Casca 53: The Last Defender, page 8
“Now move as you want to.”
She didn’t need to be told how, she just knew. Pushing up and down she brought herself to new heights of passion, crying out each time, until she felt a change in him and a build up within her man. He held her tight, groaning out as she felt him explode inside her, and they sank down together, spent.
____
They got little sleep that night, he teaching her new ways to love, she following gladly. When dawn came and the bells began to ring out from the churches, she sighed. “I must go to church to give praise to God this Easter. My father will be expecting me to take him. I promised I would be back this morning.”
“Then go, Helena. I too have duties to perform.”
They bathed together, making love once again but this time very gently, for she was aching and tender, and when she walked it looked as though she had been riding a horse for a week. Casca laughed and pointed this out. Helena thought it not amusing and told him so, then smiled to take away any offence.
As they walked back to the lower level, they met Giustianini emerging from his room alone. “Where’s your good lady?” Casca inquired. The Genoese jabbed a thumb through the barely open door to a bed where a limp arm could be seen dangling down. “She’s sleeping it off.”
Both men chuckled, men of the world. Helena tutted. Giustianini put a hand to his cap and greeted her courteously. “Signora.”
Helena smiled and watched as the Italian departed swiftly. “What is he in such a hurry for?”
“He has to organise today’s sortie against the enemy outside. It’s going to be a big one, using artillery and Greek Fire. They think we only can use about a hundred men at a time, but we’re going to throw at them five hundred. We’ll catch the swine off-guard. They think as its Easter we won’t do anything.”
She tensed. “Do you have to go?”
A sigh. “Yes.”
She clutched at his upper arm. “Don’t, you might get killed.”
The Roman grinned. He couldn’t tell her that was impossible. “I will take care, besides I have many friends to look after me. Also, my commander you’ve just met will know now I have a woman here and will make sure I return. Do not worry, lady Helena, I will see you tonight. You will be home?”
“Yes. The tavern will not be open tonight. My father retires to bed early and the mass will exhaust him.”
“Then your house, an hour after dark.”
“An hour after dark.” She kissed him longingly as they departed, for although he had glibly told her he would return, the worry still played at her.
____
The day had broken fully and the encamped enemy army could be fully seen. Diggings were going on all around and more units were arriving from the west each hour. As yet they were thinly spread along the four mile length of wall, and Giustianini decided that today they would attack from two points, out of both the Gate of Charisius and the Civil Gate of St.Romanus, one on each side of the Lycus Valley. His plan was to bottle up those Turkish units on the slopes, drive them down to the bottom of the valley and pound them to a pulp where they stood.
At each gate two hundred and fifty men stood, waiting nervously. In front of each column of men, directly behind the gate, stood a cannon that had been dragged through the streets from the ships at anchor in the harbour. Directions had been given from the lookouts as to where to point the guns and now all was ready.
Casca stood at the top of the outer wall, gun in hand, fuse ready to be lit. Alongside him many more men were ready, lying down out of sight from the encamped Turks so that it would appear only a few guards were patrolling the battlements. There was nothing to suggest anything was in the offing.
At a signal from Giustianini the gates swung open and the two cannons, nearly a mile apart, were pushed out, gunners ready to light each fuse. The Turks stood up, curious as to why the gate near them should be opened at this time. There came the command and two fuses were lit.
The cannons belched fire and two stone cannon balls ripped through the nearest knot of the enemy, mangling limbs, crushing rib cages and tearing off heads. Screams of the wounded were drowned out by the volley from the battlements as the guards all stood up and fired as one, sending bullets and lead shot spraying across the gap to the other side of the great ditch. Turks by the score toppled, holes torn in their bodies, while others dived for cover.
