Casca 53: The Last Defender, page 11
Casca knew it was a long hike to the sea walls but he decided it would be worth it to see what was going on, and as he was not due on duty until that evening, he made the decision to cross the half empty city and see what was going on. He made quick progress as the streets, such as they were, were hardly full these days, so different from previous times he’d been there, and by midday had arrived close to the old Imperial Palace. He turned left and began to climb the acropolis hill, finding more people here, and had to push past a few as he passed the church of St.George Mangana, a stone building proudly outlined against the sea walls and the stunning view of Asia beyond. Here, Casca could turn to the right and see the sea, and in the distance he could see four ships approaching, three ships certainly of Italian origin and the other, a huge fat wallowing galley, definitely a Byzantine transport ship.
Others too, were running to get a view of the approaching ships and soon a huge crowd had gathered wherever anyone could gain a good vantage point, and the sea walls were lined all the way from the tip of the Bucolean Harbour near the old hippodrome round to Seraglio Point where the Golden Horn joined the Bosphorus. Casca pushed his way to the walls close to the Gate of St. Barbara, just where the hill of the Acropolis dropped towards the sea and a short way down from Seraglio.
Soldiers mixed with citizens and beggars, all craning their heads south anxiously, for the Turkish fleet was now stirring to life and beginning to converge on the four ships. The admiral, Baltoglu, had been ordered by the Sultan to capture the infidel ships – or sink them. Failure was not an option.
Casca gripped the stone wall and gauged the number of enemy ships that were making their way against the wind towards the supply ships, and he lost count at eighty. They were smaller, true, but their sheer number surely would tell. None had sails but were oar-powered and crammed with soldiers and sailors, all shouting war cries and banging drums as they approached the four leviathans. Casca recognised the three escort ships now; they were Genoese.
He looked round and saw to his amazement people lining the tops of the old ruined hippodrome which gave them an excellent view. Casca grimaced as his thoughts went back to the time he’d raced chariots in that stadium, all those centuries ago. Then it had been a beautiful construction full to bursting with screaming and cheering people; now it was like the city, a shadow of its former splendid self. He sighed and swung back to watch the progress of the ships.
By now the Christian vessels were close to the south-eastern tip of the city and Baltoglu, standing in the leading Turkish trireme, leaned out and filled his lungs. “Lower your sails!” he shouted in Greek. Being Bulgarian he’d learned Greek as his second language.
The Greek admiral on the biggest ship, Phlatanelas, made a rude gesture and curtly waved at his steersman to ram the trireme. The Turkish ship swerved to port just in time, Baltoglu screaming obscenities at Phlatanelas and his ancestry as the wash from the transport made the trireme wallow badly. The Greeks laughed and sailed on past, eyes only for Seraglio Point and the safety of the Golden Horn beyond.
Casca looked to his left at a small Greek merchant who happened to be standing there. “They’re going to try to break through.”
“Yes” the Greek said, his voice high with excitement, “pray to the Virgin they make it!”
Casca grimaced, but couldn’t take his eyes off the scene, so compelling it was. The onlookers began shouting encouragement at the sailors as they reached the rest of the Turkish fleet, pushing through the smaller vessels contemptuously. The sea was getting up into a swell and this made the Turkish ships bob up and down uncomfortably while the Genoese and Imperial ships handled that better, being much larger and of course, being well laden. The Turks massed around the four ships, arrows firing up at the vessels trying to set fire to them, but they were deluged by missile fire sent down from the higher decks and rigging.
Meanwhile, across the Golden Horn, Mehmet had abandoned his place opposite the land walls and had ridden over to a point on the northern tip of the Golden Horn near the Genoese colony of Pera and watched in fascination as the battle slowly moved towards him as the current began tugging at the combating ships.
The people watching from the city were ignorant of the current’s pull however. “They’re going to make it!” the excited merchant said breathlessly.
