The Walls of Byzantium

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

NICOPOLIS, 25 SEPTEMBER 1396

The morning after the battle dawned noisily with the harsh, scraping calls of carrion birds circling high above the dead strewn across the field of Nicopolis. From the banks of the Danube to the hill where the Burgundians had made their last stand lay bodies. And those that had not been picked clean by the bashibozouks now had their eyes pecked out by crows. The cries of the wounded rose like a dark music and the stench of decay hung heavy in the air.

The morning was a grey one, with a low mist hanging over hills and valleys drained of autumn colour. There was a light wind with a chill that presaged meaner weather to come and men shivered and drew their cloaks around them.

Bayezid stood alone in the middle of the plain on which the Hungarians had fought and died, and held a cloth to his nose. He wore a long, open coat of buff leather above a mail shirt and loose trousers tucked into riding boots, their black leather stained with the gore around him. He’d just ridden from the crusader camp where he’d spent the night celebrating his greatest victory.

He was in a dark mood.

He’d risen early and spent some time just looking towards the fortress of Nicopolis. There were cages suspended from its ramparts in which meat for the birds had been left: the naked, twisted remains of crusader knights who’d died in shrieking agony the night before. The birds were still there, perched on the bars and reaching in with their beaks. The walls behind were streaked with blood.

Before the walls still stood the smouldering remains of fires. The Bektashi dervishes had piled the crusader scaling ladders high and put stakes at their centres on which to tie and roast the priests and monks found in the Christian camp. They’d danced their whirling dance around the flames and been clapped on their way by the men of the victorious army.

Bayezid’s temper since rising had been such that his retinue stood at a prudent distance: his three sons, the Grand Vizier and a bodyguard of Kapikulu.

‘How many dead, Vizier?’ he shouted across the bodies.

‘Ours or theirs, highness?’

‘Ours, fool. I care not how many Christians lie on this field.’

The Vizier looked around him as if in calculation. In fact the dead had already been counted and he knew their number by heart, dreading its disclosure.

‘Over twelve thousand of our men are martyrs, lord. It is too many.’

Bayezid groaned. Twelve thousand. A quarter of his army.

‘And theirs?’ he asked. Now he cared more.

‘Half that number, lord,’ the Vizier replied and then: ‘Their armour, highness. It stops our arrows.’

Bayezid was silent. He thought of Constantinople with its walls of double strength. He thought of scaling ladders and the men needed to mount them.

Twelve thousand!

The Sultan knelt beside the body of a young sipahi, his eyes still staring into the heaven he’d gone to. Was he, even now, in the arms of the promised virgins? Across his legs was strewn a Hungarian archer, one side of his head removed by a sword blade.

Bayezid stood and watched as a blackbird landed. He kicked out at it.

‘Vizier!’ he shouted. ‘I want this sipahi taken from the field and a mausoleum built. Find his family and give them money.’

An hour later, Bayezid’s mood was darker still. He sat, slumped, in a high-backed chair of burnished gold with piled cushions spilling out either side of his great frame. His boots had been replaced by soft slippers that rested on a little stool. One hand held a goblet while the other was poised above a low table on which a bowl of sugared fruits had been placed.

The Sultan sat beneath an awning that had been erected on some open ground beside the Ottoman camp. Sharing it were his three sons, the Grand Vizier and Yakub. Anna stood next to Suleyman. Behind them were the imams, who had been summoned for a reason: Bayezid wanted interpretation of the law of Islam.

There were hundreds of chests before him and piles of gold and silver plate. Some were open, their contents spilling out over the ground. The treasure had been brought from the crusader camp and its value was beyond measure.

Also in front of him was a young woman kneeling on the ground, her dress torn and her hair matted with filth. Anna was staring at her in shock, her mouth slightly open.

‘They did this as well?’ said Bayezid. His voice was barely controlled.

The Grand Vizier nodded.

‘Give her money,’ said Bayezid, turning away.

‘So, Majesty,’ said the Vizier when the woman had left. ‘We now know that these knights slaughtered all their prisoners before the battle began. They killed not just men but women and children too, people who could not have offered them any resistance. And the only ones kept alive were those pretty enough to slake their wretched lust.’ He paused. ‘You have heard it from her lips, lord.’

Bayezid nodded darkly into his wine.

