Casca 53: The Last Defender, page 15
Casca wondered if he would ever see her again.
He busied himself on the wall, supervising repairs that the Turkish guns caused, having blasted great chunks from the masonry and palisades. Night was fully on them again and swearing mightily, he helped a team of sweating men haul a huge chunk of stone up to the parapet and lodge it so it formed an effective wall. It had been part of a tower wall earlier that evening but now it was a pile of rubble.
And then suddenly the guns ceased.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE SULTAN’S ATTACK
Everyone waited at the walls, nervously peering into the dark. They could see nothing or hear nothing. No guns fired, no foot gave away an approach, no shout betrayed an attack. The defenders looked at each other in bafflement and anxiously clutched their crossbows, spears, swords or hand guns. Nobody came at them from the blackness.
“Where in God’s name are they?” someone asked, his voice trembling.
“Calm now, men,” Carbone said, pacing behind them, “they’ll come in their own good time. We’ll know when, they’ll hear it across the Bosphorus!”
The men grinned and peered again into the night. Nothing.
“What are they up to?” Martin demanded.
“Playing on our nerves no doubt,” Casca muttered, just loud enough for the ones either side of him, a Greek called John and Pietro, to hear. They both nodded and remained silent.
The Turks didn’t come and gradually the word filtered round that they were resting for the day prior to the attack which was going to be the following day, Tuesday the 29th. The men stood down except for those assigned to sentry duty and many grabbed what sleep they could. When dawn broke they could see over the walls to the enemy camp where Turks were busy making preparations in full view of the defenders, building scaling ladders and stockpiling weapons.
Casca, rested after a few hours sleep, peed over the walls into the ditch and sniffed deeply, spitting after his urine. He surveyed the scene and guessed it would come after dark. Looking at the palisade he thought it needed some work. “Rafael, go get some building materials and fill up this rampart here. Get a squad organised.”
Rafael saluted sketchily and roused some of the men to follow him. More earth was being brought up in large containers, buckets and the like, to provide some protection from the assault to come, and bells began ringing out in the city as people were called to worship. Casca shook his head. They needed more than faith now to help them, Venice and Genoa could do more for starters, but they were too busy arguing to do anything practical. He had no idea whether Venice had sent a fleet or not. What mattered was that it was not here where it counted.
Carbone appeared and mentioned that the Emperor was leading a procession around the walls together with the most blessed of the icons, hoping to raise morale. Casca passed it on to the men, but he had no faith in religious symbols. He had lived far too long and seen far too much to expect any divine help, but the others probably got something out of it.
At around mid-morning the procession reached that part of the walls and it paused for a while, as this was the most ruined and vulnerable spot, and judging by the concentrations of the Ottomans, where the main attack would be pressed. Constantine spoke to the men, praising their efforts, Greek and Italian alike, and ended by saying he expected the faith of the Christians to prevail against the Muslim.
Casca kept his face still and watched as the long procession picked its way past the ruined masonry on its climb up towards the Civil Gate of St.Romanus, the next exit out of the city to the south. He then went back to cleaning his hand gun and sword, sitting on a block of stone, diligently checking each weapon was in top condition.
Constantine finished the procession and led them back to the Blachernae Palace. He summoned all those who had been a part of it and turned to them all. “My friends, fellow Christians,” he began, his face drawn and tired, “the assault is shortly to begin. I am a Greek and any Greek should be prepared to die for his faith, country, family or sovereign. I am prepared to give my life for mine, for my sovereign is none other than God, who will judge me on the final day, and if I let my people, country and faith down how could I possibly face God? I trust my fellow Greeks feel the same.
“We should all be prepared the die rather than bow to the perfidious Turks and their warlike Sultan who has wished this war upon us. Do not forget that we are the descendants of the heroes of Rome and of Greece, of the Caesars and Alexander and all the greatness of Athens, Sparta and the other city states.”
