Casca 53: The Last Defender, page 14
Nerves were becoming frayed but the ten casks were piled to Casca’s satisfaction and he took the last and began pouring the powder out over the others, then began walking backwards, making a trail. The cask emptied long before he had made it to the safety of the postern gate, and so he waved the former cask carriers back into the safety of the city and gestured for the crossbowmen to load and kneel, scattering them in a loose arc.
Casca pulled out his flint and a small iron bolt, and put the oil soaked match on the ground. He began striking the iron and flint together and sparks shot out over the ground.
“Hurry” one of the crossbowmen hissed, anxious and fearful.
Casca waved a hand at him and struck the flint again. The match caught and spluttered into flame. Swiftly he touched the flames to the powder trail and it hissed into life. Casca turned and ran for the gate, waving his men to follow him. A shout from a guard stopped them and two Turks came to the edge of the Foss, pointing at the powder that was burning.
Casca pointed at the guards and four levelled their crossbows and shot at the silhouetted men. One toppled backwards soundlessly and the other gasped, clutching his arm, and sank to his knees, crying out an alarm.
“Inside, now!” Casca snapped and pushed the crossbowmen ahead of him.
They were all in and Casca slammed the gate shut and locked it when there came a huge explosion and the sky lit up. The guards on the wall watched in excitement as the tower disintegrated in the blast, the front ripped away like an old curtain, and the planks of wood scattered like chaff in the wind. Turks were blown into the air screaming and the tower fell in on itself, crushing anyone still alive close by.
Casca reached the top and peered over, grinning. The others came up and began cheering at the sight of the ruined tower. Into the glow of the smouldering flames left by the explosion came a huge figure, dressed in black, and paused by the wreckage. He then looked up and stared into the eyes of Casca who bowed to him ironically. The giant man scowled and made a throat cutting gesture to Casca, then turned and vanished into the darkness.
____
It was a few days later that Mehmet called his advisors together in his tent and spoke to them. “My faithful friends,” he began, eyeing the Grand Vizier sharply, “we have been throwing our might against the Christians for six weeks, yet here we are still facing these walls. My agents in Venice tells me a fleet has been ordered to sail to Constantinople to relieve the defenders, and if they do arrive it is certain we will not capture the city. Morale is not as high as it has been and I fear if we do not capture it within the next two weeks the army will start to fall apart. Our mining has failed and we have lost many of our sappers, and the fleet has been unable to defeat the Christians despite the capture of the Golden Horn. Have any of you here anything to propose?”
The assembled Court looked to each other warily. The word of the Sultan was such that a wrong word from any of them could result in a garrotting, the favoured means of execution in the Ottoman Court. Halil Pasha cleared his throat.
“My master, it is clear the attack is not going to succeed, now perhaps we should make an offer to the Christians, a truce. Perhaps a diplomatic solution to this matter is more likely than a military one?”
The sultan eyed his Vizier with dislike. Every opportunity this old man had opposed this venture, and Mehmet’s temper was not helped by the fact he knew he stood to lose face if his attack failed, and Halil be proved right. “Halil Pasha, you have faithfully served my father for many years and you continue to serve me, and as a mark of respect for your service I shall take your advice and send a messenger to the Emperor, offering them a solution to this crisis. Perhaps, as you say, diplomacy may succeed where force does not.”
Halil bowed low. He was not deceived by the words from his master’s voice. Mehmet had no intention of giving up, he would offer the Greeks an ultimatum, not a truce. Still, Halil’s influence would be increased by this negotiation. “I shall arrange for a messenger to go to the Emperor. I know of the very man, one of our converts who was born Greek, and is a vassal of yours. He knows many Greeks inside the city, and he may influence their decision.”
Mehmet nodded, waving the Vizier away to get it done. He remained seated, deep in thought, wondering how he was going to beat these stubborn Christians who defied him from their crumbling walls.
