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.
'Yesterday, one of the Christian infidels tried to assassinate your sultan,' he shouted. 'You have seen what comes of such treachery and deceit.' He cast the head of Notaras aside, letting it roll down the slope of the rampart. There was another roar from the army. 'The infidels wished for my death, but Allah would not allow it,' Mehmed continued. 'He protected me, as He will protect you. Allah is with us, and we are the sword in His hand. In the face of their armour, He gives us strength. In the face of their cannons, He gives us strength. Even in the face of the great walls of Constantinople, He gives us strength! Each fighter who falls before those walls will have a place in paradise. Each fighter who lives will have the riches and women of Constantinople at his feet. And the fighter who first breaches the walls will have wealth beyond his wildest dreams!' His men roared their approval.
'The walls of Constantinople will crumble before our cannons. The defenders of Constantinople will tremble before your might. Tomorrow, the Empire of the Romans shall fall, and you shall be its conquerors. Allah is with us! We cannot fail!' The men cheered wildly. Mehmed waited until the cheering had passed and the men had fallen silent. 'Prepare yourselves today. Sharpen your weapons, eat and sleep. Tonight we will attack and Constantinople will be ours!' The sound of Turkish cheering reached Emperor Constantine as a distant, barely perceptible roar, like waves crashing on a distant shore. He stood atop the Golden Gate and looked down at the men who had gathered to hear his final words before the coming battle. Greeks, Venetians and Genoese stood crowded together, their battered and tarnished armour gleaming dully in the light of the setting sun. There were less than eight thousand of them to fight almost ten times that number of Turks. But Constantine had witnessed the bravery of these men. Their armour might be dented, but their heads were not bowed. They would sell their lives dearly, and, God willing, they would hold the city one last time.
'Gentlemen!' Constantine called out, and his voice carried over the rows of men. 'We now see the hour of battle approaching. You have always fought with glory against the enemies of Christ. Now I ask you to fight one last time in defence of your homes and of a city known the world over!'
'Hear! Hear!' a few men yelled. The rest showed their approval by thumping the butts of their spears against the ground, creating a loud rumbling. When the rumbling faded, Constantine continued.
'Be not afraid that our walls have been worn down by the enemy's battering. For your strength lies in the protection of God. In this battle you must stand firm and have no fear, no thought of flight, but be inspired to resist with ever-greater strength. Animals may run from animals. But you are men, men of stout heart, and you will hold at bay these savage brutes.' Again there was the heavy thumping of spears.
'You are aware that the infidel enemy has attacked us unjustly,' Constantine continued. 'He has violated the treaty that he made with us; he has slaughtered our farmers at harvest time; he has cut off our commerce and sunk our ships in the sea. Now he wishes to profane our city's holy churches by turning them into stables. Oh my brothers, my sons! The everlasting honour of Christians is in your hands. The fate of the oldest empire the world has ever known lies with you. Fight in the knowledge that this is the day of your glory — a day on which if you shed but a drop of blood, you will win for yourselves crowns of martyrdom and eternal glory. Fight for each other! Fight for Constantinople!'
'For Constantinople!' the men roared, and the low rumble of spears resumed. The pounding grew so fierce that Constantine could feel the wall vibrating under his feet. Finally, he held up his arms, and the rumbling ceased. His tone was sombre.
'If you have anyone you care for in this city, I suggest you go now to bid them farewell. When it is time, the city bells will call you to the walls. I will see you there.' The servants of the imperial household had been called to the great octagonal hall of the Blachernae Palace. Everyone was present, from the cooks to the wash maids to the palace blacksmith. There were some forty people in all, standing in four rows. In another row before them stood the most honoured members of the household, including Sphrantzes and Dalmata. The sides of the hall were lined with members of the emperor's Varangian guard. All present knelt as Constantine entered, dressed in full armour and wearing his crown.
'Rise, my friends,' Constantine told them. 'I have asked you here to thank you for your service over the years. Many of us will not survive tonight's attack. Because we may not see one another again, I wish to say goodbye to you all now.' He went to the end of the furthest row, where a young stable boy shifted nervously, his eyes fixed on the floor. 'What is your name, boy?'
The boy looked up. 'Petrus,' he replied.
'Goodbye, Petrus,' Constantine said. 'I thank you for your service, and I ask that you forgive me any unkindness that I may have shown you.' The boy nodded, unable to speak. Constantine moved on to the next person in the row, the blacksmith. He was a tall man, with strong, muscled arms.
'Goodbye, John. You have served me well, and I ask your forgiveness for any unkindness that I have shown you.'
'There is nothing to forgive, My Lord,' the blacksmith replied. 'I'll see that your sword is sharp for tonight.'
'Thank you.' Constantine continued moving person by person until he had bid farewell to his entire household, save Sphrantzes and Dalmata. He came to Sphrantzes first and placed his hand on the older man's shoulder. 'Goodbye, old friend. You have been my most trusted advisor. Forgive me if I have not always followed your advice.'
'You have done what you thought was right,' Sphrantzes replied.
'If I do not see you again, then let the world know what we have done here. Let them know how we fought, and how we died.'
'I will, My Lord,' Sphrantzes replied. Constantine nodded and moved on to Dalmata. The two men clasped hands.
'Do not say goodbye,' Dalmata said before Constantine could speak. 'There is no need. I shall not leave your side during the battle so long as I live. And do not ask my forgiveness either. It has been my honour to serve you, and it would be my greatest honour to die beside you.'
Constantine gripped Dalmata's shoulder and nodded. 'Thank you,' he said at last. Then he stepped back and addressed the entire room. 'Thank you all. You have each served me well, and I know you will do the same in the hours ahead. Now I suggest that you rest while you may. We shall have need of all our strength for the coming battle.' The city was dark when Tristo and William reached their destination: a nondescript inn near the central marketplace of Constantinople. The three-storey building was centuries old and leaned perilously to the right, looking as if it might collapse if not for the building next to it propping it up. William raised his torch to illuminate a weathered old sign that hung over the door, displaying a barely recognizable bed beside a loaf of bread. 'Are you sure this is it?' William asked.
'I paid good money for this information,' Tristo replied. 'The Spanish assassin is staying here. His room is on the second floor.'
William drew his sword. 'All right then. Let's take care of this now. I don't want to worry about taking a knife in the back while I'm fighting the Turks.' He opened the front door and stepped into a large, rectangular room cluttered with tables and benches. A single old man sat at one of the tables, his head back as he drank straight from a pitcher, red wine spilling out of the sides and staining his white tunic. He slammed the pitcher down with a thud and gave William and Tristo a bleary-eyed stare. William put his finger to his lips, but the man ignored him.
'Well, come on and help yourselves,' he bellowed, then belched. 'No sense in saving any wine for the Turks.'