Casca clenched his fists, almost deafened by the shouts of the people around him. Aboard, Phlatanelas kept his ships steering close to the city so they couldn’t be surrounded and on course for Seraglio Point. Then, just as they reached the tip, the wind dropped and the sails of the four ships flapped listlessly.
“Damn!” Casca exclaimed. Around him breaths were drawn in and eyes went wide in fear as the Turkish ships closed in once more, and this time Baltoglu brought in his biggest ships with cannons on board to sink them. But the sea was still rough and the cannon shots went all over the place, hardly causing any damage at all. But now the ships were caught in the current and they edged towards Pera, right where Mehmet sat on horseback with his aides. Voices pleaded with God and the Saints for wind, some even sank to their knees in prayer, begging for a miracle.
Baltoglu, cursing the sea, now ordered his ships to capture the accursed Christian ships, personally selecting the Imperial transport for himself and the best of his ships, promising to make Phlatanelas a eunuch before nightfall. Five triremes went for one Genoese ship and thirty smaller vessels went for another, forty for the third.
“Ram the infidels!” Baltoglu screamed, pointing at the Greek ship. With a splintering crash the Turkish admiral’s ship struck its target in the poop. Hooks and grappling irons flew through the air and clattered against the sides, rails and deck of the impaled ship. People were now crying from the walls as the Turks began to swarm towards the helpless Greek and Italian sailors.
“May the winds of fate help them now” Casca muttered, watching in helpless frustration from the walls. Many voices were repeating “no – no – no!” around him.
Phlatenalas though had a devastating trick up his sleeve. As the first Turkish ship came alongside, flaming pots of Greek Fire arced through the air and smashed into incandescent fury on the deck. Ottoman sailors screamed as they were set alight and some dived off the ship into the sea, but the ship itself was alight and began burning brightly, driving the Turks away from their target. Another took its place and more came flying over onto it. Baltoglu screamed at his men to board the ship, and pushed grim-faced men past him on their way. The first Turk who climbed up to the transport ship got an axe blade through his neck and he fell back onto the trireme, his head and chest a mass of red.
The three Genoese ships were manned by professionals. Every Turk who got to their rails was smashed off by axes, spears, poles or any one of a huge array of vicious weaponry. Arrows struck the Italians but their superior armour deflected most away harmlessly. Pots of water doused any fire that was started and they poured a rain of death down onto the screaming horde. But it was around the Imperial transport that the fight raged the hardest. Baltoglu had an inexhaustible number of ships to call upon, and even though dozens had been disabled and were drifting away afire or with oars smashed and bodied hanging limply over the decks, dozens more were still thickly massed around the sides of Phlatenalas’ ship.
The Genoese captains noticed the plight of the Greek ship and somehow they co-ordinated a move that drew a gasp of admiration from Casca and they drifted alongside the stricken imperial ship and lashed themselves together. Now they were like a huge wooden island set amidst a sea of Turkish sailors and ships. Phlatenalas sucked in a deep breath and clutched at a wound in his side, and exhorted his men to one last great effort. “These heretical animals won’t take the best crew in the Empire! Fight on, my children!” He knew though that ammunition was running out fast and they couldn’t hold on much longer. Added to that the current was pulling the vessels further away from the Golden Horn towards the shore where Mehmet was riding up and down in a heightened state of excitement.
Then.
“Wind!”
The sailors of the four ships turned in amazement as the sails began to fill out once more.
“Wind!” Casca screamed.
People stared in disbelief from the walls as the four ships began crunching their way through the Ottoman vessels towards the boom that marked the entrance of the Golden Horn. “Go on! GO ON!!!” voices pleaded, hands clenched tightly together until knuckles shone whitely.
In the harbour itself a Venetian captain called Trevisano took the initiative. Ordering three of his ships to go out and rescue the four, he ordered trumpets to blare and the boom lowered.
