Siege

Notaras could not understand what was happening. He had seen Mehmed die. 'How?' he managed to gasp.

'I told you that you would kneel before me, Megadux,' Mehmed said. 'All of Constantinople will kneel before me.'

Mehmed stepped to the side so that Notaras now had a view of the walls of Constantinople. They were crowded with people, and squinting, Notaras could just make out individual faces; he scanned the crowd, looking for somebody he knew. The men behind him released him, and he sagged but stayed upright on his knees, his eyes still on the walls. Behind him, he heard the whisper of a sword as it slid from its scabbard. He did not turn. He thought he saw Sofia standing on the wall. His eyes fixed on her, and then… nothing. 'My God!' As Notaras fell, Sofia turned and buried her head in Longo's chest. Longo put his arms around her and then glanced over at Constantine. The emperor was studying them carefully.

'Perhaps the princess should return to her room,' Constantine said. 'The shock of Notaras's death has clearly overwhelmed her. Guards!' he called. 'Escort the Princess Sofia back to the palace.' Sofia left, and Longo and Constantine turned back to watch the Turks.

Mehmed had taken Notaras's head but left the body of the megadux where it had fallen. As Mehmed rode back to the Turkish lines, followed by his escort, two janissaries stepped forward and began to drag Notaras's body towards the walls. They headed for the gate of Saint Romanus, just below Longo and Constantine.

'Shall I have the archers deal with them?' Dalmata asked.

'No, let them come,' Constantine ordered. 'At least we will be able to give Notaras a proper burial. He deserves as much.' The janissaries reached the gate and dumped Notaras's body there before turning and running back towards the Turkish lines. 'Come,' Constantine said. 'Let us go and retrieve the megadux, or what is left of him.'

They reached the gate, and Longo ordered it opened just enough for one man to pass through. Longo went himself to retrieve the body. There was a piece of paper tucked into Notaras's armour, but Longo did not have time to read it. No sooner had he reached the body than thousands of Turks began to pour over the Turkish ramparts, marching towards Constantinople. Most carried shovels and picks. Others led horses pulling wagons filled with dirt and rocks.

Longo hurriedly dragged Notaras inside the gate and ordered it shut. Constantine was waiting for him. 'Do you think this is an attack?' he asked. 'Should I ring the bells?'

'No, they are not attacking,' Longo answered. 'They carry shovels, not weapons. They are coming to create a path across the moat, to make their attack easier.'

'Then something must be done. We will use the cannons.'

'No. It will be better to save our powder and shot for when they are truly needed. If the Turks are filling in the fosse, then the attack will come soon. We must be prepared to defend Constantinople tonight.'

'Then there is much to be done and little enough time,' Constantine said. 'Dalmata, have the megadux's body taken to the Haghia Sofia and prepared for burial. When you are done, you will find me on the wall.'

'My Lord, I found a message on Notaras,' Dalmata said and handed Constantine a sheet of paper. 'I believe that it is in Notaras's own hand. He asks that he be buried by the monk Gennadius.'

Constantine looked at the sheet of paper. 'This is Notaras's last wish. It should be honoured. Have his body delivered to the Church of Saint Saviour Pantocrator.' Gennadius sat at his desk and watched as the papers before him burned in a brazier, their edges curling, then blackening and finally collapsing in a pile of ash. Just like his grand plans, Gennadius frowned. He still did not understand what had gone wrong. Notaras had done his part, and yet the sultan lived. Gennadius was sure that Halil would not have betrayed him. What could the vizier hope to achieve by aborting their plot? And if Halil had not failed him, then that left only one possibility: somehow the sultan had learned of their plot. If that were true, then Gennadius's life would be worth less than nothing if the city fell.

Gennadius was taking no chances. He would leave this very night while the Christian forces and the Turkish army were locked in battle at the walls. He could bribe his way past the sea walls, and he had already paid a Venetian merchant to ferry him from the harbour to Pera on the far side of the Golden Horn. From there, Gennadius would hire a ship to take him to the court of Demetrius in Clarenza. And if Constantinople stood, then all was lost anyway. The Union would be vindicated, and Gennadius would never be made patriarch.

Gennadius added a last sheet of paper to the brazier. There were certain secrets — lists of bribe payments, inventories of his private fortune — that were simply too important to be carried with him or to be left here untended. Better that they burn. As the page crumbled to ash, there was a soft knock on the door. 'Enter,' Gennadius called, and Eugenius opened the door and stepped into the room. Eugenius wore chainmail under his monk's robes and a sword hung from his side. 'Is everything ready?' Gennadius asked. 'I wish to leave as soon as the battle begins.'

'All is ready, Father Gennadius. But there is something else: the body of the megadux, Lucas Notaras, has been brought here to be prepared for burial. The emperor has asked that you perform the service.'

'And when is this burial to take place?'

'Today. The body is to join the city's holy relics in procession through the streets to the Haghia Sofia. The megadux is to be buried in the crypt there.'

'And do you know why Constantine has chosen me, of all people, to perform this task?'

'I was told that Notaras's final request was that you preside over his funeral.'

'Were you indeed? That is odd.' Gennadius thought back to his final meeting with Notaras. The megadux had told him that he despised the monk's hypocrisy, and that what Notaras did, he did for Constantinople alone. 'Where is the megadux's body now?'

'He has been placed in the crypt.'

'Take me to him.' Gennadius followed Eugenius down into the dank catacombs beneath the monastery, where he found Notaras's headless body in a small room, laid out on a stone table. He was still in full armour. 'Was anything unusual found on his body?' Gennadius asked. 'A message of some sort?'

'Nothing other than the note asking that you bury him.'

Gennadius nodded, lost in thought. Perhaps he had been wrong: there was no mystery behind the megadux's odd request. Unless there was another message, one that had not been written on paper. 'Help me to take his armour off,' Gennadius ordered.

He and Eugenius undressed the megadux, pulling off first his plate armour and then the chainmail beneath it. Finally, Gennadius peeled off the blood-stained cotton tunic undergarment. The skin of Notaras's chest was grey and bruised where several of his ribs had been broken. Gennadius heaved the body over to reveal Notaras's back. There, carved into the megadux's flesh, was a message: Gennadius, open the city and you will have all you seek. Mehmed. Mehmed stood on the Turkish ramparts with his back to Constantinople and gazed out at the army assembled before him. The day was clear and fair, and the afternoon sun glinted off the men's armour, creating the impression of a giant sea spread out at Mehmed's feet. Nearest to him, the sea of men appeared dark and deep where the neat ranks of the black-armoured janissaries stood. Behind them were the Anatolian cavalry, their chainmail glittering. Further back, stretching all the way to the hills that ringed the Turkish camp, the disordered crowd of bazibozouks in their brown leather armour seemed to form a distant shore. There were nearly seventy thousand warriors in all — the greatest army in the world.

In his right hand, Mehmed held the head of the megadux. He raised it high, and the soldiers before him burst into frenzied cheers. The noise was deafening. Mehmed let it wash over him, filling him with a sense of power. These were his men. He would tell them that they fought for Allah, because that is what they wished to hear. But they did not; they fought for him. He would tell them that Allah would watch over them during the battle, but it was he, Mehmed, who would observe their every move. And when the city fell, the glory would be his, not Allah's. Finally, Mehmed raised his other hand, gesturing for silence. The cheering faded, and the camp fell silent. When Mehmed spoke, the only sounds were his voice and the faint echo of innumerable voices relaying his message to the furthest troops.