1453

The Holy War for Constantinople and the Clash of Islam and the
West

ROGER CROWLEY
 Dedication

For Jan with love, wounded at the sea wall in pursuit of the siege
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Maps

Prologue: The Red Apple

The Burning Sea
Dreaming of Istanbul
Sultan and Emperor
Cutting the Throat
The Dark Church
The Wall and the Gun
Numerous as the Stars
The Awful Resurrection Blast
A Wind from God
Spirals of Blood
Terrible Engines
Omens and Portents
“Remember the Date”
The Locked Gates
A Handful of Dust
The Present Terror of the World

Epilogue: Resting Places

About the Sources
Bibliography
Index
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Source Notes
Praise for 1453
Other Works
Copyright
Maps
Constantinople is a city larger than its renown proclaims. May God in his
grace and generosity deign to make it the capital of Islam.
Hasan Ali Al-Harawi, twelfth-century Arab writer

I shall tell the story of the tremendous perils … of Constantinople, which I

observed at close quarters with my own eyes.
Leonard of Chios
 Prologue: The Red Apple

A red apple invites stones.

Turkish proverb

Early spring. A black kite swings on the Istanbul wind. It turns lazy circles
round the Suleymaniye mosque as if tethered to the minarets. From here it
can survey a city of fifteen million people, watching the passing of days and
centuries through imperturbable eyes.
When some ancestor of this bird circled Constantinople on a cold day in
March 1453, the layout of the city would have been familiar, though far less
cluttered. The site is remarkable, a rough triangle upturned slightly at its
eastern point like an aggressive rhino’s horn and protected on two sides by
sea. To the north lies the sheltered deep-water inlet of the Golden Horn; the
south side is flanked by the Sea of Marmara that swells westward into the
Mediterranean through the bottleneck of the Dardanelles. From the air one
can pick out the steady, unbroken line of fortifications that guard these two
seaward sides of the triangle and see how the sea currents rip past the tip of
the rhino horn at seven knots: the city’s defenses are natural as well as man-
made.
 But it is the base of the triangle that is most extraordinary. A complex,
triple collar of walls, studded with closely spaced towers and flanked by a
formidable ditch, it stretches from the Horn to the Marmara and seals the
city from attack. This is the thousand-year-old land wall of Theodosius, the
most formidable defense in the medieval world. To the Ottoman Turks of
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries it was “a bone in the throat of Allah”
– a psychological problem that taunted their ambitions and cramped their
dreams of conquest. To Western Christendom it was the bulwark against
Islam. It kept them secure from the Muslim world and made them
complacent.

Dolphin emblem from Constantinople

An imaginative view of the city in the fifteenth century. Galata is on the far right.

Looking down on the scene in the spring of 1453 one would also be
able to make out the fortified Genoese town of Galata, a tiny Italian city
state on the far side of the Horn, and to see exactly where Europe ends. The
Bosphorus divides the continents, cutting like a river through low wooded
hills to the Black Sea. On the other side lies Asia Minor, Anatolia – in
Greek literally the East. The snowcapped peaks of Mount Olympus glitter
in the thin light 60 miles away.
Looking back into Europe, the terrain stretches out in gentler,
undulating folds toward the Ottoman city of Edirne, 140 miles west. And it
is in this landscape that the all-seeing eye would pick out something
significant. Down the rough tracks that link the two cities, huge columns of
men are marching; white caps and red turbans advance in clustered masses;
bows, javelins, matchlocks, and shields catch the low sun; squadrons of
outriding cavalry kick up the mud as they pass; chain mail ripples and
chinks. Behind come the lengthy baggage trains of mules, horses, and
camels with all the paraphernalia of warfare and the personnel who supply
it – miners, cooks, gunsmiths, mullahs, carpenters, and booty hunters. And
farther back something else still. Huge teams of oxen and hundreds of men
are hauling guns with immense difficulty over the soft ground. The whole
Ottoman army is on the move.
The wider the gaze, the more details of this operation unfold. Like the
backdrop of a medieval painting, a fleet of oared ships can be seen moving
with laborious sloth against the wind, from the direction of the Dardanelles.
High-sided transports are setting sail from the Black Sea with cargoes of
wood, grain, and cannonballs. From Anatolia, bands of shepherds, holy
men, camp followers, and vagabonds are slipping down to the Bosphorus
out of the plateau, obeying the Ottoman call to arms. This ragged pattern of
men and equipment constitutes the coordinated movement of an army with
a single objective: Constantinople, capital of what little remains in 1453 of
the ancient empire of Byzantium.

The medieval peoples about to engage in this struggle were intensely

superstitious. They believed in prophecy and looked for omens. Within
Constantinople, the ancient monuments and statues were sources of magic.
People saw there the future of the world encrypted in the narratives on
Roman columns whose original stories had been lost. They read signs in the
weather and found the spring of 1453 unsettling. It was unusually wet and
cold. Banks of fog hung thickly over the Bosphorus in March. There were
earth tremors and unseasonal snow. Within a city taut with expectation it
was an ill omen, perhaps even a portent of the world’s end.
The approaching Ottomans also had their superstitions. The object of
their offensive was known quite simply as the Red Apple, a symbol of
world power. Its capture represented an ardent Islamic desire that stretched
back 800 years, almost to the Prophet himself, and it was hedged about with
legend, predictions, and apocryphal sayings. In the imagination of the
advancing army, the apple had a specific location within the city. Outside
the mother church of St. Sophia on a column 100 feet high stood a huge
equestrian statue of the Emperor Justinian in bronze, a monument to the
might of the early Byzantine Empire and a symbol of its role as a Christian
bulwark against the East. According to the sixth-century writer Procopius, it
was astonishing.
The horse faces East and is a noble sight. On this horse is a huge statue of the Emperor, dressed like
Achilles … his breastplate is in the heroic style; while the helmet covering his head seems to move
up and down and it gleams dazzlingly. He looks towards the rising sun, riding, it seems to me
towards the Persians. In his left hand he carries a globe, the sculptor signifying by this that all earth
and sea are subject to him, though he has neither sword nor spear nor other weapon, except that on
the globe stands the cross through which alone he has achieved his kingdom and his mastery of war.

The statue of Justinian

It was in the globe of Justinian surmounted by a cross that the Turks had
precisely located the Red Apple, and it was this they were coming for: the
reputation of the fabulously old Christian empire and the possibility of
world power that it seemed to contain.
Fear of siege was etched deep in the memory of the Byzantines. It was
the bogeyman that haunted their libraries, their marble chambers, and their
mosaic churches, but they knew it too well to be surprised. In the 1,123
years up to the spring of 1453 the city had been besieged some twenty-three
times. It had fallen just once – not to the Arabs or the Bulgars but to the
Christian knights of the Fourth Crusade in one of the most bizarre episodes
in Christian history. The land walls had never been breached, though they
had been flattened by an earthquake in the fifth century. Otherwise they had
held firm, so that when the army of Sultan Mehmet finally reined up outside
the city on April 6, 1453, the defenders had reasonable hopes of survival.
What led up to this moment and what happened next is the subject of
this book. It is a tale of human courage and cruelty, of technical ingenuity,
luck, cowardice, prejudice, and mystery. It also touches on many other
aspects of a world on the cusp of change: the development of guns, the art
of siege warfare, naval tactics, the religious beliefs, myths, and superstitions
of medieval people. But above all it is the story of a place – of sea currents,
hills, peninsulas, and weather – the way the land rises and falls and how the
straits divide two continents so narrowly “they almost kiss,” where the city
is strong, defended by rocky shores, and the particular features of geology
that render it vulnerable to attack. It was the possibilities of this site – what
it offered for trade, defense, and food – that made Constantinople the key to
imperial destinies and brought so many armies to its gate. “The seat of the
Roman Empire is Constantinople,” wrote George Trapezuntios, “and he
who is and remains Emperor of the Romans is also the Emperor of the
whole earth.”

Modern nationalists have interpreted the siege of Constantinople as a

struggle between the Greek and Turkish peoples, but such simplifications
are misleading. Neither side would have readily accepted or even
understood these labels, though each used them of the other. The Ottomans,
literally the tribe of Osman, called themselves just that, or simply Muslims.
“Turk” was a largely pejorative term applied by the nation states of the
West, the name “Turkey” unknown to them until borrowed from Europe to
create the new Republic in 1923. The Ottoman Empire in 1453 was already
a multicultural creation that sucked in the peoples it conquered with little
concern for ethnic identity. Its crack troops were Slavs, its leading general
Greek, its admiral Bulgarian, its sultan probably half Serbian or
Macedonian. Furthermore under the complex code of medieval vassalage,
thousands of Christian troops accompanied him down the road from Edirne.
They had come to conquer the Greek-speaking inhabitants of
Constantinople, whom we now call the Byzantines, a word first used in
English in 1853, exactly four hundred years after the great siege. They were
considered to be heirs to the Roman Empire and referred to themselves
accordingly as Romans. In turn they were commanded by an emperor who
was half Serbian and a quarter Italian, and much of the defense was
undertaken by people from Western Europe whom the Byzantines called
“Franks”: Venetians, Genoese, and Catalans, aided by some ethnic Turks,
Cretans – and one Scotsman. If it is difficult to fix simple identities or
loyalties to the participants at the siege, there was one dimension of the
struggle that all the contemporary chroniclers never forgot – that of faith.
The Muslims referred to their adversary as “the despicable infidels,” “the
wretched unbelievers,” “the enemies of the Faith”; in response they were
called “pagans,” “heathen infidels,” “the faithless Turks.” Constantinople
was the front line in a long-distance struggle between Islam and Christianity
for the true faith. It was a place where different versions of the truth had
confronted each other in war and truce for 800 years, and it was here in the
spring of 1453 that new and lasting attitudes between the two great
monotheisms were to be cemented in one intense moment of history.
 1 The Burning Sea 629–717
O Christ, ruler and master of the world, to You now I dedicate this subject city, and these sceptres and
the might of Rome.
Inscription on the column of Constantine the Great in Constantinople