Cheers and screams of relief filled the air as the four ships now picked up speed and headed west for the Golden Horn. “Yes!!” “Come on!!” “Go, go, GO!!” shouts went up. Baltoglu smashed his fist into the rail in anger as his prize slipped away from him and ordered his fleet to turn about and limp back into the gathering darkness to safety.
Tears of joy filled the eyes of many on the walls as the four ships, battered but unbeaten, escorted by Trevisano’s ships, passed into the Golden Horn. Phlatanelas stood on the poop of his ship and pumped his fists in delight as they passed below the cheering throngs on the walls. If he’d asked to be made a living saint that evening no doubt he’d been granted his wish.
Casca thumped the merchant on the back, and had to quickly grab his shirt before the force of the blow sent him over the edge. The merchant laughed weakly and slapped Casca back but the blow bounced off the muscled man.
For Baltoglu however the failure had to be borne in front of his furious Sultan. He feared for his life.
Casca bounded down to ground level and pushed through the buzzing crowd, all talking excitedly of the victory. It was amazing how such a small thing had raised morale so much so quickly, but Casca knew no matter how much food had been brought in, they were still surrounded and in a heap of trouble. The Turks would be enraged and retaliation would be swift.
But what Mehmet did next would not have been guessed by anyone ever. It was a stroke of pure genius.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SECOND FRONT
The next day Casca stepped down from his watch in the tower and sank exhaustedly to the stone floor. The night had been a bitch, cannons blasting away and the lack of sleep was getting to him, as it was to the others too. The men were red-eyed and staggering round like they were half-dead, and many hadn’t got much sleep that night, even the ones off-duty, mostly because they’d been celebrating the arrival of the grain ships. Sure it had raised morale, but today the reality had hit them; the Turks were going for it big time. The stink of gunpowder constantly filled his nostrils and dust from the broken walls and materials smashed by the cannons got into his eyes; eyes red-rimmed from blinking at the sudden flashes of igniting guns as another shot was sent on its way through the night.
Casca grumbled about asking the Turks to lay it off for a couple of hours whilst he got some sleep but nobody took up the conversation and he left the tower, his clothes rumpled. He felt like shit. Probably looked like it too. The houses close by the walls, what was left of them, had plenty of rooms available as many were unoccupied. Casca had marked out one as his and had enforced that on one who took exception to it as he’d marked it out too. The rival had hastily chosen another following a difference of opinion and a lost tooth.
He sat down wearily and thought about Helena. He wondered how she was coping with the siege and the worry of what might come. His last thoughts before he slipped into sleep was the way her neck curved as it met her shoulders.
He was awoken by a huge crash and looked round in confusion. He wasn’t sure he’d heard it or had been dreaming, but it sure as Hades wasn’t a cannon firing. Shouting out in the streets added to his anxiety and he pulled on his shirt and boots and buckled on his sword before racing out into the street. He saw the walls were still there but a great plume of dust and smoke was coming not too far away to the south. Cursing he climbed up his tower and out onto the inner wall and looked along it.
A short way off on the outer wall one of the towers had vanished. The cannons had finally done their job and the whole thing had simply collapsed outwards into the ditch. Gritting his teeth he descended and ran through one of the gates into the Parateichion – the space in between the two walls – and along towards where the tower had been. Men were here, some staggering away with blood on their faces and chests, some frantically picking up pieces of masonry and stacking it against the great rip that had been pulled from the wall. Casca set to helping without a word, putting the larger pieces of stone in one pile and smaller pieces in another.
A Greek officer came running by, consternation all over his face. “The bactatinian!”
“The what?” Casca answered, pausing in mid-lift.
“The tower! It’s gone!”
“Yes, sort of collapsed. Poor bastards in it had no chance.”
The Greek stared helplessly at the mess. “Oh by the sweet blood of Jesus, if they attack now they’ll come through here with no trouble!”
“Get the Emperor and tell him what’s happened. Then find Giustianini and ask him to bring Grant along, he’ll need to repair this as soon as possible.”