‘You wish, therefore, Majesty, to execute as many of these infidel as is permitted under our law.’ The Vizier turned his vast turban towards the imams beside him. ‘I have consulted with the ulema, lord, and they tell me this. Prisoners are the property of those who capture them, to do with them as they wish. However, the law also says that one-fifth of all prisoners will belong to the Sultan, God’s shadow on earth.’ He bowed low and Bayezid waved impatiently for him to continue.

‘Your Majesty has seen fit to interpret this in the past as the means by which we can claim the strongest prisoners for the Devshirme. In consequence you have generally sent your share to the villages of Anatolia to begin their education in the ways of Islam.’

Bayezid’s impatience was visibly growing and the Vizier hurried to his conclusion. ‘So the judges are unanimous, Majesty, in deeming it proper for you to execute one-fifth of the Christian prisoners if you so wish.’

‘I do so wish. How many are there?’ asked Bayezid, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

‘We have ten thousand in all, lord. So two thousand will die.’

‘Good,’ said Bayezid. ‘Prince Suleyman, Prince Mehmed, you have prisoners?’

The brothers looked at each other. Mehmed stepped forward.

‘Father, we each have prisoners.’

‘Then you will kill them,’ said Bayezid flatly. ‘Kill them all. And do it here. I want an example set to the army.’

Mehmed bowed. ‘Yes, Father.’

Bayezid threw back the remains of his wine and looked at Candarli. ‘Vizier, my sons will bring their prisoners here and will be the first to execute them. Tell others that have prisoners to bring here those they have selected to die. Remember, it is to be one in every five.’

The Vizier bowed.

Suleyman stepped forward. He gestured towards Anna. ‘Should the woman retire, Father? It is not seemly.’

Bayezid shrugged. He’d barely been aware of Anna’s presence. Suleyman quickly nodded to the guards, who lined up to escort her away.

The Vizier said, ‘Lord, the Comte de Nevers, Marshal Boucicaut and the other leaders of the Christian army await your pleasure.’

The Sultan turned to his sons. ‘These men we will spare, and twenty others of rank that de Nevers will identify. These men we will keep for ransom. Now, go and fetch your prisoners.’ He looked back at the Vizier. ‘Bring the Burgundy Prince.’

A short while later, de Nevers was standing in front of Bayezid. He was still wearing his armour but it was pitted with dents and the arms of Burgundy had vanished beneath the filth of his hauberk. His face was bruised and unshaven and seemed much older than the day before. But the gaze that came to rest on Bayezid was still proud.

He, and a dozen of the highest-ranking survivors of the French-Burgundian army, had been led before the Sultan with their wrists tied and heavy chains dragging behind them on the ground.

De Nevers spoke in Greek. ‘Highness, we are noblemen of the highest rank and should not be chained. We have given our word not to attempt escape.’

Bayezid scowled. ‘Kneel.’

De Nevers looked bewildered.

‘Kneel!’

De Nevers was kicked behind his knees by a guard and he knelt. De Coucy and Boucicaut started forward but they too were brought down by the guards.

Bayezid’s scowl deepened.

‘It seems to me, Count, that you are a proud and stupid man. You must be to have led an army to such a defeat.’

De Nevers blinked up at the Sultan. ‘Sir, I am-’

‘You are nothing!’ yelled Bayezid, flinging his cup to the floor. He glared at the Prince through hooded eyes, his face flushed with anger. ‘Since crossing the Danube, your army has murdered and raped everything in its path. This person’ — he gestured towards the terrified woman still standing at the edge of the tent — ‘was kept as a concubine in your camp, her body defiled by your knights.’

De Nevers struggled to rise. His face was white and a film of sweat covered his brow. ‘Lord, I-’

‘Silence!’ roared Bayezid.

De Nevers’s eyes had lost some of their pride.

‘What did your army do to its prisoners on the night before battle?’ the Sultan asked softly. ‘Tell me, Comte de Nevers from this small place called Burgundy, what did you do with them?’

De Nevers was silent. He looked at the ground and then behind him at the knights kneeling to his rear. Beyond them, in the wide, open space before the pavilion, he could see other knights, pages, archers, being assembled, all tied to each other by thick ropes attached to their necks. At their front were a man and a boy dressed in gold mail to whom others bowed.

He turned back to the Sultan. ‘These men, you mean to enslave them?’ he asked slowly.