Islam’s desire for the city is almost as old as Islam itself. The origin of the
holy war for Constantinople starts with the Prophet himself in an incident
whose literal truth, like so much of the city’s history, cannot be verified.
In the year 629, Heraclius, “Autocrat of the Romans” and twenty-eighth
emperor of Byzantium, was making a pilgrimage on foot to Jerusalem. It
was the crowning moment of his life. He had shattered the Persians in a
series of remarkable victories and wrested back Christendom’s most sacred
relic, the True Cross, which he was triumphantly restoring to the Church of
the Holy Sepulchre. According to Islamic tradition, when he had reached
the city he received a letter. It said simply: “In the name of Allah the most
Beneficent, the most Merciful: this letter is from Muhammad, the slave of
Allah, and His Apostle, to Heraclius, the ruler of Byzantines. Peace be upon
the followers of guidance. I invite you to surrender to Allah. Embrace Islam
and Allah will bestow on you a double reward. But if you reject this
invitation you will be misguiding your people.” Heraclius had no idea who
the writer of this letter might have been, but he is reported to have made
inquiries and to have treated its contents with some respect. A similar letter
sent to the “King of Kings” in Persia was torn up. Muhammad’s reply to
this news was blunt: “Tell him that my religion and my sovereignty will
reach limits which the kingdom of Chosroes never attained.” For Chosroes
it was too late – he had been slowly shot to death with arrows the year
before – but the apocryphal letter foreshadowed an extraordinary blow
about to fall on Christian Byzantium and its capital, Constantinople, that
would undo all the emperor ever achieved.

An emperor at the Hippodrome

Heraclius rides in triumph with the true cross

In the previous ten years Muhammad had succeeded in unifying the

feuding tribes of the Arabian Peninsula around the simple message of
Islam. Motivated by the word of God and disciplined by communal prayer,
bands of nomadic raiders were transformed into an organized fighting force,
whose hunger was now projected outward beyond the desert’s rim into a
world sharply divided by faith into two distinct zones. On the one side lay
the Dar al-Islam, the House of Islam; on the other, the realms still to be
converted, the Dar al-Harb, the House of War. By the 630s Muslim armies
started to appear on the margins of the Byzantine frontier, where the settled
land gave way to desert, like ghosts out of a sandstorm. The Arabs were
agile, resourceful, and hardy. They totally surprised the lumbering
mercenary armies in Syria. They attacked, then retreated into the desert,
lured their opponents out of their strongholds into the barren wilderness,
surrounded and massacred them. They traversed the harsh empty quarters,
killing their camels as they went and drinking the water from their stomachs
– to emerge again unexpectedly behind their enemy. They besieged cities
and learned how to take them. Damascus fell, then Jerusalem itself; Egypt
surrendered in 641, Armenia in 653; within twenty years the Persian
Empire had collapsed and converted to Islam. The velocity of conquest was
staggering, the ability to adapt extraordinary. Driven by the word of God
and divine conquest, the people of the desert constructed navies “to wage
the holy war by sea” in the dockyards of Egypt and Palestine with the help
of native Christians and took Cyprus in 648, then defeated a Byzantine fleet
at the Battle of the Masts in 655. Finally in 669, within forty years of
Muhammad’s death, the Caliph Muawiyyah dispatched a huge amphibious
force to strike a knockout blow at Constantinople itself. On the following
wind of victory, he had every anticipation of success.
To Muawiyyah it was to be the culmination of an ambitious long-term
plan, conceived and executed with great care and thoroughness. In 669
Arab armies occupied the Asian shore opposite the city. The following year
a fleet of 400 ships sailed through the Dardanelles and secured a base on the
peninsula of Cyzicus on the south side of the Sea of Marmara. Supplies
were stockpiled, dry dock and maintenance facilities created to support a
campaign that would last as long as was necessary. Crossing the straits west
of the city, Muslims set foot on the shores of Europe for the first time. Here
they seized a harbor from which to conduct the siege and mounted large-
scale raids around the hinterland of the city. Within Constantinople itself,
the defenders sheltered behind their massive walls, while their fleet, docked
in the Golden Horn, prepared to launch counterattacks against the enemy.
For five successive years between 674 and 678 the Arabs conducted the
campaign on a steady pattern. Between spring and autumn each year they
besieged the walls and mounted naval operations in the straits that involved
running battles with the Byzantine fleet. Both sides fought with the same
types of oared galleys and largely with the same crews, as the Muslims had
access to the seafaring skills of Christians from the conquered Levant. In
winter the Arabs regrouped at their base at Cyzicus, repaired their ships,
and prepared to tighten the screw the following year. They were in the siege
for the long haul, secure in the belief that victory was inevitable.
 And then in 678 the Byzantine fleet made a decisive move. They
launched an attack on the Muslim fleet, probably in their base at Cyzicus at
the end of the campaigning season – the details are either unclear or were
deliberately suppressed – spearheaded by a squadron of fast dromons: light,
swift-sailing, many-oared galleys. There are no contemporary versions of
what happened next, though the details can be deduced from later accounts.
As the attack ships closed on their opponents, they unleashed, behind the
conventional volley of winged missiles, an extraordinary stream of liquid
fire from nozzles mounted high on their prows. Jets of fire burned the
surface of the sea between the closing vessels, then caught hold of the
enemy ships, falling “like a flash of lightning on the faces in front of it.”
The explosion of flame was accompanied by a noise like thunder; smoke
darkened the sky, and steam and gas suffocated the terrified sailors on the
Arab ships. The firestorm seemed to defy the laws of nature: it could be
directed sideways or downward in whatever direction the operator wished;
where it touched the surface of the sea, the water ignited. It seemed to have
adhesive properties too, sticking to the wooden hulls and masts and proving
impossible to extinguish, so that the ships and their crews were rapidly
engulfed in a propulsive torrent of fire that seemed like the blast of an angry
god. This extraordinary inferno “burned the ships of the Arabs and their
crews alive.” The fleet was destroyed, and the traumatized survivors,
“having lost many fighting men and received great injury,” lifted the siege
and sailed home. A winter storm wrecked most of the surviving ships while
the Arab army was ambushed and destroyed on the Asian shore.
Discouraged, Muawiyyah accepted a thirty-year truce on unfavorable terms
in 679 and died, a broken man, the following year. For the first time the
Muslim cause had received a major setback.
The chroniclers presented the episode as clear evidence that “the Roman
Empire was guarded by God,” but it had, in truth, been saved by a new
technology: the development of Greek fire. The story of this extraordinary
weapon remains the subject of intense speculation even now – the formula
was regarded as a Byzantine state secret. It seems that at about the time of
the siege, a Greek fugitive called Kallinikos came to Constantinople from
Syria, bringing with him a technique for projecting liquid fire through
siphons. If so, it is likely that he built on techniques of incendiary warfare
widely known throughout the Middle East. The core ingredient of the
mixture was almost certainly crude oil from natural surface wells on the
Black Sea, mixed with powdered wood resin that gave it adhesive
properties. What was probably perfected in the secret military arsenals of
the city over the length of the siege was a technology for projecting this
material. The Byzantines, who were heirs to the practical engineering skills
of the Roman Empire, seem to have developed a technique for heating the
mixture in sealed bronze containers, pressurizing it by means of a hand
pump, then emitting it through a nozzle, where the liquid could be ignited
by a flame. To handle inflammable material, pressure, and fire on a wooden
boat required precision manufacturing techniques and highly skilled men,
and it was this that comprised the true secret of Greek fire and destroyed
Arab morale in 678.
For forty years the setback at Constantinople rankled with the Umayyad
caliphs in Damascus. It remained inconceivable within Islamic theology
that the whole of humankind would not, in time, either accept Islam or
submit to Muslim rule. In 717 a second and even more determined attempt
was made to overcome the obstacle that hindered the spread of the Faith
into Europe. The Arab attack came at a time of turmoil within the empire. A
new emperor, Leo II, had been crowned on March 25, 717; five months
later he found an army of 80,000 men dug in the length of the land walls
and a fleet of 1,800 ships controlling the straits. The Arabs had advanced
their strategy from the previous siege. It was quickly realized by the
Muslim general Maslama that the walls of the city were invulnerable to
siege machines; this time there was to be a total blockade. The seriousness
of his intentions was underlined by the fact that his army brought wheat
seed with them. In the autumn of 717 they plowed the ground and planted a
food supply outside the walls for harvesting the following spring. Then they
settled down to wait. A foray by the Greek fire ships had some success but
failed to break the stranglehold. Everything had been carefully planned to
crush the infidels.
What actually ensued for the Arabs was an unimaginable catastrophe
that unfolded in inexorable stages. According to their own chroniclers, Leo
managed to deceive his enemies by an extraordinary diplomatic double-
cross that was impressive even by the standards of the Byzantines. He
persuaded Maslama that he could get the city to surrender if the Arabs both
destroyed their own food stores and gave the defenders some grain. Once
done, Leo sat tight behind the walls and refused to parley. The tricked army
was then subjected to a winter of freak severity for which they were ill
prepared. Snow lay on the ground for a hundred days; the camels and
horses started to perish in the cold. As they died, the increasingly desperate
soldiers had no option but to eat them. The Greek chroniclers, not known
for their objectivity, hinted at darker horrors. “It is said,” wrote Theophanes
the Confessor a hundred years later, “that they even cooked in ovens and ate
dead men and their dung which they leavened.” Famine was followed by
disease; thousands died in the cold. The Arabs had no experience of the
surprising severity of winters on the Bosphorus: the ground was too hard to
bury the dead; hundreds of corpses had to be thrown into the sea.
The following spring a large Arab fleet arrived with food and equipment
to relieve the stricken army but failed to reverse the downward spiral of
fortune. Warned of the dangers of Greek fire, they hid their ships on the
Asian coast after they had unloaded. Unfortunately some of the crews, who
were Egyptian Christians, defected to the emperor and revealed the position
of the fleet. An imperial force of fire ships fell on the unprepared Arab
vessels and destroyed them. A parallel relief army dispatched from Syria
was ambushed and cut to pieces by Byzantine infantry. Meanwhile Leo,
whose determination and cunning seem to have been indefatigable, had
been negotiating with the pagan Bulgars. He persuaded them to attack the
infidels outside the walls; 22,000 Arabs were killed in the ensuing battle.
On August 15, 718, almost a year to the day from their arrival, the armies of
the caliph lifted the siege and straggled home by land and sea. While the
retreating soldiers were harassed across the Anatolian plateau, there was
one further calamity in store for the Muslim cause. Some ships were
destroyed by storms in the Sea of Marmara; the rest were overwhelmed by
an underwater volcanic eruption in the Aegean that “brought the sea water
to a boil, and as the pitch of their keels dissolved, their ships sank in the
deep, crews and all.” Of the vast fleet that had set sail, only five ships made
it back to Syria “to announce God’s mighty deeds.” Byzantium had buckled
but not collapsed under the onslaught of Islam. Constantinople had survived
through a mixture of technological innovation, skillful diplomacy,
individual brilliance, massive fortifications – and sheer luck: themes that
were to be endlessly repeated in the centuries ahead. Not surprisingly under
the circumstances, the Byzantines had their own explanation: “God and the
all-holy Virgin, the Mother of God, protect the City and the Christian
Empire, and … those who call upon God in truth are not entirely forsaken,
even if we are chastised for a short time on account of our sins.”
The failure of Islam to take the city in 717 had far-reaching
consequences. The collapse of Constantinople would have opened the way
for a Muslim expansion into Europe that might have reshaped the whole
future of the West; it remains one of the great “What ifs” of history. It
blunted the first powerful onslaught of Islamic jihad that reached its high
watermark fifteen years later at the other end of the Mediterranean when a
Muslim force was defeated on the banks of the Loire, a mere 150 miles
south of Paris.
For Islam itself the significance of resounding defeat at Constantinople
was rather more theological than military. In the first century of its
existence there had been little reason to doubt final victory for the Faith.
The law of jihad dictated inevitable conquest. But under the walls of
Constantinople, Islam had been repulsed by the mirror image of its own
faith; Christianity was a rival monotheism with a matching sense of mission
and desire to win converts. Constantinople had defined the front line in a
long-running struggle between two closely related versions of the truth that
was to be pursued for hundreds of years. In the interim, Muslim thinkers
were forced to recognize a practical change in the relationship between the
House of Islam and the House of War; the final conquest of the non-Muslim
world would have to be postponed, perhaps until the end of the world.
Some jurists conceived of a third state, the House of Truce, to express
postponement of final victory. The age of jihad seemed to be over.
Byzantium had proved the most obdurate of enemies, and
Constantinople itself remained for Muslims both a scar and a source of deep
longing. Many martyrs had perished at its walls, including the Prophet’s
standard-bearer Ayyub in 669. Their deaths designated the city as a holy
place for Islam and imparted a messianic significance to the project of its
capture. The sieges left a rich legacy of myth and folklore that was handed
down the centuries. It included among the Hadith, the body of sayings
attributed to Muhammad, prophecies that foretold a cycle of defeat, death,
and final victory for the warriors of the Faith: “In the jihad against
Constantinople, one third of Muslims will allow themselves to be defeated,
which Allah cannot forgive; one third will be killed in battle, making them
wondrous martyrs; and one third will be victorious.” It was to be a long-
range struggle. So huge was the architecture of the conflict between Islam
and Byzantium that no Muslim banners would be unfurled again before the
city walls for another 650 years – a span of time greater than that separating
us from 1453 – but prophecy decreed that they would return.