The Greek nodded and turned to run back the way he’d come, still eyeing the space where the great tower had been, still not believing his eyes. He tripped over a stone lying forlornly on the grass, then got back up, red faced and dashed off, sword swinging from his belt like an extra arm.
Casca shook his head and grabbed the sleeve of a passing man who had a smear of blood on his face. “How many were in the tower when it fell?”
“Dunno, perhaps ten” he shrugged, shock still on his face. “We got three out, one was dead but two are still alive, but they might not be useful for much.”
Casca ordered him to get cleaned up and looked at, then organised the others into a work gang to stack the stones in order. The Turkish cannon still raged, a few times their shot smashed close by, sending shards of stone flying and clouds of dust drifting over them, but the wall sheltered them except where the tower had fallen.
Carbone came running up with Grant and swore when he saw the damage. “By the sweet blood of Jesus, those bastards,” he said. “This’ll take some sorting.”
Casca nodded and leaned back, sweating and filthy. He had no idea how long he’d been helping here, but he was damned hungry and needed a drink and something to eat. “If the Turks come now there’s precious little to stop them.”
Grant nodded, grimacing. “We’ll have to repair it at night, no chance now with their gunners basting hell out of the walls. How many men do you have here on duty?”
Casca grunted and scratched a leg. “About one hundred and fifty.” It clearly wasn’t enough to stop an attack if one was launched, but the cannons were still blasting away and as long as that went on, then no attack would come. After a while they began frowning, and every so often a lookout would report that no movement was happening from the Turkish lines.
Grant growled in his throat and spat over the shattered parapet. “Where the bloody hell’s Mehmet? Here’s a bloody good chance to take the place and he’s sitting with his finger up his arse!”
“Don’t moan about it, as long as he stays put we’re safe. And as you say, tonight we can repair the mess.” Casca indeed wondered where the heck the enemy was and why they weren’t attacking.
____
Mehmet in fact was still over by Pera, close to the place he’d watched the failure of Baltoglu’s navy the day before. The admiral was at that moment kneeling in front of the angry Sultan, a couple of Janissaries keeping a firm grip on his shoulders so the wounded man couldn’t get up.
“You cowardly traitorous pig,” Mehmet hissed, “any true Turk would not have allowed the infidel to slip through in such a humiliating manner!”
Baltoglu remained silent, one eye bandaged, a legacy of a stone that had struck him towards the end of the fight. Behind the two guards, a number of Ottoman naval commanders stood nervously, wondering if the disgrace that was being directed at their admiral would also come to them. Mehmet was flanked by more guards and some of his senior aides.
“As a punishment for your incompetent handling of my navy, Baltoglu, I shall have you executed and your head mounted in full view of my army so show them failure is not tolerated!”
The admiral shook in fear and bowed his head. Suddenly one of his commanders strode forward and dropped to his knees. “O defender of the Faith” he began, “your wisdom is boundless as is your mercy.”
Mehmet frowned. What was this flatterer getting at? “Speak, bold one.”
The officer bowed low, his head touching the ground once before he continued. “The admiral behaved bravely in the battle, putting his safety second to his duty. We were all inspired by his leadership but the Christians used trickery and evil magic to foil our efforts. We could not do better in those circumstances. Your admiral performed to the best of his abilities, and his wounds surely testify to his valour, O Light of Islam.”
Mehmet growled and eyed the miserable Baltoglu. “It seems your men think highly of you. Indeed your wounds were gained through service to me. Accordingly I shall show clemency, but I still will not tolerate failure! Your miserable life will be spared, but you may well wish it was not so by the time I have finished with you. You are no longer admiral or Governor of Gelibolu, and you are no longer of any rank or consequence. You shall be whipped and cast out to live as you may. I shall no longer bear your odious presence.”