‘No,’ said Bayezid calmly, taking the new cup offered him. ‘I mean to execute them.’ He took a long draught of wine. ‘As you executed your prisoners before the battle. Is it not just?’

The young Prince’s eyes widened in disbelief. His hands had started to shake.

‘The difference, of course,’ continued Bayezid, taking a sugared fruit from the bowl, ‘is that these men are not innocent. They have fought against me and killed too many of my men. I do not wish that to happen again and this deed might prevent it.’

‘But … that’s barbaric!’ shouted de Nevers, his voice too high.

‘Barbaric?’ hissed Bayezid, leaning forward. ‘More barbaric than the massacre of every man, woman and child in Jerusalem three hundred years ago?’ He paused. ‘You see: we of the Faith have long memories.’

De Nevers heard a throat clear behind him. Prince Suleyman stepped into the pavilion and bowed to his father.

‘My prisoners are assembled, lord,’ he said.

‘And mine, Father,’ said Mehmed, walking up to stand beside his brother.

Bayezid’s eyes were glassy and the flush on his cheeks high. He took time to shift his gaze from de Nevers to his sons.

‘Prince Mehmed,’ he said, ‘I anticipate you enjoying this process rather less than your brother, so you will go first. Is your sword sharp?’

Mehmed looked at his father. His sword was drawn. ‘It is sharp, Father.’

‘Good, then you may begin.’ He turned to the man kneeling at his front. ‘Comte de Nevers, I desire you to watch these executions. Get up.’

De Nevers was lifted to his feet. He pushed away his guards. ‘You cannot do this!’ he yelled. ‘It is against every rule of war!’ He took a step towards Bayezid, who rose suddenly from his chair and slapped him hard across the face.

‘You will turn and watch or it will be worse,’ he hissed.

Out in the open a thick chopping block had been placed on the earth and beyond it stood the silent line of knights awaiting their fate. The first was being brought forward and offering no resistance to his guards. Mehmed had moved to the side of the block and was running his thumb down the blade of a vast scimitar. The knight calmly knelt and placed his head on the block. Mehmed lifted the sword high above his head, both hands on its hilt.

De Nevers looked around him in panic. ‘De Coucy, Boucicaut!’ he shouted. ‘Say something! We cannot let this monster do this!’

Bayezid lifted his hand to signal a halt. He stood there for what seemed like an age, swaying slightly and staring out at the scene before him. Then, very slowly, he turned to the Burgundian Prince.

‘What did you call me?’ he whispered. ‘Monster? Is that what you called me?’

De Nevers took a step backwards. There was sweat coursing down his unshaven cheeks.

Bayezid turned. ‘Vizier, ask the learned men of the ulema to step forward.’

Luke watched the scene unfolding with appalled fascination. He was to die, along with his friends, any hope of reprieve having been dashed by Suleyman who’d come up to him and spoken quietly into his ear.

‘This is a pity, Luke Magoris. I had given my word to Zoe that you would come back alive. Now it seems that a higher power has intervened.’

Luke had looked back with loathing. He was to die at the hand of this devil and he would never see Anna again.

‘You’ll not see me beg,’ he had said evenly. ‘Just do me this small favour, Suleyman. Release my friends. They have done nothing to deserve this fate.’

But Suleyman had laughed and turned away without answering.

By now the imams had arrived. They were elderly men with heavy beards and heavier robes. They stood uncertainly in front of their sultan and looked at him quizzically. Did he require further interpretation of the ulema?

But Bayezid had had an idea.

‘Give them swords!’ he shouted, waving the goblet in the direction of the old men. He went back to his chair and lowered his bulk into it. He turned to the ulema. ‘You will show us how to kill these men. Please proceed.’

The imams glanced at each other. Swords were being thrust into their wrinkled hands and they looked at them with distaste.

The eldest stepped forward, shaking his head. ‘Highness, we are men of the law, not executioners. We do not know how to kill.’

Bayezid laughed. ‘Then you can learn as you go along, old man. Come, it’s not that hard!’

No one moved. The knight with his head on the block looked up and now there was fear in his eyes.

‘Begin!’ yelled Bayezid.

And so it began. So began the clumsy slaughter of knights from Burgundy by men hardly able to lift the swords to do it, by men whose hands were used to writing, to explaining, not to meting out death.