Constantinople, constructed on the site of a settlement raised by the

legendary Greek Byzas a thousand years earlier, had already been a
Christian city for 400 years when Maslama’s forces straggled home. The
place chosen by the Emperor Constantine for his new Christian capital in
AD 324 possessed the formidable natural advantages of its site. Once the
land walls had been built in the fifth century, the city was virtually
impregnable to attack as long as siege equipment was limited to the power
of catapults. Within the twelve miles of perimeter wall, Constantinople rose
on a series of steep hills that afforded natural vantage points over the
surrounding sea, while on the east side the inlet of the Golden Horn, shaped
like a curved antler, provided a safe deep-water harbor. The only drawback
was the barrenness of the promontory, a problem that Roman water
engineering would solve with an elaborate series of aqueducts and cisterns.
The site was uniquely positioned at the crossroads of trade routes and
military corridors; the history of its earlier settlement echoes with the sound
of marching feet and splashing oars – Jason and the Argonauts sailed past to
seek fleeces from gold-panners at the mouth of the Dneiper; the Persian
king Darius marched 700,000 men across on a bridge of boats to fight the
Scythians; the Roman poet Ovid looked up wistfully at “the place that’s the
vast doorway of two seas” on his way to exile on the shores of the Black
Sea. At this crossroads the Christian city came to control the wealth of a
huge hinterland. To the east, the riches of Central Asia could be funneled
through the Bosphorus into the godowns of the imperial city: barbarian
gold, furs, and slaves from Russia; caviar from the Black Sea; wax and salt,
spices, ivory, amber, and pearls from the far Orient. To the south, routes led
overland to the cities of the Middle East: Damascus, Aleppo, and Baghdad;
and to the west, the sea lanes through the Dardanelles opened up the whole
of the Mediterranean: the routes to Egypt and the Nile delta, the rich islands
of Sicily and Crete, the Italian peninsula, and everything that lay beyond to
the Gates of Gibraltar. Nearer to hand lay the timber, limestone, and marble
to build a mighty city and all the resources to sustain it. The strange
currents of the Bosphorus brought a rich seasonal harvest of fish, while the
fields of European Thrace and the fertile lowlands of the Anatolian plateau
provided olive oil, corn, and wine in rich abundance.
The prosperous city that arose in this place was an expression of
imperial splendor, ruled by a Roman emperor and inhabited by Greek-
speaking people. Constantine laid out a grid of colonnaded streets, flanked
by porticoed public buildings, great squares, gardens, columns, and
triumphal arches that were both pagan and Christian. There were statues
and monuments looted from the classical world (including the fabulous
bronze horses perhaps made for Alexander the Great by the Greek sculptor
Lysippos, now the icon of Venice), a hippodrome to rival that of Rome,
imperial palaces and churches “more numerous than days of the year.”
Constantinople became a city of marble and porphyry, beaten gold and
brilliant mosaics, whose population at its height topped 500,000. It
astounded the visitors who came to trade or pay homage to the emperors of
the eastern Roman Empire. Barbarians from benighted Europe gazed open-
mouthed at “the city of the world’s desire.” The reaction of Fulcher of
Chartres who came in the eleventh century is typical of many that ring
across the ages: “O what a splendid city, how stately, how fair, how many
monasteries therein, how many palaces raised by sheer labour in its
broadways and streets, how many works of art, marvellous to behold: it
would be wearisome to tell of the abundance of all good things; of gold and
silver, garments of manifold fashion and such sacred relics. Ships are at all
times putting in at this port, so that there is nothing that men want that is not
brought hither.”
Byzantium was not only the last heir to the Roman Empire, it was also
the first Christian nation. From its founding, the capital city was conceived
as the replica of heaven, a manifestation of the triumph of Christ, and its
emperor was considered God’s vice-regent on earth. Christian worship was
evident everywhere: in the raised domes of the churches, the tolling of bells
and wooden gongs, the monasteries, the huge number of monks and nuns,
the endless parade of icons around the streets and walls, the ceaseless round
of prayer and Christian ceremony within which the devout citizens and their
emperor lived. Fasts, feast days, and all-night vigils provided the calendar,
the clock, and the framework of life. The city became the storehouse of the
relics of Christendom, collected from the Holy Land and eyed with envy by
Christians in the West. Here they had the head of John the Baptist, the
crown of thorns, the nails from the cross, and the stone from the tomb, the
relics of the apostles, and a thousand other miracle-working artifacts
encased in reliquaries of gold and studded with gems. Orthodox religion
worked powerfully on the emotions of the people through the intense colors
of its mosaics and icons, the mysterious beauty of its liturgy rising and
falling in the darkness of lamplit churches, the incense and the elaborate
ceremonial that enveloped church and emperor alike in a labyrinth of
gorgeous ritual designed to ravish the senses with its metaphors of the
heavenly sphere. A Russian visitor who witnessed an imperial coronation in
1391 was astonished by the slow-motion sumptuousness of the event:
during this time, the cantors intoned a most beautiful and astonishing chant, surpassing
understanding. The imperial cortege advanced so slowly that it took three hours from the great door
to the platform bearing the throne. Twelve men-at-arms, covered with mail from head to foot,
surrounded the Emperor. Before him marched two standard-bearers with black hair: the poles of their
standards, their costume, and their headdress were red. Before these standard-bearers went heralds:
their rods were plated with silver … Ascending the platform, the Emperor put on the imperial purple
and the imperial diadem and the crenated crown … Then the holy liturgy began. Who can describe
the beauty of it all?

