behind him he heard a muffled thump, as if something very heavy were being moved into place. What was it? he wondered. No matter, he had more than enough men to subdue the palace guard. His mother could do nothing to stop him.

'The very men who stand before you, nobles all, proclaimed me emperor. Patriarch Mammas gave his blessing to my reign.'

'Did he?' Helena arched an eyebrow. 'I fear your reign will be a short one.'

'Do not fear, Mother. The men with me are sworn to protect their emperor, with their lives if needs be.' Demetrius drew his sword, and the nobles gathered behind him followed suit. 'I have come for the crown, Mother.' His voice was flat and menacing. 'Give it to me.'

'Demetrius, surely you would not harm your own mother?' Helena seemed to blanch a shade whiter at the sight of drawn steel. Good, Demetrius thought. She was afraid.

'Of course not, Mother. These men are here only to protect their emperor. They strike only those who defy me. They would never dream of harming you.'

'Do you swear it?' Helena asked.

'Of course, Mother.' Demetrius had never intended to harm her. Once he had the crown, he would send her to a convent in the country.

'Good,' Helena said. 'Then this audience is at an end.' She nodded her head once, curtly. In an instant the shutters flew back from the windows above them, flooding the hall with light. Archers with bows drawn stood in each opening, their forms black against the white light.

'The doors!' Demetrius shouted. His men rushed to the entrance, but the doors held fast, barred from the other side. What a fool he had been! He looked to the small door at the far side of the room, past the throne. Already, the courtiers had filed out, replaced by guardsmen. The small door closed, and Demetrius heard the thump of the lock bar sliding into place. They were trapped.

Behind Demetrius, the nobles swirled noisily, a panic-stricken mass. Several were feverishly hacking at the thick doors to the hall, doing more damage to their swords than to the wood. Others tried in vain to scale the sheer stone walls and reach the windows. Here and there, Demetrius heard cries of fear rising above the general clamour. 'We're dead men!' 'Charge the door!' 'Take Helena!'

A man charged forward from the crowd, making for Helena. Demetrius heard the twang of bowstrings, and the man fell dead, his body riddled with arrows. A few more men charged, and suddenly the room was filled with the hiss of arrows and the cries of the wounded. A noble, arrows protruding from his chest, lurched towards Helena, and Demetrius himself stepped forward and struck the man down. He had sworn, fool that he was, that no harm would come to his mother.

'Silence!' Helena's voice rang out imperiously above the din. She stood imposingly before the throne, bathed in light, her hand held high in a sign to desist. The arrows stopped, and the hall fell silent.

'Gentlemen,' Helena said. 'You have been deceived. The man you have sworn to protect is no emperor. No royal blood flows in his veins, for he is not my son. My son, Demetrius, would not bring armed men into this hall. My son would not defy his mother's wish, or his brother's right to rule. This man is no son of mine. He is an impostor.'

Demetrius was dumbfounded. What was she saying? Had his mother lost her mind? Was she disowning him? Would he be blinded? Killed?

'You have sworn allegiance to this impostor, this false emperor,' Helena continued. 'But, since he is not of the royal family, your vows mean nothing. I release you from them. Swear, now, eternal allegiance to the true emperor, Constantine, and as sign of your allegiance, leave your swords here before me.'

'We swear eternal allegiance to Constantine!' the nobles chorused. One by one, they stepped forward to deposit their weapons at Helena's feet. So that was her game, Demetrius thought. Helena could never have let the nobles live had they knowingly sided with him against Constantine. But, if she killed them, then the rest of the nobility would be embittered against Constantine; he would have no peace with them as long as he ruled. So she was granting them clemency in the only way she could: by denying that he was Demetrius and thus invalidating their oaths. Despite himself, Demetrius had to admit that it was brilliant. She had taken Constantine's worst enemies and forced them to swear allegiance to him.

The doors to the hall swung open and the nobles began to file out. 'You, impostor,' Helena called to Demetrius. 'Come with me.' She led Demetrius through the small door behind the throne. At the door two guardsmen took his sword and then fell into step behind them. Demetrius followed Helena through twisting hallways to a tower, where they climbed the stairs to the highest room, a small chamber containing only a bed and a single chair. Once they were inside, the guardsmen closed the heavy door behind them. Helena motioned for Demetrius to sit. She remained standing.