No sooner had they got to their feet than the sallying parties were amongst them, swords cutting swathes through the disorganised units. The two Byzantine groups made their way towards each other, down the slopes of the Lycus Valley, driving all those they encountered before them. The Turkish commanders saw what was happening and screamed at their men to get out of the trap. Although some managed to get away before the slopes were cut off, about a hundred were caught and were slowly cut to pieces by the archers, crossbowmen and gunners on the battlements.
Casca, after his initial shot which he thought had missed its target, had scrambled down to the ground and ran out of the gate in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. Pietro was somewhere out in front with the rest of the defending force that was heading down the slope after the fleeing Turks.
The Turkish Aga in charge of the sappers who had been attacked now began to pull his troops together, organising lines of men ready to repel any assault. He knew that the defenders were too few in number to cause any serious damage to his units but the loss of prestige a failure in front of everyone would cause, was too much to think about. Once his men were ready he got them to advance along the valley towards the milling mass of men right beneath the walls.
Giustianini had been expecting something like this and ordered his trumpeters on top of the tallest tower to sound the retreat. A third gate, the Military Gate of St.Romanus, situated close to the bottom of the valley, was opened and allowed those that had chased out of the Charisian Gate to stream back into the safety of Constantinople, Casca included. The Roman was a bit put out as he had just arrived at the battle scene when the retreat had sounded, so he had nothing to show for his exertions that morning.
The other Byzantines retreated quickly back up the slope southwards towards the Civil Gate of St.Romanus, hotly pursued by yelling Turks. Covering fire was afforded by those on the walls which permitted most of the defenders to get back into the city unscathed.
Once back inside Casca pushed past sweating men talking animatedly about the morning’s sortie, across the Parateichion and into one of the great towers of the inner wall. A bucket of water stood conveniently in the corner of the room and he took a deep draught from it before climbing the stairs to the wall level and out onto the inner wall.
Carbone’s office was the next tower along and Casca reported there. “Good, the attack went very well with few losses. However,” Carbone sighed, “the Emperor does not like even a few losses and has forbidden any more sorties in daylight.”
Casca shrugged. “The main part of the enemy’s army will be here in a day or two so it won’t be possible then anyway. All we’re doing is pissing into the wind.”
Carbone grunted. “Reports state that Mehmet had recruited an additional eighty thousand irregulars to supplement his regular forces.”
“Phew! That means we’re outnumbered about twenty to one.”
“At least. Lookouts have counted over a hundred ships in the Sea of Marmora as well.”
Casca pulled a face. “Most of the Turkish vessels ain’t worth a shit. If Venice had sent a fleet of ships when we asked for it they’d’ve smashed those toys to bits. Most of them are little more than row-boats.”
Carbone shook his head sadly. “Well they haven’t, even though Minotto keeps on saying they will. The Turks do have a number of biremes and triremes which can cause great damage. The Emperor’s spies say their admiral is a Bulgar called Baltoglu.”
“Ever hear of a Bulgar navy?” Casca snorted in derision. “Better the Sultan appoint a Greek or a Latin as admiral, at least they come from nautical stock.”
The captain smiled for a moment. “You don’t think much of the Sultan’s forces, do you?”
“If numbers were equal we’d whip their asses all the way back to Adrianople. My men have beaten them every time so far. Mind you, we haven’t faced their Janissaries. They’re the ones I want to see.”
Carbone laughed. “From a safe distance, no doubt. Right, find out the losses, arrange for the wounded to get treatment, organise supply replenishment, then go off and see your woman.”
Casca saluted sarcastically. “Yes, SIR!”
As the Roman exited Carbone shook his head slowly. “Cheeky swine. Oh for a regiment of cheeky swine like him.”
If Casca had hoped that Carbone’s orders would take only a little while, then he was sadly mistaken. There were eight dead or missing and fifteen wounded, most of those from poorly aimed shots from their own men from the walls. He escorted the fifteen to the nearest hospital, located in the grounds of the Church of St.George next to the Charisian Gate. The nun in charge, a Sister Irene, was a horrendous old battleaxe who scolded Casca mightily for allowing good Christian soldiers to be wounded by horrid heretical Turks. Casca stood quite unsure as to how to reply to the tirade, much to the amusement of the walking wounded.
