Constantinople: The Last Great Siege, 1453 (34 page)

The word was spread throughout the camp that an attack was to be prepared within the next few days. Mehmet knew that he needed to seize the moment to raise the faltering morale of his troops in readiness for the final assault – and to dumbfound the enemy. As night fell on 26 May heralds walked among the tents crying out the sultan’s orders. In front of each tent torches and fires were to be lit. ‘And all the tents in the camp lit two fires, and the fires were so big, that from their great light it seemed to be day time.’ From the battlements the defenders gazed out in wonder and confusion as the ring of fire gradually spread in a widening circle to embrace the whole horizon – from the camp in front of them to the hills around Galata and across the water to the Asian shore. It was so bright that tents could be counted individually. ‘This strange spectacle was indeed incredible,’ recorded Doukas. ‘The surface of the sea flashed like lightning.’ ‘It seemed that
the sea and land were on fire,’ Tetaldi remembered. Accompanying the brilliant illumination of the night sky, came the slowly rising crescendo of drums and cymbals and the repeated accelerating shouts of the faithful, ‘
Illala, Illala, Mahomet Russolalla
’ – ‘God is, and will always be, and Muhammad is his servant’ – so loudly that it seemed ‘the sky itself would burst open’. Within the Ottoman camp there were extraordinary scenes of enthusiasm and joy at the full-hearted commitment to a final attack. Initially some on the walls optimistically mistook the illuminations for a fire rampaging through the enemy tents. They scrambled up to watch the spectacle – then understood the true significance of the glittering horizon, the wild shouting. The ring of fire had its desired effect within the city, draining the defenders of courage to the extent that ‘they appeared to be half-dead, unable to breathe either in or out’. Amazement at the display of religious fervour gave way to panic. Fervent pleas were addressed to the Virgin and repeated prayers for deliverance: ‘Spare us, O Lord.’ If they needed any confirmation of what the shouting and the flames meant, it soon came. Under cover of darkness, Christian conscripts in the sultan’s army shot stealthy arrows over the battlements with letters attached that outlined the coming attack.

By the light of the fires ominous preparations were underway. The landscape was alive with figures advancing brushwood and other materials ready to fill up the ditch. The guns had been directing a withering bombardment at Giustiniani’s stockade in the Lycus valley all that day. It was probably the day of the great fog, when the nerves of the defenders were already shredded by the terrible omens. There was a non-stop hail of stone shot. Gaping holes started to appear in the defences. ‘I cannot describe all that the cannon did to the wall on this day,’ reported Barbaro. ‘We had great suffering and great fear.’ Night fell and the exhausted defenders under the direction of Giustiniani prepared yet again to plug the gaps, but in the brilliant light of the flames, the walls were clearly illuminated and the firing continued far into the night. And then, with a startling suddenness, towards midnight the fires were extinguished, the cries of exaltation suddenly died, the bombardment stopped and an unnerving silence fell upon the May night that appalled the watchers on the ramparts as much as the wild celebrations. Giustiniani and the citizens laboured on through what was left of the short period of darkness to make good the rampart.

At about this time the gradual destruction of the wall forced the defenders to make one other small alteration to their defensive arrangements. They had been in the habit of undertaking surprise sallies from the gates in the outer fortifications to disrupt the activities of the enemy. As the wall was destroyed and was replaced with the stockade, it became harder to make inconspicuous raids from their own lines. Some old men knew of a blocked-up sally port concealed below the royal palace at the point where the sharp angle was created by the meeting of the Theodosian wall with the more irregular wall of Komnenos. This ancient doorway was known variously as the Circus Gate or the Wooden Gate, and was so named because it had once led to a wooden circus outside the city. The small doorway was screened by solid walls but would allow men to sally out and disrupt the enemy within the terrace outside. Constantine gave orders for the door to be unblocked so that disruptive raiding could continue. It seemed that no one remembered another ancient prophecy. At the time of the first Arab siege of 669, a strange prophetic book had appeared, the so-called Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius. Among its many predictions were these lines: ‘Misfortune to you Byzantium, because Ismail [Arabia] will take you. And each horse of Ismail will cross over, and the first among them will set up his tent in front of you, Byzantium, and will begin the battle and break the gate of the Wooden Circus and enter as far as the Ox.’ 