He then turned to the silent group of Italians. “My friends, you who have come from distant shores to help in this blessed defence against the Turks, I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the service you have performed over these past few weeks, and I have absolute trust in your abilities to fight in the coming storm. Please, all of you,” and he raised his arms into the air, speaking to all present, “do not fear the vast numbers of the enemy, raise your spirits, be firm, brave and steadfast, and with God’s help we shall be victorious!”
The assembly roared in reply and clapped, and Constantine stood there with eyes full of tears in gratitude to these people who were risking their very lives for his city. He hoped he would not let them down, and perform like a true emperor should. He then walked amongst them, begging forgiveness if he had caused any offence to anyone there. He embraced each and every one of them in turn, and they followed his example by embracing each other. At last Greek, Venetian and Genoese were united, their petty squabbles forgotten.
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Mehmet too was busy that day, exhorting his troops for the final push, the final effort to capture the once-great city and make it the centre of a new great empire. He summoned his ministers and generals to his tent, where he stood and faced them all, placing his fists on his hips and giving them the benefit of his sternest look. “For centuries it has been the mission of the Faithful to take the city of the Christians, and yet every attempt has failed. Until now. Now we shall succeed where every other has not, and take for ourselves the riches and booty that remain within.” Or what remains within, Mehmet thought to himself as he paused, let the foolish think the city is full of gold and treasure, I shall take the greatest treasure myself, the city.
He continued, drawing in a deep breath. “Our enemies are tired and worn down. They are not united, for they quarrel amongst themselves. The Italians will not give up their lives for a people they detest even more than they detest us! Their walls are not impregnable, and they crumble before our eyes. On the morrow I shall send wave after wave of our brave warriors against those idolatrous Christians and we will wear them down! Paradise awaits he who first penetrates their defences!
“Now, be brave, be strong of heart, keep your men in firm control and remind them of their sacred duty, and drive the infidel from the walls of the city and it will be ours!”
The assembly shouted their enthusiasm, faces flushed with religious fervour. Mehmet raised his hands for silence. “Now, my brave warriors, retire to your tents and await my signal for the attack. We will not shrink from what we must do.”
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With nightfall the defenders silently made their way to their positions and shared a meal, talking quietly amongst themselves. Constantine stood on the walls of the Palace with his secretary Phrantzes, looking out over the watch fires of the enemy camp. Then the emperor turned to his friend and, embracing him, dismissed him from his service.
Casca honed the edge of his sword and grunted in satisfaction. The stockade wall was repaired and extra material piled up nearby in case of need. The gates had all been locked so no-one could pass through. They were there and couldn’t retreat into the city. There they would stand and fight – or die.
Martin and Pietro shook hands and stood together, staring silently out over the Thracian countryside, while Rafael whistled quietly as he cleaned his crossbow. John the Greek prayed to a small icon he had pulled out from his tunic and Carbone went from man to man clapping them on the shoulder, encouraging them.
Voices came to Casca from up and down the wall, and even behind and above where the inner wall sentries patrolled, but most of the defenders were here in between the two walls, in the Parateichion, which was exposed now that much of the outer wall had crumbled under the onslaught of the guns. Where once stood stout walls and towers now were earthworks, wooden posts and rubble. Yet still they stood.
Suddenly the Turkish camp erupted into a cacophony of noise, drums banged, horns blared, cymbals clashed and thousands of throats screamed in praise of Allah. The defenders jumped, startled, then rushed to the outer wall. “Here they come!” shouted more than a few, and hundreds of weapons were pushed forward waiting for the first shock of contact.
Casca saw shapes rushing towards him below out of the dark, torches being held by some to light the way, and his hand gun raised itself to eye level and he aimed at the leading figure, a blurred indistinct form rushing towards the bottom of the pile of fallen stone, earth and rubble that marked the bottom of the wall. Carbone waited with hand raised, looking left and right, then chopped it down viciously.
“SHOOT!”