However their smiles quickly vanished when she turned her attention to them. “And you can all stop your silly smiling. This is God’s sacred place and there will be no brevity here! You will all get down on your knees and pray to our Lord Jesus Christ and St.George, our patron saint, to aid in your swift recovery. Now down!” she snapped, cuffing the nearest individual around the ear to speed him on his way.
Casca chuckled and passed through the stout oaken door to the grey day outside. It looked as though there would be rain that day. He stopped as a procession led by a black garbed priest passed by, reciting the resurrection. Casca shook his head.
The supplies were harder to get. There was a huge shortage of arrows and spears and a glut of stones. All very well but lobbing stones was very tiring and the range wasn’t too great. He’d have to appeal to the man in charge of the supplies, Grant.
Grant was busy lecturing a motley crew of individuals which turned out to be sappers. The Turkish sappers were already visible, digging emplacements a distance away, and it was certain they would be shortly commencing their digs under the ground towards the walls. Grant was advising them on how to counter-sap. Eventually Grant finished and eyed the impatient Casca. “Och, it’s ye, is it now, man? And what d’ye want with a poor engineer?”
“Replenishment arrows and spears for the St.Charisian stretch. We’re running low.”
“Aye, aren’t we all? I’ve got the women around here to make some more but that’ll be just enough for this stretch. So I’d get the good folk there to make ye some.”
The mercenary groaned. More organising. Hades, he’d run his balls off before long at this rate. Deciding delegation was the order of the day he rounded up Martin, Pietro and Rafael who were swapping rude jokes with a few of their comrades to get the locals to make them arrows and spears out of the spare wood in the vicinity.
Grumbling, the men set off as bid.
Once that had been done it was late afternoon. Excusing himself from his fellow non-commissioned officers he descended to city level and walked along the Mese towards the district near the Golden Horn. It was near time for Vespers and many good folk would be attending mass, including Helena and old Notarias. Bells were ringing and birds were migrating north. Trees were blossoming and all seemed so peaceful and serene but he knew it to be but an illusion.
Stopping off at the house he had made a temporary home in a few days back, he changed into clean gear and washed himself. It wouldn’t do to go to her house all sweaty and dirty. Grunting in satisfaction and gulping down a thin stew he had rustled up, he finally decided he was ready and left.
Darkness had fallen and lights from all the houses lit his way to the Notarias residence. Notarias was an old noble name in Byzantine history and he assumed Helena to be part of one of the lines that had branched out some centuries ago. Lights were on in the house and he went round the back and passed through the gaps in between the hastily built stone wall they had put in place of the wooden fence and walked up to the rear of the house.
Helena had been waiting and opened the door, putting a finger to her lips. “I’ve just put father to bed. He might still be awake.”
“Then we’ll have to be quiet,” Casca grinned and kissed her passionately. Helena sighed and wrapped her arms about him. She broke the kiss and put her lips to his ear. “I prayed you’d be unhurt today. Was it bad?”
“Not really, a minor skirmish. I hardly got involved. I spent most of the day getting supplies.” He nibbled her ear, causing her to giggle.
For a while the two of them forgot the Turkish army outside the gates and enjoyed one another’s company. Eventually, just after midnight he rose and dressed, bidding her a good night. Another promise to see her and he was gone.
Helena sat alone for a while. She was afraid. Afraid for her man, afraid for her future, even for her father. Turkish atrocities were circulating and getting more outrageous with each telling. If the walls fell she didn’t know what would happen to her or her father. All she knew was she would be torn between her lover and her father. To stay with one or the other? She knew deep in her heart she would choose her father and the thought pierced her to the bone. For the first time since her mother died, she cried herself to sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
BOMBARDMENT
Mehmet stood in front of the walls and surveyed the barrier to his ambitions. The Byzantines had demolished all bridges across the ditch and had shut all gates to his forces. He had sent a message to Constantine requesting he surrender the city to him, promising no harm would come to anyone or their possessions. This was no gesture of kindness from him; such a request was demanded under Islamic Law.