Baltoglu thanked the Sultan in a quavering voice and was led away, a broken man. Mehmet dismissed the rest of the naval officers and turned to Hamza Bey, one of his aides. “You shall take up his governorship. Arrange for his wealth to be distributed to my Janissaries.”
Hamza bowed low, his swarthy bearded face breaking out into a wreath of wrinkles as he smiled. “Your eminence is too kind. Your wish is my command.” Bowing low the aide backed away and sped off to carry out his master’s wishes.
Others too, were running to get a view of the approaching ships and soon a huge crowd had gathered wherever anyone could gain a good vantage point, and the sea walls were lined all the way from the tip of the Bucolean Harbour near the old hippodrome round to Seraglio Point where the Golden Horn joined the Bosphorus. Casca pushed his way to the walls close to the Gate of St. Barbara, just where the hill of the Acropolis dropped towards the sea and a short way down from Seraglio.
Soldiers mixed with citizens and beggars, all craning their heads south anxiously, for the Turkish fleet was now stirring to life and beginning to converge on the four ships. The admiral, Baltoglu, had been ordered by the Sultan to capture the infidel ships – or sink them. Failure was not an option.
Casca gripped the stone wall and gauged the number of enemy ships that were making their way against the wind towards the supply ships, and he lost count at eighty. They were smaller, true, but their sheer number surely would tell. None had sails but were oar-powered and crammed with soldiers and sailors, all shouting war cries and banging drums as they approached the four leviathans. Casca recognised the three escort ships now; they were Genoese.
He looked round and saw to his amazement people lining the tops of the old ruined hippodrome which gave them an excellent view. Casca grimaced as his thoughts went back to the time he’d raced chariots in that stadium, all those centuries ago. Then it had been a beautiful construction full to bursting with screaming and cheering people; now it was like the city, a shadow of its former splendid self. He sighed and swung back to watch the progress of the ships.
By now the Christian vessels were close to the south-eastern tip of the city and Baltoglu, standing in the leading Turkish trireme, leaned out and filled his lungs. “Lower your sails!” he shouted in Greek. Being Bulgarian he’d learned Greek as his second language.
The Greek admiral on the biggest ship, Phlatanelas, made a rude gesture and curtly waved at his steersman to ram the trireme. The Turkish ship swerved to port just in time, Baltoglu screaming obscenities at Phlatanelas and his ancestry as the wash from the transport made the trireme wallow badly. The Greeks laughed and sailed on past, eyes only for Seraglio Point and the safety of the Golden Horn beyond.
Casca looked to his left at a small Greek merchant who happened to be standing there. “They’re going to try to break through.”
“Yes” the Greek said, his voice high with excitement, “pray to the Virgin they make it!”
Casca grimaced, but couldn’t take his eyes off the scene, so compelling it was. The onlookers began shouting encouragement at the sailors as they reached the rest of the Turkish fleet, pushing through the smaller vessels contemptuously. The sea was getting up into a swell and this made the Turkish ships bob up and down uncomfortably while the Genoese and Imperial ships handled that better, being much larger and of course, being well laden. The Turks massed around the four ships, arrows firing up at the vessels trying to set fire to them, but they were deluged by missile fire sent down from the higher decks and rigging.
Meanwhile, across the Golden Horn, Mehmet had abandoned his place opposite the land walls and had ridden over to a point on the northern tip of the Golden Horn near the Genoese colony of Pera and watched in fascination as the battle slowly moved towards him as the current began tugging at the combating ships.
The people watching from the city were ignorant of the current’s pull however. “They’re going to make it!” the excited merchant said breathlessly.
Casca clenched his fists, almost deafened by the shouts of the people around him. Aboard, Phlatanelas kept his ships steering close to the city so they couldn’t be surrounded and on course for Seraglio Point. Then, just as they reached the tip, the wind dropped and the sails of the four ships flapped listlessly.