Anchored in the center of the city like a mighty ship was the great church of
St. Sophia, built by Justinian in only six years and dedicated in 537. It was
the most extraordinary building in late antiquity, a structure whose
immensity was matched only by its splendor. The huge levitated dome was
an incomprehensible miracle to eyewitnesses. “It seems,” said Procopius,
“not to rest upon solid masonry but to cover the space beneath as though
suspended from heaven.” It encased a volume of space so vast that those
seeing it for the first time were left literally speechless. The vaulting,
decorated with four acres of gold mosaic, was so brilliant, according to Paul
the Silentiary, that “the golden stream of rays pours down and strikes the
eyes of men, so that they can scarcely bear to look,” while its wealth of
colored marbles moved him to poetic trance. They looked as though they
were “powdered with stars … like milk splashed over a surface of shining
black … or like the sea or emerald stone, or again like blue cornflowers in
grass, with here and there a drift of snow.” It was the beauty of the liturgy in
St. Sophia that converted Russia to Orthodoxy after a fact-finding mission
from Kiev in the tenth century experienced the service and reported back:
“we knew not whether we were in Heaven or earth. For on earth there is no
such splendour and beauty, and we are at a loss how to describe it. We only
know that there God dwells among men.” The detailed gorgeousness of
Orthodoxy was the reversed image of the sparse purity of Islam. One
offered the abstract simplicity of the desert horizon, a portable worship that
could be performed anywhere as long as you could see the sun, a direct
contact with God, the other images, colors, and music, ravishing metaphors
of the divine mystery designed to lead the soul to heaven. Both were
equally intent on converting the world to their vision of God.

St. Sophia in cross-section

The Byzantines lived their spiritual life with an intensity hardly

matched in the history of Christendom. The stability of the empire was at
times threatened by the number of army officers who retired to monasteries,
and theological issues were debated on the streets with a passion that led to
riots. “The city is full of workmen and slaves who are all theologians,”
reported one irritated visitor. “If you ask a man to change money he will tell
you how the Son differs from the Father. If you ask the price of a loaf he
will argue that the Son is less than the Father. If you want to know if the
bath is ready you are told that the Son was made out of nothing.” Was
Christ one or many? Was the Holy Spirit descended just from the Father or
from the Father and the Son? Were icons idolatrous or holy? These were not
idle questions: salvation or damnation hung on the answers. Issues of
orthodoxy and heresy were as explosive as civil wars in the life of the
empire, and they undermined its unity just as effectively.
The world of Byzantine Christianity was also strangely fatalistic.
Everything was ordained by God, and misfortune on any scale, from the
loss of a purse to a major siege, was considered to be the result of personal
or collective sin. The emperor was appointed at God’s bidding, but if he
were overthrown in a palace coup – hacked to death by plotters or stabbed
in his bath or strangled or dragged along behind horses or just blinded and
sent into exile – (for imperial fortunes were notoriously unstable), this was
God’s will too and betokened some hidden sin. And because fortune was
foretold, the Byzantines were superstitiously obsessed with prophecy. It was
common for insecure emperors to open and read the Bible at random to get
clues to their fate; divination was a major preoccupation, often railed
against by the clergy, but too deeply ingrained to be expunged from the
Greek soul. It took some bizarre forms. An Arab visitor in the ninth century
witnessed a curious use of horses to report on the progress of a distant army
campaign: “they are introduced into the church where bridles have been
suspended. If the horse takes the bridle in its mouth, the people say: ‘we
have gained a victory in the land of Islam.’ [Sometimes] the horse
approaches, smells at the bridle, comes back and does not draw near any
more to the bridle.” In the latter case, the people presumably departed in
gloomy expectation of defeat.
 The perils of high office: the emperor Romanus Augustus Argyrus drowned in his bath, 1034

For long centuries the image of Byzantium and its capital city, brilliant
as the sun, exercised a gravitational pull on the world beyond its frontiers. It
projected a dazzling image of wealth and longevity. Its currency, the bezant,
surmounted by the head of its emperors, was the gold standard of the
Middle East. The prestige of the Roman Empire attached to its name; in the
Muslim world it was known simply as Rum, Rome, and like Rome it
attracted the desire and envy of the nomadic semibarbarous peoples beyond
its gates. From the Balkans and the plains of Hungary, from the Russian
forests and the Asian steppes, turbulent waves of tribal wanderers battered
at its defenses: the Huns and the Goths, the Slavs and the Gepids, the Tartar
Avars, the Turkic Bulgars, and the wild Pechenegs all wandered across the
Byzantine world.
The empire at its height ringed the Mediterranean from Italy to Tunis,
but expanded and contracted continuously under the pressure of these
neighbors like an enormous map forever curling at the edges. Year after
year imperial armies and fleets departed from the great harbors on the
Marmara shore, banners flying and trumpets sounding, to regain a province
or secure a frontier. Byzantium was an empire forever at war, and
Constantinople, because of its position at the crossroads, was repeatedly
pressured from both Europe and Asia. The Arabs were merely the most
determined in a long succession of armies camped along the land walls in
the first five hundred years of its existence. The Persians and the Avars
came in 626, the Bulgars repeatedly in the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries,
Prince Igor the Russian in 941. Siege was a state of mind for the Greek
people and their oldest myth: after the Bible, people knew Homer’s tale of
Troy. It made them both practical and superstitious. The maintenance of the
city walls was a constant civic duty; granaries were kept stocked and
cisterns filled, but psychic defenses were also held to be of supreme
importance by the Orthodox faithful. The Virgin was the protector of the
city; her icons were paraded along the walls at times of crisis and were
considered to have saved the city during the siege of 717. They provided a
confidence to equal the Koran.
None of the besieging armies that camped outside the land walls could
break down these physical and psychological defenses. The technology to
storm the fortifications, the naval resources to blockade the sea, and the
patience to starve the citizens were not available to any would-be
conqueror. The empire, though frequently stretched to breaking point,
showed remarkable resilience. The infrastructure of the city, the strength of
the empire’s institutions, and the lucky coincidence of outstanding leaders
at moments of crisis made the eastern Roman Empire seem to both its
citizens and its enemies likely to continue forever.
Yet the experience of the Arab sieges marked the city deeply. People
recognized in Islam an irreducible counterforce, something qualitatively
different from other foes; their own prophecies about the Saracens – as the
Arabs came to be known in Christendom – articulated their forebodings
about the future of the world. One writer declared them to be the Fourth
Beast of the Apocalypse that “will be the fourth kingdom on the earth, that
will be most disastrous of all kingdoms, that will transform the entire earth
into a desert.” And toward the end of the eleventh century, a second blow
fell upon Byzantium at the hands of Islam. It happened so suddenly that no
one at the time quite grasped its significance.
 2 Dreaming of Istanbul 1071–1422
I have seen that God caused the sun of empire to shine in the mansion of the Turks, and turned the
heavenly spheres around their dominion, and named them Turk, and gave them sovereignty, and
made them kings of the age, and placed the reins of the people of the time in their hands.
Al-Kashgari

It was the emergence of the Turks that reawakened the slumbering spirit of
jihad. They had first appeared on the Byzantine horizon as early as the sixth
century when they sent ambassadors to Constantinople to seek alliance
against the Persian Empire. To the Byzantines they were just one of an
endless succession of peoples beating a path to the great city; their
homeland was beyond the Black Sea and stretched as far as China. They
were pagan steppe dwellers of the rolling grasslands of Central Asia, from
whose epicenter shock waves of nomadic raiders poured out at periodic
intervals to ravage the settled peoples beyond. They have left us their word
ordu – “horde” – as a memory of this process, like a faint hoofprint in the
sand.
Byzantium suffered the repeated depredations of these Turkic nomads
long before it knew the name. The earliest Turks to impact on settled Greek
speakers were probably the Huns, who surged across the Christian world in
the fourth century; they were followed in turn by the Bulgars, each
successive wave inexplicable as a plague of locusts devastating the land.
The Byzantines attributed these visitations to God’s punishment for
Christian sin. Like their cousins the Mongols, the Turkic peoples lived in
the saddle between the great earth and the greater sky and they worshiped
both through the intermediary of shamans. Restless, mobile, and tribal, they
lived by herding flocks and raiding their neighbors. Booty was a raison
d’être, cities their enemy. Their use of the composite bow and the mobile
tactics of horse warfare gave them a military superiority over settled
peoples that the Arab historian Ibn Khaldun saw as the key process of
history. “Sedentary people have become used to laziness and ease,” he
wrote. “They find full assurance of safety in the walls that surround them,
and the fortifications that protect them. The Bedouins have no gates and
walls. They always carry weapons. They watch carefully all sides of the
road. They take hurried naps only … when they are in the saddle. They pay
attention to every faint barking and noise. Fortitude has become a character
quality of theirs, and courage their nature.” It was a theme that would soon
re-echo in both the Christian and the Islamic worlds.
The clash of Islam and Christianity: Muslims and crusaders