'If I were not your mother, you would already be dead.'

'Mother, I…'

'Silence,' Helena snapped. 'I do not wish to hear my son beg. Now, who aided you in this treason?'

'No one, Mother.'

'I know you, son. You did not plan this treachery; it is beyond you. Who then? Gennadius?'

'No.' Demetrius did not trust himself to say more. He swallowed. Helena was watching him closely, her face only inches from his own.

'Notaras?'

'No,' Demetrius said again.

Helena turned away from him, her head nodding slowly. 'They were wise to keep their distance,' she said. She sighed, and her shoulders slumped, making her look suddenly old and tired. 'Why must our best men be always pitted against us?' Then, she straightened, and when she turned back to Demetrius, Helena was once more regal, in command. Her voice was like ice. 'Swear upon your life that when your brother arrives, you will hail him as emperor.'

'I swear it.'

'Good. I will hold you to your oath. In the meantime, you will be confined to this room. If you attempt to escape, I will have your tongue and eyes removed, and you will spend the rest of your life locked away in a monastery. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Mother.'

'Good.' Helena stepped forward and took Demetrius's head in her hands. She kissed him softly on the forehead. 'Welcome home, my son.'

Helena moved to the door and knocked softly. It swung open and she left. The door closed behind her with a thud, and Demetrius heard a metallic rasp as the bolt slid to. He turned and stared out the window, watching the rain pool in the streets. His short reign was over.

JANUARY 1449: MISTRA

On 6 January, the eve of the Orthodox Christmas, Longo stood at the front of the Church of Saint Demetrius in Mistra, capital of the Morea, and waited for the entrance of the man who was to be crowned Constantine XI, Emperor of the Romans. A vast crowd of nobles and dignitaries had filled the church. Longo was on the first row, squeezed shoulder to shoulder between the emperor's bodyguard, John Dalmata, and a short, portly Greek official who kept elbowing him in the ribs. The rich dress of the crowd — a profusion of silk dalmatics, belted robes with wide sleeves and collars embroidered with gold — was in sharp contrast to the rank odour that came from so many overheated men and women in close proximity. The smell was made even worse by the attempt of some to mask their stink with cloying perfumes. Longo breathed shallowly and reminded himself that it was a great honour to have been invited to the coronation.

A muffled roar, as of waves crashing on a nearby shore, came from outside the church as the crowd of commoners surrounding the building caught sight of Constantine. Longo turned with the rest of the crowd to face the church doors. He was curious to see this new emperor, the man who would be responsible for defending Constantinople against the Turks. Outside, the roar of the crowd grew louder and louder, and then the doors of the church swung inward. The sweet smell of incense filled the air as two rows of young men swinging silver censers on long chains passed through the doors. Constantine followed, wearing plain white garments, white shoes and white gloves. He was tall and thin, with tanned skin and a strong, handsome face. His hair and beard were both neatly cut and startlingly white, but Constantine was no old man. At forty-four, he had maintained much of his youthful vigour, and he walked down the central aisle with a determined stride and his head held high. He mounted the steps leading up to the dais that had been erected before the altar, and turned to face the crowd. Close up, Longo could see that he had kind, grey eyes.

'I swear to uphold the one true, unified Church and to protect the faith,' Constantine said, his deep voice steady and solemn.

'God will preserve a Christian emperor!' the crowd responded in unison, although Longo noted that some around him kept silent. Constantine's policy of union between the Catholic and Orthodox churches was not popular.

'I swear to defend, with my blood and my life, the empire that God has granted me.'

'Lord help the pious!' the people replied. 'Holy Lord uplift Thy world!'

'I swear to rule justly, the shepherd of my people,' Constantine concluded.

'These are common prayers. God be with you!' the crowd chanted.

Constantine turned his back to the crowd and knelt before a frail old priest dressed in scarlet robes — the metropolitan of Mistra. The metropolitan held his hand over Constantine and began to speak: 'O Lord, Our God, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, behold from Thy dwelling place Thy faithful servant Constantine, whom Thou hast been pleased to set as king over Thy holy nation, which Thou didst purchase with the precious blood of Thine only begotten Son.' At this point, two dignitaries draped a scarlet silk mantle over Constantine's shoulders. 'Vouchsafe to anoint him with the oil of gladness and endue him with power from on high,' the metropolitan continued as he anointed Constantine with oil, making the sign of the cross on his forehead.