Mehmet hoped the Byzantines would refuse so he could smash their smug faces to the ground. He arranged his army in three great units: to the north, on his left flank, were the Rumelian units under the command of a certain Karadja Pasha, the military governor of all European parts of Ottoman lands, and the man who had commanded the units that had ravaged their way to the city.
To the south he had his Anatolian troops arranged under their commander Ishak, while he himself was positioned with his Janissaries along the Lycus Valley section together with Urban’s biggest guns. Grouped behind them all were the irregulars, the bashi-bazouks, kept out of the way until it was time to use this cannon-fodder. Mehmet cared not for these troops except that they would use up valuable ammunition and strength of the defenders.
His most valuable supporter Zaganos was in charge of units stationed on the other side of the Golden Horn, around the walls of the Genoese colony of Galata. Threats had been sent to this colony already, stating they had better stay neutral or their walls would be demolished, their women sent to the harems and their men sold in the slave markets of Edirne, Iznik and Bursa. Galata remained neutral.
The Sultan, escorted by Hasan and Halil, slowly approached the walls where at least a thousand soldiers stood on top, attired in their Venetian and Genoese uniforms. “So, the Greeks want to show me they have allies, do they?” he mused. “So be it. Their blood shall flow together on the streets of the city.”
Wheeling sharply he strode purposefully to Urban, standing by the biggest of his guns. It had been transported in two parts which had been screwed together that morning. A huge cannon ball had been loaded into the muzzle and now all stood ready to fire the monster.
“So Urban,” the Sultan boomed, “are you ready to fire the first shot against your fellow Christians?”
Urban smiled at the challenge in his paymaster’s voice. “They are Eastern Orthodox,” the Hungarian replied. “I follow Rome’s teachings. I have no love for their heretical ways.”
“But love for money, hey?” Mehmet laughed. His troops joined him in response. The Sultan raised an open palm for silence. “Then give me my money’s worth, gunner.”
Urban bowed and indicated to his chief gunner to light the fuse. The Sultan covered his ears and there came a bright flash, a deafening crash and the ball was sent flying through the air to smash into the outer wall, sending masonry flying in all directions. A deep cheer broke out from the soldiers, then Mehmet waved at the other gunners to start shooting.
The explosion of the first shot brought Constantine running from his position in one of the towers in the inner wall. “What was that?” he demanded of his local commander, John Dalmata.
The dark bearded Dalmata turned to face his Emperor with wild eyes. “They have a great cannon, my Lord. It has blown a huge hole in the wall and killed some men.” Further words were drowned as the crashes of further shots and hits were made on the wall. Constantine peered over the lip of the tower and saw a pile of stones lying in front of the wall along with three bodies. The size of the hole sent a chill through his body. He turned to a messenger. “Go get Giustianini and Grant. I need their advice now.”
“My Lord,” the messenger turned and scrambled down the stone stairs.
Dalmata vanished to assess the damage at first hand while the two Varangian Guards assigned to the Emperor’s person came a little closer, so as to protect the imperial body from any flying masonry.
A half mile to the north Casca looked up from a list of supplies as the sound came to him. “Cannon. It’s started.” He led a rush for the outside and all craned their necks over the ramparts, peering south to where smoke was billowing up from the walls in the Lycus Valley. Because of their elevation they could not see the wall under attack, but the Turkish cannon on the far side of the Valley were in plain view.
“Look at the size of that fucker,” Martin gasped, pointing at the huge gun still issuing a lazy spiral of smoke from its muzzle. Even from this distance it was clear the Turks had a gun of remarkable size.