They did their best. They worked hard to kill with some precision. And the knights’ determination to die well, to show no resistance, helped. But the sword blows were weak and missed their targets and necks were left half severed, spewing blood while the executioners paused to draw breath or vomit.

Mehmed, de Nevers, even the guards tried to intervene again and again, but every time they stepped forward, Bayezid would raise his hand and fix them with a glare that left no doubt as to his will.

The massacre went on for what seemed hours. The old men slipped and fell in the blood they were shedding; knights tore off their mail to offer easier flesh to strike; men knelt to offer themselves to their God and to beg, silently, for a killer with some strength or at least sight.

At one point, a sudden ray of sunshine pierced the clouds and the knights took it as a sign from heaven and a great cry went up as men called out to one another to take strength, to trust in their God.

At last it was over. The final pitiful groan subsided and the imams, their robes crimson, sat on the ground and stared at each other in horror. Their limbs ached and their breath came in spasms and sweat trickled its way past the blood and dripped on to the sodden earth around them.

Bayezid was drunk. He had enjoyed himself, laughing and clapping as the murders went on, roaring insults to de Nevers and impervious to the disgust around him.

Then it was the turn of Suleyman’s prisoners.

Luke had braced himself to face death with the same courage as those who’d gone before. Now he turned to his friends and saw the same determination in them and he drew them all to him so that they formed a circle, their arms entwined and their heads pressed together.

‘We are brothers,’ said Luke quietly, ‘brothers and Varangians, and we will die as such. Let’s show these bastards how a Varangian dies.’

‘Just one last question, Luke.’

It was Nikolas.

Luke looked at him. Nikko. The one never far from a joke.

‘Did you actually … you know, with Zoe?’

The arms gripped harder with the laughter.

‘You can’t die without knowing that?’

‘No.’

Luke smiled. ‘I’ll tell you on the other side,’ he said.

The imams looked at the next group being brought forward and they looked at Bayezid, who could have been asleep. His eyes were closed and his huge chest rose and fell and his goblet had fallen from his hand.

Suleyman and Mehmed looked at each other.

‘We must stop this madness,’ whispered Mehmed.

Bayezid opened his eyes. ‘We will continue, Prince Mehmed,’ he said quite calmly.

‘I will not continue.’ The oldest of the imams had risen. ‘This is ungodly cruelty and I will have no further part in it. Great Sultan, you may kill me, but I will not go on.’

He threw down his sword and one by one the imams rose and did the same. They faced their Sultan, their backs as straight as they could make them, and they defied his will.

The only sound came from the sky and the birds of prey that had gathered to circle these new pickings. The sun emerged from behind a cloud and bathed the scene in a warmth that belied its savagery. Bayezid stood up and moved to the edge of the pavilion and looked up, enjoying its heat on his face. Then he smiled and shrugged; he beckoned to a servant for another goblet, which he lifted in the direction of his heir.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Prince Suleyman, you may continue. Perhaps rather quicker, if you will.’

Anna had heard, rather than seen, the dreadful spectacle. And, because of the courage of the Christian knights, she’d heard little beyond the exertions of old men and the soggy connection of blade with skin.

She was sitting in a little tent to the rear of Bayezid’s and beside her sat Devlet Hatun, her elbows resting on a table and her palms to her ears. Since their first meeting at Serres, the two women had come to trust each other. Anna knew that much of what she confided to Devlet Hatun was passed on to her brother Yakub Bey and that this was all part of a wider plan to connect good with good.

During the journey north to Nicopolis, Anna had barely slept and now she clutched the older woman’s shoulder as much for support as comfort. She was dizzy with exhaustion.

The uncomfortable ride had given her time to think, to let logic push Luke from her mind. At Monemvasia, she’d agreed to go with Suleyman to save the lives of Luke’s friends. Now the Turks had won a great battle and nothing stood between them and Constantinople. They would win and she would be forced to marry Suleyman. She had to banish Luke from her thoughts.

But logic couldn’t push him from her dreams, and the little sleep she’d had had been devoted to him.

Now she stood, swaying and praying that he had survived the battle.

Then someone spoke.

To begin with, she couldn’t place the voice. Then she could.

Yakub.

He was standing at the entrance to the tent. ‘You should come.’