'Put upon his head a crown of pure gold and grant him long life,' the metropolitan concluded. A young acolyte brought forth the crown of the empire — a thick band of jewel-encrusted gold, topped by a lattice-work of gold filled with whitest ermine. The metropolitan reached to take the crown from the acolyte, but he was old and the crown heavy. As the crowd watched in horror, the metropolitan fumbled and then dropped the crown, which rolled down the steps to the foot of the dais.

'God save us!' the fat official next to Longo gasped. 'A terrible omen!' The metropolitan had frozen, his face pale. People began to whisper, and someone cried out that this foretold the fall of the empire. He was immediately silenced, but the whispering grew louder.

Constantine stood and turned to face the crowd, which fell silent. He descended the steps and picked up the crown, lifting it high for all to see. 'I place my trust in God and steel, not in omens,' he declared and placed the crown upon his own head. 'May God grant me the wisdom to rule with justice and the strength to guard with steel the empire of my fathers!' The crowd cheered, and Longo with them. Any doubts that he had had regarding Constantine were gone. This was an emperor for whom Longo would be happy to fight.

Gradually, the cheering resolved into the ritual words that greeted the crowning of each new Roman emperor: 'Holy, holy, holy! Glory to God in the highest and on earth, peace!' The standards of the many nobles in the hall dipped in honour of the new emperor, and the gathered nobles and priests knelt and then prostrated themselves. Longo knelt, but he did not prostrate himself. He was a lord of Genoa, and while he honoured Constantine, he would not grovel on his belly for any man. His head held high, Longo caught the emperor's eye. Constantine nodded solemnly in Longo's direction, and then strode from the church, followed by the metropolitan and the incense bearers. Constantine Dragases was now Constantine XI, Caesar Augustus, king faithful in Christ, Emperor of the Romans.

Outside the church, Longo followed the shuffling crowd back to the courtyard of the palace. Through the thick crowd he could just make out Constantine, sitting on a throne placed in the centre of the courtyard. He sat straight-backed, smiling often, as a continual stream of men passed before him, kissing his knees and pledging their fealty. Longo joined the procession, and soon he stood before Constantine. He stepped forward and bowed low before the emperor. 'Congratulations, Emperor Constantine. On behalf of the people of Genoa, allow me to be the first to offer our friendship and goodwill.'

'Thank you, Signor Longo. Your presence honours me,' Constantine replied. 'And thank you for transporting the crown and my mother's ambassadors aboard your ship. Without you, I would not have been crowned today. You will be my guest at the feast tonight. I shall set a place at my table for you.'

'You are too kind, Emperor,' Longo said. 'But I must decline. I have been too long gone from Genoa, and I am eager to return. I will start back this very day.'

'Well then, I wish you well on your voyage. You will always be welcome at my court.'

'Thank you, Emperor,' Longo replied, bowing low again. 'My sword will always be at your service. If you are ever in need, I will hasten to you call.'

'Godspeed, Signor Longo.'

'And may God protect you, Emperor Constantine.'

JANUARY 1449: NEAR EDIRNE

The Turkish army was on the march, a long, thick column of men that snaked for miles alongside the Maritza river. Mehmed, flanked by Ulu and surrounded by his private guard, rode near the head of the column. It was a glorious, clear winter day, and Mehmed's spirits were high. After weeks of drilling, of gathering men and supplies, he now rode at the head of over sixty thousand well-equipped men. And it was his army.

His father, Murad, travelled with them for now, sitting in a litter at the heart of the army, but the next day, when they left the Maritza valley and headed east, Murad would return to Edirne. It would be Mehmed alone who conquered Constantinople. After that, there would be no more whispered jibes about 'Mehmed the Scholar', no more months spent wasting away in far-off Manisa. He would take his rightful place as the ruling sultan, whether his father agreed or not. With a triumphant army at his back, and Constantinople under his control, no one would be able to stop him. He smiled just to think of it.

The smile turned into a frown as ahead the front ranks stopped suddenly, bringing the entire army to a halt. 'Ulu, see what has happened,' Mehmed ordered. Ulu galloped away and returned a moment later, followed by a squat Greek who sat uncomfortably in the saddle. Mehmed examined him carefully. The Greek's eyes were intelligent and probing, but guarded. Judging from the deep blue, heavily jewelled caftan and thick gold necklace that he wore, he was some sort of councillor, a political creature, and Mehmed held a deep suspicion of all political men.