“Damn!” Casca exclaimed. Around him breaths were drawn in and eyes went wide in fear as the Turkish ships closed in once more, and this time Baltoglu brought in his biggest ships with cannons on board to sink them. But the sea was still rough and the cannon shots went all over the place, hardly causing any damage at all. But now the ships were caught in the current and they edged towards Pera, right where Mehmet sat on horseback with his aides. Voices pleaded with God and the Saints for wind, some even sank to their knees in prayer, begging for a miracle.
Baltoglu, cursing the sea, now ordered his ships to capture the accursed Christian ships, personally selecting the Imperial transport for himself and the best of his ships, promising to make Phlatanelas a eunuch before nightfall. Five triremes went for one Genoese ship and thirty smaller vessels went for another, forty for the third.
“Ram the infidels!” Baltoglu screamed, pointing at the Greek ship. With a splintering crash the Turkish admiral’s ship struck its target in the poop. Hooks and grappling irons flew through the air and clattered against the sides, rails and deck of the impaled ship. People were now crying from the walls as the Turks began to swarm towards the helpless Greek and Italian sailors.
“May the winds of fate help them now” Casca muttered, watching in helpless frustration from the walls. Many voices were repeating “no – no – no!” around him.
Phlatenalas though had a devastating trick up his sleeve. As the first Turkish ship came alongside, flaming pots of Greek Fire arced through the air and smashed into incandescent fury on the deck. Ottoman sailors screamed as they were set alight and some dived off the ship into the sea, but the ship itself was alight and began burning brightly, driving the Turks away from their target. Another took its place and more came flying over onto it. Baltoglu screamed at his men to board the ship, and pushed grim-faced men past him on their way. The first Turk who climbed up to the transport ship got an axe blade through his neck and he fell back onto the trireme, his head and chest a mass of red.
The three Genoese ships were manned by professionals. Every Turk who got to their rails was smashed off by axes, spears, poles or any one of a huge array of vicious weaponry. Arrows struck the Italians but their superior armour deflected most away harmlessly. Pots of water doused any fire that was started and they poured a rain of death down onto the screaming horde. But it was around the Imperial transport that the fight raged the hardest. Baltoglu had an inexhaustible number of ships to call upon, and even though dozens had been disabled and were drifting away afire or with oars smashed and bodied hanging limply over the decks, dozens more were still thickly massed around the sides of Phlatenalas’ ship.
The Genoese captains noticed the plight of the Greek ship and somehow they co-ordinated a move that drew a gasp of admiration from Casca and they drifted alongside the stricken imperial ship and lashed themselves together. Now they were like a huge wooden island set amidst a sea of Turkish sailors and ships. Phlatenalas sucked in a deep breath and clutched at a wound in his side, and exhorted his men to one last great effort. “These heretical animals won’t take the best crew in the Empire! Fight on, my children!” He knew though that ammunition was running out fast and they couldn’t hold on much longer. Added to that the current was pulling the vessels further away from the Golden Horn towards the shore where Mehmet was riding up and down in a heightened state of excitement.
Then.
“Wind!”
The sailors of the four ships turned in amazement as the sails began to fill out once more.
“Wind!” Casca screamed.
People stared in disbelief from the walls as the four ships began crunching their way through the Ottoman vessels towards the boom that marked the entrance of the Golden Horn. “Go on! GO ON!!!” voices pleaded, hands clenched tightly together until knuckles shone whitely.
In the harbour itself a Venetian captain called Trevisano took the initiative. Ordering three of his ships to go out and rescue the four, he ordered trumpets to blare and the boom lowered.
Cheers and screams of relief filled the air as the four ships now picked up speed and headed west for the Golden Horn. “Yes!!” “Come on!!” “Go, go, GO!!” shouts went up. Baltoglu smashed his fist into the rail in anger as his prize slipped away from him and ordered his fleet to turn about and limp back into the gathering darkness to safety.