____
Casca was surprised to get a summons from the Palace, passed to him by Carbone, the captain himself looking mystified. “I don’t know why they want you at the palace, Longini, he said with not a small amount of envy in his voice, “but the commander Giustianini himself countersigned this.” He waved a sheet of paper in Casca’s face.
Casca shrugged and trotted along in the wake of the Greek messenger who had been given orders to fetch the mercenary as quickly as possible and return to the Blachernae. Casca was shown in without much in the way of ceremony and found himself in a dark chamber dominated by a heavy table. Memories flooded into his mind, he had been here before, many years ago. Almost a century, he thought quickly, just before he went in search of Tamerlane.
Now seven men stood around the table, all with tired, strained looks on their faces. The booms of the cannons were faint down here, muffled by the thick walls, but audible nonetheless. Casca nodded to Phrantzes and Giustianini and acknowledged the presence of the Venetian Bailli Minotto. Also here were the Emperor who smiled warmly at him and the top Greek court official Lucas Notaras, the Megadux, and two others who Casca didn’t know.
Casca was unsure as to what he was supposed to do and looked to Giustianini, his commander, for a sign. The Genoan came over and slapped the mercenary on the shoulder. “Welcome, Sergeant, I know this is somewhat overwhelming for you but I am led to believe you speak Turkish?”
Casca looked at him with suspicion. Okay, what was going on here? “Yes, commander, I do.”
“Excellent!” Giustianini waved Casca forward to the edge of the table.
The Emperor smiled again, sharing with Casca the private joke, something which warmed Casca’s heart. He felt a deep stab of pity for the man, defending his city, his empire, against impossible odds. Casca bowed low. “Your Majesty?”
Constantine leaned against the table top, his tall stature and dark looks less threatening than they might have been in the dark atmosphere. “This man here,” and he nodded to his left where one of the two Casca didn’t know was standing, “has come from the Sultan to offer peace terms.”
Casca picked up an underlying tension in the room, and guessed not everyone was in agreement with the offer. Constantine looked around at the others in the room before continuing. “I wish to respond to these overtures by sending an emissary to his camp. I need someone who speaks Turkish and who would put across our wishes at the same time without being intimidated by the Sultan. My secretary here thought that you would be the perfect man for the job. What do you say?”
Casca locked eyes with the emperor before nodding. “I agree, but why me and not one of your court officials? I know your secretary here speaks excellent Turkish.”
Phrantzes gave Casca an old-fashioned-look.
Constantine smiled wearily. “I need my friend Phrantzes here. What I need is a trusted man, such as yourself, who can be trusted to defend our cause who understands the Sultan’s language perfectly. There aren’t many here who I believe fit those conditions.”
In other words, Casca thought acidly, you don’t want to lose your trusted courtier to a man who is well known to slaughter enemies in a fit of Turkish pique! He smiled sardonically and nodded. “What is it you wish me to present to the Sultan, and how much do you want me to concede?”
Constantine breathed out in relief and indicated Phrantzes. “My secretary will advise you. Follow him and he will brief you fully. You will accompany Ismail here,” and he once more indicated the Turkish emissary, “back to the Sultan’s camp.”
____
It was in the dead of night that the two men slipped out of the sally port in a small tower close to the palace and crossed the Foss before Ismail hailed the first Turkish sentry of their approach.
It was in no time that they were hurried to the great tent of Mehmet and Casca was kept under guard outside whilst Ismail went in to advise the Sultan of the result of his trip to the Emperor. Whilst he was waiting Casca looked around and noted the smartness of the janissary guards and their black uniforms. One, a giant of a man, was doing a round of the camp and noticed Casca standing by the Sultan’s tent.
Casca recognised him as the man who had made the throat-cutting gesture to him in the aftermath of the wooden tower’s destruction, and the janissary, after a moment, recognised him.
“You murderer of Turks,” he hissed, “I should disembowel you on the spot!”
“You try and your Sultan will knock your head off. I’m an emissary from the Emperor.”