There is a fable about Mehmet’s methods of conquest told by the Serbian chronicler, Michael the Janissary. In it, the sultan summoned his nobles and ordered ‘a great rug to be brought and to be spread before them, and in the centre he had an apple placed, and he gave them the following riddle, saying: “Can any of you take up that apple without stepping on the rug?” And they reckoned among themselves, thinking about how that could be, and none of them could get the trick until (Mehmet) himself, having stepped up to the rug took the rug in both hands and rolled it before him, proceeding behind it; and so he got the apple and put the rug back down as it had been before.’

Mehmet now held the moment right for taking the apple. It was obvious to both sides that the final struggle was under way. The sultan hoped that, like a section of wall tottering under the weight of cannon fire, one last massive assault would collapse all resistance at a stroke. Constantine understood from spies, and possibly from Halil himself, that if they could survive this attack, the siege must be lifted and the church bells could ring for joy. Both commanders gathered for a supreme effort.

Mehmet propelled himself into a frenzy of activity. In these final days he seems to have been continuously in motion, on horseback among the men, holding audience in the red and gold tent, raising morale, giving orders, promising rewards, threatening punishments, personally supervising the final preparations – above all being seen. The physical presence of the Padishah was held to be an essential inspiration in steadying the morale of the men as they prepared to fight and die. Mehmet knew this was his moment of destiny. Dreams of glory were within his grasp; the alternative was unthinkable failure. He was determined personally to ensure that nothing should be left to chance.

On the Sunday morning, 27 May, he ordered the guns to open up again. It was probably the heaviest bombardment of the whole siege. All day the great cannon hammered away at the central section of the wall, with the express aim of opening up substantial breaches for a full-scale assault and preventing effective repairs. It seems that massive granite balls struck the wall three times before bringing down a large section. By daylight, under this withering volley of fire, it was impossible to carry out running repairs, but no attempt was made to attack. All day, according to Barbaro, ‘they did nothing apart from bombard the poor walls and brought a lot of them crashing to the ground, and left half of them badly damaged’. The gaps were getting larger and Mehmet ensured that it was increasingly difficult to plug them. He wanted to make certain the defenders should have no rest in the days before the final rush.

During the day Mehmet called a meeting of the officer corps outside his tent. The complete command structure assembled to hear their sultan’s words: ‘the provincial governors and generals and cavalry officers and corps commanders and captains of the rank and file, as well as commanders of a thousand, a hundred or fifty men, and the cavalry he kept around him and the captains of the ships and triremes and the admiral of the whole fleet’. Mehmet suspended in the air before his listeners the image of fabulous wealth which was now theirs for the taking: the hoards of gold in the palaces and houses, the votive offerings and relics in the churches, ‘fashioned out of gold and silver and precious stones and priceless pearls’, the nobles and beautiful women and boys available for ransom, marriage and slavery, the graceful buildings and gardens which would be theirs to live in and enjoy. He went on to stress not only the immortal honour that would follow
from capturing the most famous city on earth, but also the necessity of doing so. Constantinople remained a palpable threat to the security of the Ottoman Empire so long as it rested in Christian hands. Captured, it would be the stepping-stone to further conquests. He presented the task ahead as now being easy. The land wall was badly shattered, the moat filled in and the defenders few and demoralized. He was at particular pains to play down the determination of the Italians, whose involvement in the siege was obviously something of a psychological problem for his audience. Almost certainly, although Kritovoulos, a Greek, does not mention it, Mehmet stressed the appeal to holy war – the long-held Islamic desire for Constantinople, the words of the Prophet and the attractions of martyrdom.