Repeated convulsions in the heart of Asia continued to propel these

Turkish tribes westward; by the ninth century they were in touch with the
Muslim populations of Iran and Iraq. The caliph of Baghdad recognized
their fighting qualities and recruited them into his armies as military slaves;
by the end of the tenth century Islam was firmly established among the
Turks on the frontier zone, yet they maintained their racial identity and
language and were soon to usurp power from their masters. By the middle
of the eleventh century a Turkish dynasty, the Seljuks, had emerged as
sultans in Baghdad, and by its end the Islamic world, from Central Asia to
Egypt, was largely ruled by Turks.
The speed of their rise in the Islamic world, far from being resented,
came to be widely held as a providential miracle, brought about by God “to
revive the dying breath of Islam and restore the unity of Muslims.” It
coincided with the presence of an unorthodox Shia dynasty in Egypt, so that
the Turkish Seljuks, who had chosen to conform to the orthodox Sunni
tradition, were able to gain legitimacy as true gazis – warriors of the Faith
waging jihad against the infidel and unorthodox Islam. The spirit of militant
Islam suited the Turkish fighting spirit perfectly; the desire for plunder was
legitimized by pious service to Allah. Under Turkish influence, Islam
regained the zeal of the early Arab conquests and reopened holy war against
its Christian foes on a significant scale. Though Saladin himself was a
Kurd, he and his successors led armies whose ethos was Turkish. “God be
praised,” wrote Al-Rawandi in the thirteenth century, “the support of Islam
is strong … In the lands of the Arabs, the Persians, the Romans and the
Russians, the sword is in the hands of the Turks and the fear of their swords
is rooted in men’s hearts.”
It was not long before the war that had smoldered quietly for centuries
between Christians and Muslims along the southern frontiers of Anatolia
flared back into life under this new impetus. The Seljuks in Baghdad were
troubled by unruly nomadic tribesmen – the Turkmen – whose desire for
plunder was a discordant note in the Islamic heartlands. They encouraged
these tribal fighters to turn their energy west on Byzantium – the kingdom
of Rum. By the middle of the eleventh century marauding gazi warriors
were raiding Christian Anatolia in the name of holy war so frequently that it
became essential for the emperor in Constantinople to take decisive action.
In March 1071, the emperor Romanus IV Diogenes set out personally to
the east to repair this situation. In August he met not the Turkmen, but a
Seljuk army led by its brilliant commander Sultan Alp Arslan, “the heroic
lion,” at Manzikert in eastern Anatolia. It was a curious affair. The sultan
was unwilling to fight. His key objective was not war against Christians but
the destruction of the detested Shiite regime in Egypt. He proposed a truce,
which Romanus refused. The ensuing battle was a shattering Muslim
victory, decided by classic nomad ambush tactics and the defection of
Byzantine mercenary troops. Romanus survived to kiss the ground in front
of the conquering sultan, who planted a foot on his bent neck in a symbolic
show of triumph and submission. It was to prove a tipping point in world
history – and a disaster for Constantinople.
For the Byzantines the Battle of Manzikert was “the Terrible Day,” a
defeat of seismic proportions that was to haunt their future. The effects
were catastrophic, though not immediately understood in Constantinople
itself. The Turkmen poured into Anatolia unopposed; where they had
previously raided and retired again, they now stayed, pushing farther and
farther west into the lion’s head of Anatolia. After the hot deserts of Iran
and Iraq, the high rolling plateau was a landscape that suited these nomads
from central Asia with their yurts and two-humped camels. With them came
both the structure of Orthodox Sunni religion and more fervent Islamic
strands: Sufis, dervishes, wandering holy men who preached both jihad and
a mystical reverence for saints that appealed to the Christian peoples.
Within twenty years of Manzikert the Turks had reached the Mediterranean
coasts. They were largely unresisted by a mixed Christian population, some
of whom converted to Islam, while others were only too glad to be rid of
taxation and persecution from Constantinople. Islam held Christians to be
“People of the Book”; as such they were afforded protection under the law
and freedom of worship. Schismatic Christian sects even gave Turkish rule
a positive welcome: “on account of its justice and good government, they
prefer to live under its administration” wrote Michael the Syrian, “the
Turks, having no idea of the sacred mysteries … were in no way
accustomed to inquire into professions of faith or to persecute anyone on
their account, in contrast to the Greeks,” he went on, “a wicked and
heretical people.” Internal quarrels in the Byzantine state encouraged the
Turks; they were soon invited to help in the civil wars that were
fragmenting Byzantium. The conquest of Asia Minor happened so easily
and with so little resistance that by the time another Byzantine army was
defeated in 1176, the possibility of driving back the incomers had gone
forever. Manzikert was irreversible. By the 1220s Western writers were
already referring to Anatolia as Turchia. Byzantium had lost its resources of
food and manpower for good. And at almost the same moment a matching
catastrophe overwhelmed Constantinople from a more unexpected quarter –
the Christian West.

The matter of the Crusades had been conceived as a project to check the
militant advance of Turkish Islam. It was against the Seljuks, “an accursed
race, a race utterly alienated from God,” that Pope Urban II preached his
fateful sermon at Clermont in 1095 “to exterminate this vile race from our
lands” and set in motion 350 years of crusader warfare. Despite the support
of their Christian brothers in the West, this enterprise was to prove a lasting
torment for the Byzantines. From 1090 onward they were visited by
successive waves of marauding knights, who expected support, sustenance,
and thanks from their Orthodox brethren as they blundered south across the
empire toward Jerusalem. Contact brought mutual incomprehension and
distrust. Each side had the opportunity to observe closely differences in
customs and forms of worship. The Greeks came to see their heavily mailed
Western brethren as little more than uncouth barbarian adventurers; their
mission a hypocritical exercise in imperial conquest disguised as piety:
“they are indomitable in pride, cruel in character … and inspired by an
inveterate hatred of the Empire,” complained Nicetas Chroniates. In truth
the Byzantines often preferred their settled Muslim neighbors, proximity
with whom had bred a certain familiarity and respect over the centuries
following the initial burst of holy war: “we must live in common as
brothers, although we differ in customs, manners and religion,” a patriarch
in Constantinople once wrote to a caliph in Baghdad. The crusaders, for
their part, saw the Byzantines as depraved heretics who were dangerously
oriental in outlook. Seljuk and Turkish soldiers regularly fought for the
Byzantines; the crusaders were also appalled to discover that the city
dedicated to the Virgin contained a mosque. “Constantinople is arrogant in
her wealth, treacherous in her practices, corrupt in her faith,” declared the
crusader Odo de Deuil. More ominously, the wealth of Constantinople and
its fabulous treasury of gem-studded relics left the crusaders open-mouthed.
An oblique note of jealousy crept into the reports sent back to the small
towns of Normandy and the Rhine: “since the beginning of the world,”
wrote the marshal of Champagne, “never was so much riches seen collected
in a single city.” It was a vivid temptation.
Military, political, and commercial pressure from the west had been
building on the Byzantine Empire for a long time, but by the end of the
twelfth century it had taken on a very visible shape in Constantinople. A
large Italian trading community had been established in the city – the
Venetians and Genoese were accorded special privileges and benefited
accordingly. The profiteering, materialistic Italians were not popular: the
Genoese had their own colony at Galata, a walled town across the Horn; the
Venetian colony was considered “so insolent in its wealth and prosperity as
to hold the imperial power in scorn.” Waves of xenophobia swept the
populace; in 1171 Galata was attacked and destroyed by the Greeks. In
1183 the entire Italian community was massacred under the eye of the
Byzantine general Andronikos “the Terrible.”
 In 1204 this history of mutual suspicion and violence returned to haunt
Constantinople in a catastrophe for which the Greeks have never fully
forgiven the Catholic West. In one of the most bizarre events in the history
of Christendom, the Fourth Crusade, embarked on Venetian ships and
nominally bound for Egypt, was diverted to attack the city. The architect of
this operation was Enrico Dandolo, the apparently blind, eighty-year-old
Venetian doge, a man of infinite guile, who personally led the expedition.
Sweeping up a convenient pretender to the imperial throne, the huge fleet
sailed up the Marmara in June 1203; the crusaders themselves were perhaps
startled to see Constantinople, a city of great Christian significance,
forming on the port bow rather than the shores of Egypt. Having smashed
their way through the chain that protected the Golden Horn, the Venetian
ships rode up onto the foreshore and attempted to breach the sea walls;
when the attack faltered, the octogenarian doge leaped down onto the beach
with the flag of St. Mark in his hand and exhorted the Venetians to show
their valor. The walls were stormed and the pretender, Alexios, duly
enthroned.
The following April, after a winter of murky internal intrigue during
which the crusaders became increasingly restive, Constantinople was
comprehensively sacked. An appalling massacre ensued and huge portions
of the city were destroyed by fire: “more houses were burned than there are
to be found in the three greatest cities of the Kingdom of France,” declared
the French knight Geoffrey de Villehardouin. The city’s great heritage of art
was vandalized and St. Sophia profaned and ransacked: “they brought
horses and mules into the Church,” wrote the chronicler Nicetas, “the better
to carry off the holy vessels and the engraved silver and gold that they had
torn from the throne and the pulpit, and the doors, and the furniture
wherever it was to be found; and when some of these beasts slipped and
fell, they ran them through with their swords, fouling the Church with their
blood and ordure.” The Venetians made off with a great trove of statuary,
relics, and precious objects to adorn their own church of St. Mark, including
the four bronze horses that had stood in the Hippodrome since the time of
Constantine the Great. Constantinople was left a smoking ruin. “Oh city,
city, eye of all cities,” howled the chronicler Nicetas, “you have drunk to
the dregs the cup of the anger of the Lord.” It was a typical Byzantine
response; but whether the agent of this disaster was human or divine, the
consequences were the same: Constantinople was reduced to a shadow of
its former greatness. For nearly sixty years the city became the “Latin
Empire of Constantinople,” ruled by the count of Flanders and his
successors. The Byzantine empire was dismembered into a scattered
collection of Frankish states and Italian colonies, while a large part of the
population fled to Greece. The Byzantines established a kingdom in exile at
Nicaea in Anatolia and were relatively successful in barring further Turkish
incursions. When they recaptured Constantinople in 1261, they found the
city’s infrastructure close to ruin and its dominions shrunk to a few
dispersed fragments. As they tried to restore their fortunes and to face new
dangers from the West, the Byzantines again turned their back on Islamic
Anatolia, and paid an ever-deepening price.