There came the clacking noise of crossbows being fired and Casca squeezed the iron trigger. A bright flash obscured his vision and he couldn’t tell if he’d hit his target, but scores of the enemy were toppling over, screaming in pain. He threw his gun behind him and hauled out his sword. Up came the first of the Turks, raggedly dressed individuals. “These are their irregulars!” he shouted. Mehmet had thrown his arrow fodder in first, Casca realised. Clever bastard!
Those that had survived the initial volley now clambered up the steep slope, disturbing the rubble, eager to enter paradise. The defenders obliged, hurling missiles down on the horde. So closely were they packed that it was impossible to miss, and bodies tumbled down knocking others over. The ground at the base of the walls seethed with a mass of Turks, screaming, yelling, and always from behind came the sound of blowing trumpets and banging drums.
Behind the defenders the bells of the churches began tolling, signalling the attack, and many citizens left their homes and made for the nearest place of worship, even the Hagia Sofia, the great church that had been, for centuries, the centre of the Orthodox world. People flooded in from all directions to pray for divine intervention.
Casca smashed his blade down on a pole that was trying to hook over the palisade and then swept backhanded to lay open the throat of a Turk who had almost got to the top. “Bloody thousands of the bastards!” he shouted, sweating with the effort. Martin nodded and stuck his spear into the chest of another Ottoman who screamed horribly and fell into the darkness.
Fortunately these irregulars were poorly armed and even less well armoured and hundreds fell all along the walls. The Emperor galloped on his Arab horse from tower to tower, shouting encouragement, dismounting to fight on occasion if he felt it was needed. Giustianini bellowed orders from his place where the walls were at their most ruined, standing like a colossus amidst the flames and flashes, defying the enemy to pass.
Casca stepped back one pace as a ladder smacked into the palisade right by him and waited as it quivered, then a head appeared. He stepped forward and butted the Turk square on the bridge of the nose, and the man gurgled in pain and clutched his ruined face before slipping off and falling onto the heads of many of his comrades.
Casca brought his blade down on the ladder, splintering the top rungs and cleaved in the head of a turbaned Ottoman who had the misfortune of being the next up. Rafael loaded his crossbow and aimed carefully at a Turk who was pulling himself over, and the bolt took him clean in the chest, sending up a puff of dust where it impacted. The Turk slipped away out of sight.
Casca chopped and slashed like a demon, drenched in blood, grunting and sweating until he lost himself in a nightmare of slaughter. But not one Turk crossed the outer wall.
Suddenly there came a blast of a horn and the irregulars turned and fled, yelling in frustration. The defenders looked at each other in surprise, all of them exhausted. “Is that it?” one of them asked out loud.
“No!” Casca growled, rubbing his aching forearms, “now we get the proper Ottoman soldiers!”
“No time to waste, then!” Giustianini shouted, appearing like a mountain from the gloom, repair the stockade!”
The men groaned and set to their task quickly, knowing time was short. The wounded were taken off to be tended and the dead pulled away to be stacked up against the rear wall. If the defenders survived when the attack finished then they could bury the fallen in good time. If they didn’t, well what did it matter?
A fresh burst of music to their left brought their heads round, and the tramp of thousands of feet got them running to their weapons once more. “They’re coming down the slope!” Rafael called out, pointing. Casca looked over and saw, out of the torchlight, ranks of disciplined Anatolian troops marching down the Lycus Valley towards them, shouting the praises of Allah and weapons raised, ready to strike at the hated enemy.
“Sweet Jesus!” an Italian cried.
“Load!” Giustianini ordered, pointing to the cannons he had managed to purloin from other sections of the walls. The gunners frantically loaded and dragged the barrels round to face the crumbling palisade. Blasts struck the walls from the Turkish cannons even as the Anatolians wheeled round to attack, and it was clear Mehmet would now have his cannons continue to fire even with his troops attacking.