“Emissary?” the giant laughed in derision, “a pathetic offer from a pathetic city. Give up, you are doomed.”
“Perhaps my over sized friend, but not before we kill thousands of you.”
The Turk scowled and grabbed the hilt of his sword tightly. One of the guards hissed at him. “Hasan! You would be punished!”
“Hasan is it?” Casca said. “Well, remember me, I shall kill you if you set one foot inside that city.”
“By the power of Allah! I shall have you as my slave and rape your women daily in front of you for that!”
“You got to have balls to do that you lump of camel shit. Now shut up and go rape a water buffalo. That’s the only thing that’s desperate enough to want you.”
Hasan gritted his teeth, his moustache bristling in fury. “I’ll see you boiled alive in our soup cauldrons, you infidel!” and he stamped off into the night, raging about Christians and walls and Greeks.
Casca grinned and turned to face the two janissary guards, then set a serious face as he caught sight of their expressions.
Just then the tent flap opened and Ismail appeared, beckoning Casca inside. Casca ducked in and found himself in a luxurious tent full of cushions, rugs and tapestries. The floor was canvas and braziers gave off incense and light by which to see the far reaches of the interior.
The Sultan was seated upon a richly cushioned chair and awaited him. By his sides stood two guards with bared swords and a number of Turkish officials stood alongside. Casca was allowed to approach, then was ordered to prostrate himself. He did so, unwillingly. When ordered to rise he stood and looked the Sultan in the eye.
Mehmet studied the hard-bitten scarred man in front of him. “You are not a Court Official,” he said accusingly.
“No, my lord, I am a soldier.”
The Turks looked at each other in surprise. Mehmet pursed his lips. “Still, you are a messenger and envoy, and as such have my protection whilst in this camp. Now, I have been asked by what terms I would leave the city alone. My price is an annual tribute of one hundred thousand gold bezants.”
Casca sucked in his breath. Gods! Talk about extortion!! “As your majesty knows, such a cost is beyond the emperor, his treasury is almost gone. He is willing to negotiate the price to one he can afford, however.”
Mehmet shook his head. “Alternatively he and his people can move out with their moveable possessions and leave me the city. They would be unharmed.”
“You know he cannot do that,” Casca said evenly. “Is there no concession from the wise all-knowing Sultan?” he tried his best to keep sarcasm out of his voice.
Mehmet stood up angrily. “Now listen to me, soldier! Go tell your emperor that he has two choices. Either surrender the city, or die by the sword. Or he and every one of you in that city convert to Islam. That is my final offer. Take it and submit!”
Casca was ushered swiftly outside and escorted to the Foss. He had seen for himself how impossible it was to bargain with the Sultan and now all they had left were hope and the walls. One was fading and the other crumbling away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE WALLS
Casca was commiserated on his return by the Emperor who knew that the mission had been a forlorn one from the outset, but everything had to be tried. Casca returned to his post on the walls to find Martin and Pietro at each other’s throats following yet another argument between the two. Rafael had, in his exasperation, put both in a cell in the base of one of the towers and ordered them to either fight it out or sort it to a peaceful conclusion.
Casca concurred and sat down to a meal of cold meats and cheese. Food was getting harder to find and many soldiers, particularly the Greeks, were spending more and more time away from their positions to find food for their families, and tension was running high.
Similarly in the Turkish camp tensions were equally high. Mehmet called his advisors together in the aftermath of the failed negotiations with the Greeks. He asked them for their suggestions before Mehmet made a final decision on what to do next.
Halil stood and turned to the Council. “My master, friends, and colleagues,” he said slowly and deeply, “you all know how long I have served the Sultans of this Empire, and my service speaks for itself. I have long opposed this venture as I see no way past the great walls. Have we not tried for six weeks now with no reward? We have been humiliated by the tiny garrison and defeated at sea. Word is that Venice has sent out a fleet, and do you wish to confront their navy when we cannot even defeat four ships? And when will we find at our backs a Christian army from Hungary or Germany? Who knows what is going on in Europe; the Hungarian king has already repudiated the treaty he signed after his last defeat!”