Anatolia continued to be convulsed by seismic population shifts farther

east. Two years after the sack of Constantinople, a tribal leader called
Temuchin succeeded in uniting the feuding nomads of inner Mongolia into
an organized war band and received the title Genghis Khan – the Universal
Ruler. The long-haired, sky-worshiping Mongols descended on the Islamic
world with terrifying ferocity. As chaos enveloped Persia, a further tidal
wave of displaced people streamed west into Anatolia. The continent was a
melting pot of ethnic destinies: Greek, Turkish, Iranian, Armenian, Afghani,
Georgian. When the Mongols defeated its most coherent principality, that of
the Seljuks of Rum, in 1243, Anatolia collapsed into a mosaic of small
kingdoms. The wandering Turkish tribes had nowhere farther west to
migrate; there were no infidel neighbors left to provide legitimate Islamic
conquests. Where they met the sea, some acquired fleets and raided
Byzantine coastal territories. Others fought among themselves. Anatolia
was chaotic, fragmented, and dangerous – a wild west of raiders,
plunderers, and religious visionaries, inspired by a combustible mixture of
mystical Sufism and orthodox Sunnism. The Turkmen still rode the long
horizons in their deep embroidered saddles, seeking plunder and perpetual
motion in the gazi tradition, but now only one insignificant kingdom, the
tribe of Osman, still touched the infidel lands of Byzantium in northwestern
Anatolia.
No one knows the true origins of these people, whom we now call
Ottomans. They emerge from among the anonymous wandering Turkmen
sometime around 1280, a caste of illiterate warriors living among tents and
woodsmoke, who ruled from the saddle and signed with a thumbprint and
whose history was subsequently reconstructed by imperial myth-making.
Legend tells that Osman was always destined for greatness. One night he
fell asleep and had a dream, in which he saw Constantinople, which,
“situated at the junction of two seas and two continents, seemed like a
diamond mounted between two sapphires and two emeralds, and appeared
thus to form the precious stone of the ring of a vast dominion which
embraced the entire world.” Osman took upon himself the mantle of the
gazis, which his tribe was poised to exploit. Luck and quick-wittedness in
equal measure were to transform the realm of Osman from a tiny
principality to the world power of the dream.
The domain of Osman, in northwestern Anatolia, directly confronted the
Byzantine defensive perimeter that guarded Constantinople. Facing
unconquered infidel land, it became a magnet for gazis, adventurers, and
land-hungry refugees who wanted to try their luck under his command.
Osman ruled as a tribal leader in touch with his people. At the same time
the Ottomans had a unique opportunity to study the neighboring Byzantine
state and to imitate its structures. The tribe learned literally “on the hoof,”
absorbing technologies, protocols, and tactics at an extraordinary rate. In
1302 Osman won a first victory over the Byzantines that brought prestige
and recruits to his cause. Pushing forward against the crumbling imperial
defenses, he managed to isolate the city of Bursa; lacking the technology
for sieges, it took a patient seven years of blockade before his son Orhan
captured the city in 1326 and secured a capital for his small kingdom. In
1329 Orhan defeated the emperor Andronikos III at Pelekanos, ending all
Byzantine attempts to support its remaining Anatolian cities. They fell in
quick succession – Nicaea in 1331, Nicomedia in 1337, Scutari the
following year. Muslim warriors were now able to ride their horses to the
sea’s edge on their own lands and look out across the Bosphorus at Europe.
On the far side they could make out Constantinople: the marching line of its
sea walls, the enormous dome of St. Sophia, imperial banners fluttering
from turrets and palaces.
As they advanced, the conquerors smoothed the Greek place-names of
captured cities to the vowel harmonies of Turkish. Smyrna became Izmir;
Nicaea – home of the Nicene Creed – Iznik; Brusa shifted consonants into
Bursa. Constantinople, though the Ottomans would continue to refer to it
officially by the Arabic name Kostantiniyye, evolved in everyday Turkish
into Istanbul by a mutation that is still unclear. The word may be a simple
corruption of Constantinople, or it could be derived quite differently. Greek
speakers would refer to Constantinople familiarly as polis, the city. A man
going there would say he was going “eis tin polin” – “into the city” –
which could have been interpreted by Turkish ears as Istanbul.

The tombs of Osman and Orhan at Bursa

The speed of the Ottoman advance seemed as providential as that of the

Arabs seven centuries earlier. When the great Arab traveler Ibn Battutah
visited Orhan’s principality in 1331, he was impressed by the restless
energy of the place: “It is said that he has never stayed for a whole month in
any one town. He fights with the infidels continually and keeps them under
siege.” The early Ottomans styled themselves as gazis; they wrapped the
title of warriors of the Faith around them like the green flag of Islam. Soon
they were sultans too. In 1337 Orhan set up an inscription in Bursa, styling
himself “Sultan, son of the Sultan of the Gazis, Gazi, son of the Gazi,
marquis of the horizons, hero of the world.” It was indeed a new heroic age
of Muslim conquest, and it quickened the pulse of militant Islam. “The Gazi
is the sword of God,” wrote the chronicler Ahmeti around 1400, “he is the
protector and refuge of the believers. If he becomes a martyr in the ways of
God, do not believe that he has died – he lives in beatitude with Allah, he
has eternal life.” The conquests aroused wild expectations among the free-
riding nomadic raiders and the dervish mystics in tattered cloaks who
traveled with them across the dusty roads of Anatolia. The air was thick
with prophecy and heroic song. They remembered the Hadith about
conquering Constantinople and the legends of the Red Apple. When the
emperor John Cantacuzenos invited Orhan’s war band across the
Dardanelles in the 1350s to help in the interminable civil wars of the
Byzantine state, Muslims set foot in Europe for the first time since 717.
When an earthquake wrecked the walls of Gallipoli in 1354, the Ottomans
promptly declared it to be a sign from God to the Muslims and occupied the
town. A steady stream of fighters and holy men followed them into Europe.
In 1359 an Islamic army appeared outside the city walls for the first time in
650 years. A note of millennial prophecy crept into the atmosphere. “Why
have the Gazis appeared at the last?” asked Ahmeti. “Because the best
always comes at the end. Just as the definitive prophet Muhammad came
after the others, just as the Koran came down from heaven after the Torah,
the Psalms and the Gospels, so also the Gazis appeared in the world at the
last.” The capture of Constantinople must have seemed a dream on the edge
of possibility.
The speed of the Ottoman advance seemed nothing short of miraculous
– as if ordained by God. By geography, custom, and luck, the Ottomans
were best placed to prosper from the disintegration of the Byzantine state.
The early sultans, living close to their men and to nature, were attentive to
circumstance and possibility in the shifting political environment around
them. Where the Byzantines were hidebound by a thousand years of
ceremony and tradition, the Ottomans were quick-witted, flexible, and
open. The laws of Islam required mercy to conquered peoples, and the
Ottomans ruled their subjects with a light hand that seemed frequently
preferable to European feudalism. No attempt was made to convert
Christians, who formed the bulk of the population, to Islam – in fact it was
largely thought undesirable by a dynasty with a taste for empire. Under
sharia law it was not possible to tax Muslims as heavily as infidels, though
in any case their burden was not heavy. The peasants of the Balkans
welcomed release from the weightier yoke of feudal servitude. At the same
time the Ottomans had built-in dynastic advantages for themselves. Unlike
other Turkish principalities, the early sultans never divided the succession
of the kingdom; nor did they designate a successor. All sons were groomed
to rule, but only one could take the throne – a method that seemed brutally
designed to ensure the survival of the fittest. Most startling of all for
Westerners, they paid no attention to succession through marriage. Where
the Byzantine emperors, like all the ruling houses of Europe, went to
exhaustive lengths to secure dynastic marriages and legitimate succession
through approved bloodlines, the Ottomans hardly bothered. A sultan’s
father would naturally be the previous sultan, but his mother might be a
concubine or a slave, possibly not a born Muslim, and from one of a dozen
subject peoples. This genetic inclusiveness was to provide the Ottomans
with extraordinary resources.
Of all Ottoman innovations none was perhaps more significant than the
creation of a regular army. The enthusiastic bands of gazi warriors were too
undisciplined to fulfill the now growing ambitions of the Ottoman sultans;
besieging well-defended cities required patience, methodology, and a
particular set of craft skills. Toward the end of the fourteenth century Sultan
Murat I formed a new military force, comprised of slaves captured from the
Balkan states. A levy of Christian youths was taken at regular intervals,
converted to Islam, and taught Turkish. Removed from their families, these
new recruits owed their loyalty only to the sultan. They were his private
force: the “slaves of the Gate.” They were organized into infantry units, the
Yeni Cheri or Janissaries, and the cavalry, which together comprised the
first professional paid army in Europe since the time of the Romans. It was
to play a critical role in the development of the Ottoman state. This was a
custom drawn straight out of the Ottomans’ own history: the Turks
themselves had been enrolled as military slaves at the frontiers of the
Islamic world. It had been their passport to advancement. But to Christians
watching the process from afar, it evoked rigid horror: with different images
of slavery, the prospect of turning captured Christian children against
Christians was fiendish and inhuman. It was to form a powerful ingredient
in the myth of the Savage Turk.
This notion of “the Turk” was seized on early in the West. It was largely
a European construct, a term matched to Western identities that was hardly
used by the Ottomans. They considered it derogatory. Instead, they chose
titles that were neither ethnic nor territorial and reflected both their nomadic
heritage, unconfined by fixed territories, and its multiethnic composition.
Identity was primarily religious: the Ottoman sultans came to describe
themselves in increasingly ornate terms as Lords of Islam, their empire as
the Refuge of the Faith or the Defended Lands, their people as either
Muslims or Ottomans. The Ottoman makeup was a unique assemblage of
different elements and peoples: Turkish tribalism, Sunni Islam, Persian
court practices, Byzantine administration, taxation, and ceremonial, and a
high-flown court language that combined Turkish structure with Arabic and
Persian vocabulary. It had an identity all of its own.