Tears of joy filled the eyes of many on the walls as the four ships, battered but unbeaten, escorted by Trevisano’s ships, passed into the Golden Horn. Phlatanelas stood on the poop of his ship and pumped his fists in delight as they passed below the cheering throngs on the walls. If he’d asked to be made a living saint that evening no doubt he’d been granted his wish.
Casca thumped the merchant on the back, and had to quickly grab his shirt before the force of the blow sent him over the edge. The merchant laughed weakly and slapped Casca back but the blow bounced off the muscled man.
For Baltoglu however the failure had to be borne in front of his furious Sultan. He feared for his life.
Casca bounded down to ground level and pushed through the buzzing crowd, all talking excitedly of the victory. It was amazing how such a small thing had raised morale so much so quickly, but Casca knew no matter how much food had been brought in, they were still surrounded and in a heap of trouble. The Turks would be enraged and retaliation would be swift.
But what Mehmet did next would not have been guessed by anyone ever. It was a stroke of pure genius.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SECOND FRONT
The next day Casca stepped down from his watch in the tower and sank exhaustedly to the stone floor. The night had been a bitch, cannons blasting away and the lack of sleep was getting to him, as it was to the others too. The men were red-eyed and staggering round like they were half-dead, and many hadn’t got much sleep that night, even the ones off-duty, mostly because they’d been celebrating the arrival of the grain ships. Sure it had raised morale, but today the reality had hit them; the Turks were going for it big time. The stink of gunpowder constantly filled his nostrils and dust from the broken walls and materials smashed by the cannons got into his eyes; eyes red-rimmed from blinking at the sudden flashes of igniting guns as another shot was sent on its way through the night.
Casca grumbled about asking the Turks to lay it off for a couple of hours whilst he got some sleep but nobody took up the conversation and he left the tower, his clothes rumpled. He felt like shit. Probably looked like it too. The houses close by the walls, what was left of them, had plenty of rooms available as many were unoccupied. Casca had marked out one as his and had enforced that on one who took exception to it as he’d marked it out too. The rival had hastily chosen another following a difference of opinion and a lost tooth.
He sat down wearily and thought about Helena. He wondered how she was coping with the siege and the worry of what might come. His last thoughts before he slipped into sleep was the way her neck curved as it met her shoulders.
He was awoken by a huge crash and looked round in confusion. He wasn’t sure he’d heard it or had been dreaming, but it sure as Hades wasn’t a cannon firing. Shouting out in the streets added to his anxiety and he pulled on his shirt and boots and buckled on his sword before racing out into the street. He saw the walls were still there but a great plume of dust and smoke was coming not too far away to the south. Cursing he climbed up his tower and out onto the inner wall and looked along it.
A short way off on the outer wall one of the towers had vanished. The cannons had finally done their job and the whole thing had simply collapsed outwards into the ditch. Gritting his teeth he descended and ran through one of the gates into the Parateichion – the space in between the two walls – and along towards where the tower had been. Men were here, some staggering away with blood on their faces and chests, some frantically picking up pieces of masonry and stacking it against the great rip that had been pulled from the wall. Casca set to helping without a word, putting the larger pieces of stone in one pile and smaller pieces in another.
A Greek officer came running by, consternation all over his face. “The bactatinian!”
“The what?” Casca answered, pausing in mid-lift.
“The tower! It’s gone!”
“Yes, sort of collapsed. Poor bastards in it had no chance.”
The Greek stared helplessly at the mess. “Oh by the sweet blood of Jesus, if they attack now they’ll come through here with no trouble!”
“Get the Emperor and tell him what’s happened. Then find Giustianini and ask him to bring Grant along, he’ll need to repair this as soon as possible.”
The Greek nodded and turned to run back the way he’d come, still eyeing the space where the great tower had been, still not believing his eyes. He tripped over a stone lying forlornly on the grass, then got back up, red faced and dashed off, sword swinging from his belt like an extra arm.
Casca shook his head and grabbed the sleeve of a passing man who had a smear of blood on his face. “How many were in the tower when it fell?”