Halil fixed each of those present with his deep set eyes. “It would be far better, would it not, if our young Sultan agreed a treaty with Byzantium that they could afford. Then our honour would be satisfied and we would have a valuable ally rather than a hostile presence in our midst.”
The Sultan listened with a sinking heart. Halil had not been proved wrong thus far, but it would be a terrible blow to the young ruler’s prestige if he was to give up now. His face reflected the frustration and fear he felt.
Zaganos Pasha stood up and sneered at Halil. “You old woman,” he said contemptuously, “as a Grand Vizier you should strengthen our Empire, rather than work to weaken it! Your fears are groundless. Europe is too divided to strike at us, and they fear us. Have we not smashed the Serbs and Hungarians? And you, Halil, question our master’s youth? What of Alexander the Great? Was he too young to crush half of the known world? No! Would you have spoken out against Alexander before he embarked on his campaigns? I think so, for you are a weak and foolish old man, and one who loves the Greeks too much to be in your position for the good of our ambitions!”
Zaganos turned to Mehmet. “My lord, the army is behind me and is eager to attack. Attack! Crush the Christians, it is your fate to do so. Allah wills it!”
The Council rose as one and roared their approval. Halil’s heart sank as he saw Mehmet nod in agreement. Now his future was sealed with that of Constantinople. If it fell so would he. He strode away from the tent in anger and approached a man he knew to be a Christian, standing guard by one of the cannons as it was being loaded.
“You, come here!” he commanded.
The guard swallowed and ran to the Vizier’s side, fearing a punishment. “Yes, master?”
“Go and shoot an arrow over the walls with a message. The Sultan is going to attack any day now. Tell them to make the best preparations they can.”
Casca had finished his meal and was making a leisurely inspection of the small stretch of the walls be was responsible for when Rafael came running up, anxiety written all over his face. “Sergente, we have just received a message from the Turkish camp! It says there is going to be an all-out attack in the next few days!”
“Let me see.” Casca took the crumpled piece of paper and scanned it. The message was blunt and brief, but confirmed what Rafael was saying. “Take it to Captain Carbone at once.”
Rafael nodded and ran off. Casca sat down on a pile of logs and sighed. So here it was. Finally it would come. Either they kept the enemy out, or they would fall within a week.
____
He saw Helena the next day and told her about the impending attack. Helena held him fearfully and shook with fear. “Can we hold out?”
“I hope so. We can’t keep this up for much longer, but neither can they. It’s all or nothing this time. If they don’t succeed they’ll give up. We’ve got to hold them off or we’re finished.”
Helena sobbed and clung to him. Casca held on to her tight and tried to reassure her. “How are you doing for food?”
“Okay” she said in a small voice. “Father complains but he always does about everything. He blames the Latins, of course.”
“Of course. But it won’t be the Latins who come rampaging along the street, it’ll be the Turks. They won’t stop and ask if you’re Latin or Greek, you’ll be enslaved or killed just the same. They won’t give any quarter. Please Helena, you must persuade him to get to a ship and get out.”
She shook her head. “He won’t leave, you know that! He’d rather die here than go.”
“He stands a good chance of that in the next few days. I can’t change your mind then?”
Helena shook her head again. “I would leave if I could, but I cannot leave my father, you know that.”
Casca sighed and looked across the city to the crumbling top of the hippodrome. “I shall try to come for you if things go wrong. Don’t leave the house.”
Helena smiled through her tears and he kissed her. She melted into him and they remained that way for a few moments before they regretfully parted. Casca grinned for a moment. “At least your fence came in useful. It’s stopping the Turks getting through.”
Helena stared for a second, then burst into giggles. “Oh you! Go on, go!”
Casca turned and walked back along the Mese towards the walls, leaving the girl standing alone in the middle of the road watching his departing back with longing, but her duty to her father prevented her from doing what she wanted more than anything else.