The double-headed eagle of the House of Palaiologos

The rising arc of the Ottomans was mirrored by a corresponding and

unhalted decline in the fortunes of Byzantium. The factors that went to
make the years after 1300 “the calamitous century” in Europe played out in
the eastern empire too. Fragmentation, civil war, population decline, and
impoverishment stalked Constantinople. There were telling symbolic
moments. In 1284, the emperor Andronikos took the suicidal decision to
abolish the imperial navy. The workless sailors defected to the Ottomans
and helped them build a fleet. Sometime around 1325 the emperors of the
House of Palaiologos adopted the double-headed eagle as their emblem; it
did not, as has sometimes been supposed, represent a mighty empire that
looked both east and west, but rather symbolized a division of authority
between two quarrelsome emperors of the same family. The eagle was
prophetic. The years 1341 to 1371 were wracked by a ruinous sequence of
civil wars, invasion of imperial territory by both the Ottomans and the
powerful Serbian state, religious controversy, and plague. Constantinople
was the first European city to experience the Black Death: rats that scurried
up the gangplanks in the Black Sea port of Kaffa jumped ship there in 1347.
The population shrank to little more than 100,000. A series of earthquakes
devastated Constantinople – the dome of St. Sophia collapsed in 1346 – and
the city “of pure gold” became increasingly destitute and forlorn, its
inhabitants prone to religious pessimism. Travelers to the city remarked on
the melancholy appearance of the place. Ibn Battutah saw not a city, but
thirteen villages separated by fields. When the Spaniard Pero Tafur visited,
he found even the emperor’s palace “in such a state that both it and the city
show well the evils which the people have suffered and still endure … the
city is sparsely populated … the inhabitants are not well clad, but sad and
poor, showing the hardship of their lot,” before adding with true Christian
charity, “which is, however, not as bad as they deserve, for they are a
vicious people, steeped in sin.” The city was shrinking inside its walls like
an old man in the clothes of his youth, and its emperors were paupers in
their own house. At the coronation of the emperor John VI Cantacuzenos in
1347, observers noticed that the crown jewels were made of glass, the
banqueting plates of clay and pewter. The golden dishes had been sold to
pay for civil war; the jewels pawned to the Venetians – they were in the
treasury of St. Mark’s.
In this confusion, the Ottoman advance into Europe continued
unchecked. In 1362 they virtually encircled Constantinople from the rear
when they took the city of Adrianople – Edirne in Turkish – 140 miles to
the west, and moved their imperial capital into Europe. When they shattered
the Serbs in battle in 1371, the emperor John was isolated from all Christian
support and had little option but to become a vassal of the sultans,
contributing troops on demand and seeking permission for imperial
appointments. The advance of the Ottomans seemed unstoppable: by the
end of the fourteenth century their terrain stretched from the Danube to the
Euphrates. “Turkish or heathen expansion is like the sea,” wrote the
Serbian, Michael “the Janissary,” “it never has peace but always rolls …
until you smash a snake’s head it is always worse.” The pope issued a bull
proclaiming crusade against the Ottomans in 1366, and in vain threatened
excommunication against the trading states of Italy and the Adriatic for
supplying them with arms. The next fifty years were to see three Crusades
against the infidel, all led by the Hungarians, the most threatened state in
Eastern Europe. They were to be the swan song of a united Christendom.
Each one ended in punishing defeat, the causes of which were not hard to
find. Europe was divided, poverty-stricken, wracked by its own internal
disputes, weakened by the Black Death. The armies themselves were
lumbering, quarrelsome, ill-disciplined, and tactically inept, in comparison
with the mobile and well-organized Ottomans, unified around a common
cause. The few Europeans who saw them up close could not but profess a
sneaking admiration for “Ottoman order.” The French traveler Bertrandon
de la Brocquière observed in the 1430s:
They are diligent, willingly rise early, and live on little … they are indifferent as to where they sleep,
and usually lie on the ground … their horses are good, cost little in food, gallop well and for a long
time … their obedience to their superiors is boundless … when the signal is given, those who are to
lead march quietly off, followed by the others with the same silence … ten thousand Turks on such
an occasion will make less noise than 100 men in the Christian armies … I must own that in my
various experiences I have always found the Turks to be frank and loyal, and when it was necessary
to show courage, they have never failed to do so.

Against this background the start of the fifteenth century looked bleak for
Constantinople. Siege by the Ottomans had become a recurring feature of
life. When the emperor Manuel broke his oath of vassalage in 1394, Sultan
Bayezit subjected the city to a series of assaults, only called off when
Bayezit was himself defeated in battle by the Turkic Mongol Timur – the
Tamburlaine of Marlowe’s play – in 1402. Thereafter the emperors sought
increasingly desperate help from the West – Manuel even came to England
in 1400 – while pursuing a policy of diplomatic intrigue and support for
pretenders to the Ottoman throne. Sultan Murat II besieged Constantinople
in 1422 for encouraging pretenders, but the city still held out. The Ottomans
had neither the fleet to close off the city nor the technology to storm its
massive land walls quickly, and Manuel, by now an old man but still one of
the most astute of all diplomats, managed to conjure up another claimant to
the Ottoman throne to threaten civil war. The siege was lifted, but
Constantinople was hanging on by the skin of its teeth. It seemed only a
matter of time before the Ottomans came for the city again and in force. It
was only the fear of a concerted European Crusade that restrained them.
The tugra, the imperial cipher, of Orhan, the first sultan to take a city by siege
 3 Sultan and Emperor 1432–1451
Mehmet Chelebi – Sultan – may God fasten the strap of his authority to the pegs of eternity and
reinforce the supports of his power until the predestined day!
Inscription on the tomb of the mother of Mehmet II

Constantine Palaiologos, in Christ true Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans

Ceremonial title of Constantine XI, eighty-eighth emperor of Byzantium

The man destined to tighten the Muslim noose on the city was born ten
years after Murat’s siege. In Turkish legend, 1432 was a year of portents.
Horses produced a large number of twins; trees were bowed down with
fruit; a long-tailed comet appeared in the noonday sky over Constantinople.
On the night of March 29, Sultan Murat was waiting in the royal palace at
Edirne for news of a birth; unable to sleep, he started to read the Koran. He
had just reached the Victory suras, the verses that promise triumph over
unbelievers, when a messenger brought word of a son. He was called
Mehmet, Murat’s father’s name, the Turkish form of Muhammad.
Like many prophecies, these have a distinctly retrospective feel to them.
Mehmet was the third of Murat’s sons; both his half-brothers were
substantially older, and the boy was never his father’s favorite. His chances
of living to become sultan were slim. Perhaps it is significant of the entry
Mehmet made into the world that considerable uncertainty surrounds the
identity of his mother. Despite the efforts of some Turkish historians to
claim her as an ethnic Turk and a Muslim, the strong probability is that she
was a Western slave, taken in a frontier raid or captured by pirates, possibly
Serbian or Macedonian and most likely born a Christian – a possibility that
casts a strange light on the paradoxes in Mehmet’s nature. Whatever the
genetic cocktail of his origins, Mehmet was to reveal a character quite
distinct from that of his father, Murat.