On a wide front, across the entire valley, the Turks threw themselves at the walls, climbing on each others’ shoulders to place ladders against the outer defences. Giustianini screamed the order to fire and a volley of cannon shot flayed into the Muslim ranks, creating carnage. But there were thousands more and they swarmed up at the defenders. Stones were hurled down, crushing skulls and ribs, piling the dead in huge mounds at the base of the walls, but still they came on.
Casca hacked at the neck of one and he was blinded momentarily by the blood spraying out, and he felt a sharp pain as another struck him with his sword. Screaming in fury Casca pulled the surprised Turk up, ran him through the guts with his sword before throwing the corpse down on the stack of Ottomans climbing the ladder. Casca kicked the ladder off the wall and stood braced at the top, sword in both hands, screaming defiance.
“Get off my fucking city!” He had screamed in Latin, but he didn’t realise it. He was no longer in the Genoese army, nor was he Byzantine. Once again he was a Roman soldier, fighting for the Caesars in the legion, smashing back the enemies of the Empire. Pictures of the Roman world flashed before his eyes as he despatched Turk after Turk, screaming obscenities in the Latin of the Caesars.
A massive explosion hurled him back and he landed, winded, on his back, his sword clattering away into the darkness. Bright lights swirled before his eyes and he jerked his limbs spasmodically. Rafael staggered to his side, blood masked over his face. “Sergente!”
Casca groaned and was helped to his feet, groggy. “Wha?” he asked stupidly.
“They’ve blown down the palisade with cannon fire!”
“Oh by the demons of hell,” Casca said, staring at the smoking ruin that had been the palisade. It must have been that huge cannon that had done it, nothing else could possibly have. Defenders lay in a fan shaped arc away from it, and appearing through the flames were black clad Anatolians, cheering in triumph.
Casca felt a sword hilt being pressed into his palm and he grasped it. Suddenly Constantine was there with his three aides, yelling for help. “Come on Rafael,” Casca gasped, “let’s help him.”
The two joined in, attacking the flank of the Turkish charge, where more defenders, recovering from the blast effects, were now pressing in on the attack. The Ottomans were checked, appalled at the ferocity of the Emperor as he waded in, sword cutting them down in swathes, crying out to God for strength. Slowly but surely the breach was sealed and the last Ottomans were pushed back through the ruined gap, leaving three hundred of their number lying lifelessly behind.
Casca sank to his knees, his breathing hard and drawn, panting in agony. Rafael looked round and groaned. “Martin is dead,” he said sadly, catching sight of the Italian lying crumpled on his back, his eyes open to the night sky.
“I’m sorry,” Casca exhaled deeply and looked up. The Anatolian troops were withdrawing, leaving an appalling number behind dead, but the walls were shattered and the defenders spent. The Emperor praised the men and blessed them before moving on to inspect other parts of the walls. Giustianini clapped the two on the shoulders and commiserated them on Martin’s death. Pietro appeared and was distraught.
Mehmet meanwhile frowned at the walls and turned to Hasan, standing by his side. “Now, my faithful servant,” he said, “go bring me the city! Do not fail where the others have.”
“It shall be done, master,” the giant said, and waved his men to follow him.
The defenders were trying to haul some sort of defence together to replace that destroyed by the cannons when a great booming sound reached them. The martial drumming and shouts shook them to their bones.
“Oh dear God, what now?” Carbone demanded, a bandage over one eye. He had been hurt during the last attack and had hastily thrown the dressing on.
Casca groaned, for he knew what was coming. “Janissaries!” He turned to face the group of men staring into the pre-dawn darkness. “This is it, this is the one that counts. Defeat these bastards and we’ve won. But these are their elite. It’ll be tougher than anything we’ve faced before!”
Wearily they prepared themselves for what was coming. The intense sound of the drums and tambours rolled over the walls into the city and the bells tolled even more, urgently, frantically. To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten, but at the walls it was still dark and out from the blackness emerged the regimented ranks of the elite corps of the Sultan.