'He says he is an ambassador from Constantinople, one Lord Sphrantzes,' Ulu reported. 'He rode at the head of a small troop of armed men. He says that he has an urgent message for the sultan.'

'I am the sultan,' Mehmed said to Sphrantzes in Greek. 'You may give me your message.'

Sphrantzes eyed Mehmed sceptically. 'Very well,' he said at last. 'My name is George Sphrantzes, praepositus sauri cubiculi of Constantine Dragases, and ambassador of the Roman Empire. I come with a message from the emperor.'

'The emperor is dead,' Mehmed replied.

'True, John VIII, our emperor and your loyal ally, is no more,' Sphrantzes agreed. 'I come on behalf of his brother, who has been crowned Constantine XI, successor to the imperial throne.'

'And what of his two younger brothers?' Mehmed asked. 'Will they not challenge for the throne?'

'Demetrius and Thomas Dragases have both sworn oaths of allegiance to Constantine,' Sphrantzes said, a bit too smugly for Mehmed's liking. 'They are to rule in the Morea, Demetrius from Clarenza and Thomas from Mistra.'

Mehmed could hardly believe the news. The last he had heard, Constantine was in Mistra, a good month's travel from Constantinople. How had he managed to be crowned so quickly? Mehmed's spies had assured him that the brothers would contest the throne. He vowed silently to have every last one of them beheaded. 'And what is this message that your emperor sends?'

'He has sent me with a tribute of one thousand silver stavratons as a token of his goodwill and desire for continued peace between our nations.'

'Peace?' Mehmed laughed. He gestured to the army stretching away behind him. 'As you can see, it is too late for peace.' The Greeks might be united, but that would not stop Mehmed's plans. 'I have a message of my own for your emperor. Ulu, cut off his head and send it to Constantinople on a platter.'

'You speak out of turn, Prince Mehmed.' It was Murad. He was on horseback behind Mehmed, sitting stiffly in the saddle. Mehmed wondered how long he had been there. 'One should always treat ambassadors with courtesy,' Murad continued as he urged his horse alongside Mehmed's. 'We are not savages, to ignore all laws of civility.' He turned towards Sphrantzes. 'Greetings, Lord Sphrantzes. You are welcome in the lands of Osman.'

'Many thanks, honoured Sultan,' Sphrantzes replied with feeling and bowed. 'I bring you greetings from My Lord Constantine, newly crowned Emperor of the Romans, who offers you a gift as token of his goodwill.'

'This is joyous news indeed,' Murad said. 'I approve of Constantine's coronation and thank him for his gift. I, of course, desire nothing but peace between our two great empires. Tonight I shall hold a feast at my palace in honour of the new emperor, and you shall be our guest of honour.'

'You are most kind, Your Highness.'

'Now, Lord Sphrantzes, I beg your leave. I shall see you tonight.'

Sphrantzes bowed and was led away. 'But what of our army?' Mehmed asked as soon as he was gone. 'We should strike now, while we are ready.'

'Silence, my son,' Murad replied. 'My decision is made, and I will not be swayed. A wise sultan knows the value of peace.'

'And a wise sultan is not afraid to strike when the time is right,' Mehmed insisted. 'They will not expect our attack, even less so now that an emperor has been crowned, and you have promised peace.'

'I will not attack after I have given my word. Striking now would be foolish. I had hoped for a swift campaign, to take advantage of the fighting amongst the Greeks. Our army is not strong enough to take a united Constantinople, nor is it prepared for a long winter siege. This campaign is over, Prince Mehmed. Disband the army. You may return to Manisa.'

'Yes, Father,' Mehmed said, his voice thick with disappointment. He sat dejected as the long column of the army reversed direction and began the short march back to Edirne. Silently, he cursed his father's cowardice. He cursed the new emperor as well. They had ruined his plans, taken his army from him. They had stolen his chance for glory, his chance to be the true sultan once more. Mehmed spurred his horse to a gallop, streaking past the long line of troops, flying back towards Edirne as if he could outrun his disappointment. But he could not, and as he rode his eyes stung with bitter tears.