Anna let go of Devlet Hatun’s shoulder and walked to the entrance. Through it, she could see the side of Bayezid’s tent, and beyond it, an open area littered with bodies. In the centre, in the midst of death, knelt Luke, his head on a block. Above him, sword raised above his head, stood Suleyman.

Now she was running, running towards the scene before her. Everything else was a blur. Bayezid had turned in his chair and was moving his head. The Vizier’s head was bent, listening to one of the imams. De Nevers was being supported by Boucicaut, vomit at his feet.

She reached the open ground, stopped and swung around to face Bayezid. ‘Stop this.’ She paused, recovering her breath. ‘This is unworthy of you, lord.’

Bayezid was looking at her as if he wasn’t quite sure who she was. His head was on one side and there was spittle gathered at the side of his lips. An empty goblet was in his hand.

‘I think not. Please proceed, Prince Suleyman.’

Anna spun and looked around her. Then she ran over and picked up a sword. She held out her arm and put the blade to her wrist. She stared at Suleyman. ‘If you do this, if you harm one hair on his head, you will never see me alive again.’

‘No, Anna …’ It was Luke.

Bayezid leant forward in his chair. ‘And if you don’t do this, Prince Suleyman,’ he growled, ‘you will not rule this empire after me.’

Suleyman looked from Anna to his father, his sword still raised.

‘You will submit!’ screamed Bayezid, flinging his cup to the ground.

Suleyman didn’t move. There was a silence so complete around them that the sudden shriek of a carrion bird came out of the sky like a thunderclap.

Anna walked over to him and, very softly, so that only he and Luke could hear, she spoke.

‘Spare him, Suleyman, and I will submit.’

Suleyman did nothing. Then, very slowly, he lowered the sword.

But someone else was speaking. It was Yakub: he’d moved to stand in front of Bayezid. With him was the Vizier and one of the imams. He turned to the imam. ‘Tell your sultan. Does not the law forbid the killing of prisoners if they are below twenty years of age?’

The imam’s hands were still stained with blood. He stared at them, then looked up. He nodded.

‘Majesty.’ Yakub now faced Bayezid. ‘You cannot kill this boy. The Book forbids it.’

‘Cannot, Lord Yakub?’ growled Bayezid.

But the imam had recovered himself and came to Yakub’s aid. ‘Highness, the lord Yakub is right. Allah has granted you a great victory and perhaps it would be wise to regard his law. It is forbidden to kill child prisoners.’

Bayezid slumped back in his chair. He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘And what should I then do with this … boy, lord Yakub?’

‘Send him to the tribes of Anatolia, highness. Do what you always do with your share of the prisoners. Send him to our homeland to be taught how to be a janissary. He will make a fine one.’

Behind him, Suleyman had recovered some of his composure. This was not as it should be. Luke was going somewhere he didn’t want him to go. He watched Yakub as an animal watches another steal its prey.

He turned to be sure de Nevers was watching. He wanted to be heard by him.

‘Father,’ he cried in French, ‘the law may spare his life but this one we cannot send away. He speaks languages and has the Varangians’ skill at arms. He would be valuable to us here.’ He paused and looked directly at Luke. ‘After all, he was the one we sent into the crusader camp.’

Luke leapt to his feet. ‘That’s a lie!’

Scores of Christian faces were turned to him.

Suleyman addressed de Nevers. ‘Did he not ride into your camp with news of our battle order, my lord Count?’

De Nevers was looking strangely at Luke.

Marshall Boucicaut spoke. ‘Indeed, sire. You will remember. He claimed to be Serbian. We didn’t trust him.’

Luke reeled. This was madness. He’d told de Nevers everything that had then come to pass. But who here knew this except men who had everything to gain by shifting the blame for this catastrophe?

Bayezid was getting bored. He didn’t know why Suleyman wanted this prisoner or why he was speaking in French but his son had publicly challenged him and he was in no mood to favour him. ‘Lord Yakub? You were the one to point out the law that has saved this boy. You will send him to one of your villages and make him into a gazi.’

Suleyman strode over to his father. ‘Father,’ he said in a voice that only Bayezid could hear, ‘I have reasons for wanting this boy to stay.’

But Bayezid had had enough of his eldest son. He said softly, ‘You have humiliated me before the army. I care nothing for what you want!

‘Yakub, you will do this?’

The gazi bowed. ‘I will do this, highness.’