'God abandoned me long ago,' the man said as he disappeared into the darkness. Halil sat alone in his luxurious tent, propped up by cushions and with a portable writing desk across his lap. He had been busy writing since early morning, letter after letter to nearby emirs and beys, in which he requested the delivery of food and other supplies. The sultan's army consumed enormous quantities, and even after months of preparation, they would not be able to stay in the field for much over a week without fresh supplies. It was Halil's task to acquire those supplies. The letters he wrote were, of course, a mere formality. If the lords refused to supply the sultan's army at a fair price, then troops would simply take the provisions.
As Halil started yet another letter, Isa stepped into his tent. 'Servants, leave us,' Halil said. 'Isa, you may sit.' He gestured to some cushions on the floor, but Isa remained standing. 'I had expected you back sooner. You delivered the poison and the bird?'
'The monk has them both, and he promises that the city will not fall until Mehmed is dead.'
'Did he say anything else about his plans?'
'No, only that the messenger who brings the secret to conquering Constantinople will also be the one who brings news of Mehmed's death.'
'A riddle then,' Halil said. 'And one best left unsolved. The less we know of Gennadius's actions the better. I have another task for you.'
Isa held up his hand, cutting the vizier off. 'I grow tired of serving as your messenger. You promised me the release of my family if I did as you asked, and I have done all that you asked and more, these three years past.' He pulled a small pouch from beneath his robes. 'I am done with this. Release my family, or I will kill you here and now.'
A trickle of sweat ran down Halil's spine. 'Do not be rash, Isa,' he said, managing to keep his voice steady. 'If you kill me, then your family will die. You know that. Do not throw their lives away when you are so close to winning their freedom. I have but one more task for you, and then your family will be free.'
Isa hesitated, then finally put the pouch back beneath his robes. 'What would you have me do?'
'Go back to Edirne and kill young Bayezid, the son of the sultan,' Halil told him. 'Make his death look natural, but do it quickly. He must die before this siege is through, before the death of Mehmed.'
'And if I do this, then my family will be freed?'
'When my men hear that Bayezid is dead, then they will turn your family over to you, and you will be well rewarded for your many services.'
'I do not want any more of your money, Halil, only my family,' Isa said. His hand went back to the pouch of poison. 'Do I have your word that they will be freed?'
'You have my word.'
'Very well. For your sake, you had best keep your promise,' Isa said and left the tent.
Halil watched him go. Isa's family was his weakness, and it would be his undoing. Halil placed the letter to the city of Chorlu aside and began a new one, this time in code, to his agents in Edirne. Constantine stood at his post at the Fifth Military Gate, near the middle of the Mesoteichion, and squinted against the early morning light as he watched the Turkish army form ranks in the distance. Dalmata stood beside him, and Notaras was not far off at the Blachernae wall. The siege was now ten days old, and not a cannon had fired, not an arrow had flown. While the men of the city waited on the walls day after day with increasing anxiety, the Turkish camp remained unnervingly quiet. Now, the Turkish army had finally sprung to life. Even though he dreaded the carnage to come, Constantine found himself looking forward to the release of the dreadful tension that had hung over the city.
On the far plain, the Turkish army had finished forming ranks. Flags waved over each regiment, identifying the origins of particular units. In the centre of the janissaries, directly across from Constantine, the flag of Mehmed – a white standard covered in ornate Turkish script – waved in the breeze. Horns sounded from the Turkish army, their loud call shattering the silence, and the regiments began to move, marching forward in step to the boom of drums, the clash of cymbals and the ringing of small bells held high on sticks. The sound of the approaching army was deafening after the long silence. 'Prepare to fight!' Constantine shouted over the din. He had no sooner spoken than another blast of horns sounded, and the Turkish army halted.
'What are they waiting for?' Constantine growled. 'Why don't they just attack and be done with it?'
'I do not think that they mean to attack just yet,' Dalmata said. 'Look, heralds.'
All down the Turkish lines, at intervals of a hundred yards, heralds dressed in red caftans stepped forth, accompanied by men carrying white flags of truce that snapped in the wind. They stopped just short of the fosse, where they raised their trumpets and together blew a shattering blast. Before the note had entirely faded, the heralds began to speak in unison, loudly and in Greek.
Where Constantine stood on the wall, the voice of the herald before him came and went as the fitful, swirling breeze pushed his words now towards the walls, now away. Still, the message was clear; it was a call for surrender. 'In accordance… law of Islam, the great sultan promises to spare those who voluntarily surrender to him. If any man surrenders… family and property will be safeguarded. Those who choose to stay… no mercy. You have until sunrise, tomorrow, to decide.' Their message delivered, the heralds returned to the lines. The sultan's army turned and marched back to camp.
'Shall I send a reply, Emperor?' Dalmata asked.
'No reply will be necessary,' Constantine said. 'But let it be known in the city that this gate will be opened for any who desire to leave.'
'But My Lord,' Dalmata protested. 'We are undermanned as it is. We cannot stand to lose any more men.'
'I will not force men to fight who would rather run,' Constantine said. 'Their swords will be of little use anyway. Open this gate for those who would surrender and let us pray that our people choose honour over the promises of the sultan. And Dalmata, have my supper brought to me here.'
'Here, My Lord?'
'It will be a long night, and I would rather spend it here than pacing the halls of the palace. I trust in my people to stay and fight, but if any of them wish to leave, let them look upon the face of their emperor as they do so.' As night gave way to morning and the Turkish camp came alive with the innumerable sounds of an army in the field, Mehmed stood atop an earthen rampart and peered out over the palisade towards the imposing walls of Constantinople and the city gate that had been left open all night. In the dim pre-dawn light he could just make out the figure of the emperor standing atop the gate. Ulu told him that Constantine had been there all night. During that time, seven Venetian ships had slipped out of port, but that was all. Not a single person had fled through the open gate, beneath the gaze of the emperor. Now, as the rays of the sun struck the top of the gate, it swung slowly shut. The Greeks had rejected Mehmed's offer. The time for mercy had ended.
'They are brave, there can be no doubt of that,' Mehmed said to Ulu. 'All the better. It will make our victory that much sweeter.' He turned to Urban, who was directing a dozen men as they finished loading a giant cannonball nearly four feet tall into the mouth of the largest cannon that the world had ever seen. The barrel, all twenty-seven feet of it, hung from thick ropes attached to a wooden frame, a system that Urban had devised to absorb the cannon's violent recoil, which would destroy the traditional wooden cradle used for the other cannons. Urban called his monstrous creation the Dragon, and Mehmed liked the name. He had had artists paint the barrel with the serpentine shape of a dragon. He wanted the cannon's fearsome voice to be the first thing the Christians heard that morning, telling them that the siege had begun and that the end was near. 'Urban, is the cannon ready?' Mehmed asked.
'As ready as I can make her, My Lord,' Urban replied. 'She's still a little shaky, but she'll hold.'