“Dunno, perhaps ten” he shrugged, shock still on his face. “We got three out, one was dead but two are still alive, but they might not be useful for much.”
Casca ordered him to get cleaned up and looked at, then organised the others into a work gang to stack the stones in order. The Turkish cannon still raged, a few times their shot smashed close by, sending shards of stone flying and clouds of dust drifting over them, but the wall sheltered them except where the tower had fallen.
Carbone came running up with Grant and swore when he saw the damage. “By the sweet blood of Jesus, those bastards,” he said. “This’ll take some sorting.”
Casca nodded and leaned back, sweating and filthy. He had no idea how long he’d been helping here, but he was damned hungry and needed a drink and something to eat. “If the Turks come now there’s precious little to stop them.”
Grant nodded, grimacing. “We’ll have to repair it at night, no chance now with their gunners basting hell out of the walls. How many men do you have here on duty?”
Casca grunted and scratched a leg. “About one hundred and fifty.” It clearly wasn’t enough to stop an attack if one was launched, but the cannons were still blasting away and as long as that went on, then no attack would come. After a while they began frowning, and every so often a lookout would report that no movement was happening from the Turkish lines.
Grant growled in his throat and spat over the shattered parapet. “Where the bloody hell’s Mehmet? Here’s a bloody good chance to take the place and he’s sitting with his finger up his arse!”
“Don’t moan about it, as long as he stays put we’re safe. And as you say, tonight we can repair the mess.” Casca indeed wondered where the heck the enemy was and why they weren’t attacking.
____
Mehmet in fact was still over by Pera, close to the place he’d watched the failure of Baltoglu’s navy the day before. The admiral was at that moment kneeling in front of the angry Sultan, a couple of Janissaries keeping a firm grip on his shoulders so the wounded man couldn’t get up.
“You cowardly traitorous pig,” Mehmet hissed, “any true Turk would not have allowed the infidel to slip through in such a humiliating manner!”
Baltoglu remained silent, one eye bandaged, a legacy of a stone that had struck him towards the end of the fight. Behind the two guards, a number of Ottoman naval commanders stood nervously, wondering if the disgrace that was being directed at their admiral would also come to them. Mehmet was flanked by more guards and some of his senior aides.
“As a punishment for your incompetent handling of my navy, Baltoglu, I shall have you executed and your head mounted in full view of my army so show them failure is not tolerated!”
The admiral shook in fear and bowed his head. Suddenly one of his commanders strode forward and dropped to his knees. “O defender of the Faith” he began, “your wisdom is boundless as is your mercy.”
Mehmet frowned. What was this flatterer getting at? “Speak, bold one.”
The officer bowed low, his head touching the ground once before he continued. “The admiral behaved bravely in the battle, putting his safety second to his duty. We were all inspired by his leadership but the Christians used trickery and evil magic to foil our efforts. We could not do better in those circumstances. Your admiral performed to the best of his abilities, and his wounds surely testify to his valour, O Light of Islam.”
Mehmet growled and eyed the miserable Baltoglu. “It seems your men think highly of you. Indeed your wounds were gained through service to me. Accordingly I shall show clemency, but I still will not tolerate failure! Your miserable life will be spared, but you may well wish it was not so by the time I have finished with you. You are no longer admiral or Governor of Gelibolu, and you are no longer of any rank or consequence. You shall be whipped and cast out to live as you may. I shall no longer bear your odious presence.”
Baltoglu thanked the Sultan in a quavering voice and was led away, a broken man. Mehmet dismissed the rest of the naval officers and turned to Hamza Bey, one of his aides. “You shall take up his governorship. Arrange for his wealth to be distributed to my Janissaries.”
Hamza bowed low, his swarthy bearded face breaking out into a wreath of wrinkles as he smiled. “Your eminence is too kind. Your wish is my command.” Bowing low the aide backed away and sped off to carry out his master’s wishes.