The tugra of Mehmet

By the middle of the fifteenth century Ottoman sultans were no longer

unlettered tribal chieftains who directed war bands from the saddle. The
heady mixture of jihad and booty had given way to something more
measured. The sultan still derived immense prestige as the greatest leader of
holy war in the lands of Islam, but this was increasingly a tool of dynastic
policy. Ottoman rulers now styled themselves the “Sultan of Rum” – a title
that suggested a claim to the inheritance of the ancient Christian empire – or
“Padishah,” a high-flown Persian formula. From the Byzantines they were
developing a taste for the ceremonial apparatus of monarchy; their princes
were formally educated for high office; their palaces were high-walled;
access to the sultan became carefully regulated. Fear of poison, intrigue,
and assassination were progressively distancing the ruler from his subjects
– a process that had followed the murder of Murat I by a Serbian envoy
after the first battle of Kosovo in 1389. The reign of the second Murat was a
fulcrum in this process. He still signed himself “bey” – the old title for a
Turkish noble – rather than the grander “sultan” and was popular with his
people. The Hungarian monk Brother George was surprised by the lack of
ceremonial surrounding him. “On his clothing or on his horse the sultan had
no special mark to distinguish him. I watched him at his mother’s funeral,
and if he had not been pointed out to me, I could not have recognised him.”
At the same time a distance was starting to be interposed between the sultan
and the world around him. “He never took anything in public,” noted
Bertrandon de la Brocquière, “and there are very few persons who can boast
of having seen him speak, or having seen him eat or drink.” It was a process
that would lead successive sultans to the hermetic world of the Topkapi
Palace with its blank outer walls and elaborate ritual.
It was the chilly atmosphere of the Ottoman court that shaped Mehmet’s
early years. The issue of succession to the throne cast a long shadow over
the upbringing of male children. Direct dynastic succession from father to
son was critical for the empire’s survival – the harem system was
instrumental in ensuring an adequate supply of surviving male children to
protect it – but comprised its greatest vulnerability. The throne was a
contest among the male heirs. There was no law prioritizing the eldest; the
surviving princes simply fought it out at the sultan’s death. The outcome
was considered to be God’s will. “If He has decreed that you shall have the
kingdom after me,” a later sultan wrote to his son, “no man living will be
able to prevent it.” In practice, succession often became a race for the center
– the winner would be the heir who secured the capital, the treasury, and the
support of the army; it was a method that might either favor the survival of
the fittest or lead to civil war. The Ottoman state had nearly collapsed in the
early years of the fifteenth century in a fratricidal struggle for power in
which the Byzantines were deeply implicated. It had become almost state
policy in Constantinople to exploit the dynasty’s moment of weakness by
supporting rival claimants and pretenders.
In order both to guard against preemptive strikes and to teach their sons
the craft of monarchy, the sultans dispatched their male heirs at a very early
age to govern provinces under the watchful eye of carefully chosen tutors.
Mehmet spent his first years in the palace harem in Edirne but was sent to
the regional capital of Amasya in Anatolia at the age of two to begin the
early preparation for his education. His oldest half-brother Ahmet, who was
twelve years of age, became governor of the city at the same time. Dark
forces stalked the heirs to the throne during the next decade. In 1437 Ahmet
died suddenly in Amasya. Six years later, when his other half-brother Ali
was governor, a gruesome Ottoman version of “the Princes in the Tower”
mystery took place in the town. A leading noble, Kara Hizir Pasha, was
dispatched to Amasya by unknown persons. He managed to steal into the
palace at night and strangle Ali in his bed, as well as both his infant sons. A
whole branch of the family was snuffed out in a single night; Mehmet
remained the only heir to the throne. Rippling like a black shadow behind
these murky events was a long-running power struggle within the Ottoman
ruling class for the soul of the state. During his reign Murat had
strengthened the Janissary corps of slave-recruited troops and elevated
some Christian converts to the status of vizier in an attempt to establish a
counterbalance to the power of the traditional Turkish nobility and army. It
was a contest that would be played out to its final conclusion before the
walls of Constantinople nine years later.
Ali had been Murat’s favorite son: his death affected the sultan deeply –
though at the same time it is not impossible that Murat himself ordered the
executions on discovering a plot by the prince. However he realized that
there was now no choice but to recall the young Mehmet to Edirne and to
take his education in hand. At that moment the eleven-year-old represented
the only future for the Ottoman state. Murat was horrified when he saw the
boy again. He was already headstrong, willful, and almost uneducable.
Mehmet had openly defied his previous tutors, refusing to be chastised or to
learn the Koran. Murat called in the celebrated mullah Ahmet Gurani with
orders to thrash the young prince into submission. Cane in hand, the mullah
went to see the prince. “Your father,” he said, “has sent me to instruct you,
but also to chastise you in case you do not obey.” Mehmet laughed aloud at
the threat, at which the mullah delivered such a beating that Mehmet swiftly
buckled down to study. Under this formidable tutor, Mehmet began to
absorb the Koran, then a widening circle of knowledge. The boy revealed
an extraordinary intelligence coupled with an iron will to succeed. He
developed fluency in languages – by all accounts he knew Turkish, Persian,
and Arabic, as well as spoken Greek, a Slavic dialect, and some Latin – and
became fascinated by history and geography, science, practical engineering,
and literature. A remarkable personality was starting to emerge.
The 1440s marked a new period of crisis for the Ottomans. The empire
was threatened in Anatolia by an uprising by one of its Turkmen vassals,
the bey of Karaman, while a new Hungarian-led Crusade was being
prepared in the West. Murat appeared to have defused the Christian threat
with a ten-year truce and departed to Anatolia to deal with the troublesome
bey. Before he went, he took the surprising step of abdicating from the
throne. He was fearful of civil war within the state and wanted to confirm
Mehmet in power before he himself died; world-weariness too may have
been a factor. The burdens of office hung heavily on an Ottoman sultan, and
Murat may have been depressed by the murder of his favorite son, Ali. At
the age of twelve Mehmet was confirmed as sultan at Edirne under the
guidance of the trustworthy chief vizier Halil. Coins were minted in his
name, and he was mentioned in weekly prayers, according to prerogative.
 The experiment was a disaster. Tempted by the opportunity presented by
a callow young sultan, the pope immediately absolved the Hungarian king
Ladislas of his oath of truce and the crusader army rumbled forward. In
September it crossed the Danube; a Venetian fleet was dispatched to the
Dardanelles to block Murat’s return. The atmosphere in Edirne became
turbulent. In 1444 an inspirational religious fanatic of a heretical Shia sect
had appeared in the city. Crowds flocked to the Persian missionary who
promised reconciliation between Islam and Christianity, and Mehmet
himself, attracted by his teachings, welcomed the man into the palace. The
religious authorities were shocked, and Halil himself was alarmed by the
popular enthusiasm for the heretic. An attempt was made to arrest him.
When the missionary sought sanctuary in the palace, Mehmet had to be
persuaded to give the man up. He was eventually hauled off to the public
prayer site and burned alive; his followers were massacred. The Byzantines
also decided to profit from this confusion. A pretender to the Ottoman
throne, Prince Orhan, whom they were holding in the city, was released to
foment a revolt. Uprisings ensued against the Ottomans in the European
provinces. There was panic in Edirne; a large portion of the town was
burned down, and Turkish Muslims started to flee back to Anatolia.
Mehmet’s reign was unraveling in chaos.
Murat meanwhile had negotiated a truce with the bey of Karaman and
hurried back to confront the threat. Finding the Dardanelles blocked by
Venetian ships, he was ferried across the Bosphorus with his army by their
rivals, the Genoese, at the handsome fee of a ducat a head and advanced to
meet the crusader army at Varna on the Black Sea on November 10, 1444.
The outcome was a crushing victory for the Ottomans. Ladislas’s skull was
mounted on a lance and sent to the old Ottoman city of Bursa as a triumphal
token of Muslim supremacy. It was a significant moment in the holy war
between Christianity and Islam. After 350 years the defeat at Varna
extinguished the appetite in the West for crusading; never again would
Christendom unite to try to drive the Muslims out of Europe. It confirmed
the Ottoman presence in the Balkans and left Constantinople emphatically
isolated as an enclave within the Islamic world, reducing the likelihood of
Western help in the event of Ottoman attack. Worse still, Murat held the
Byzantines responsible for much of the chaos of 1444, an opinion that
would soon shape Ottoman strategy.
 Immediately after Varna, and despite the early failure of Mehmet’s
sultanship, Murat again retired to Anatolia. Halil Pasha remained first
vizier, but Mehmet was more influenced by the two men who acted as his
governors: the chief eunuch Shihabettin Pasha, lord of the European
provinces, and a forceful Christian renegade, Zaganos Pasha. Both these
men favored advancing the plan for taking Constantinople, in the
knowledge that the city still held the pretender Orhan; capturing it would
stabilize Mehmet’s rule and bring the young sultan immense personal
kudos. It is clear that even at an early age Mehmet was magnetically
attracted to the project of capturing the Christian city and making himself
heir to the Roman Empire. In a poem he wrote that “my earnest desire is to
crush the Infidels,” yet Mehmet’s longing for the city was as much imperial
as it was religious, and derived in part from a source that was surprisingly
non-Islamic. He was deeply interested in the exploits of Alexander the
Great and Julius Caesar. Alexander had been transformed into an Islamic
hero by medieval Persian and Turkish epics. Mehmet would have known of
Alexander from his early years; he had the Greek biography of the World
Conqueror by the Roman writer Arrian read to him daily in the palace.
From these influences he conceived for himself twin identities – as the
Muslim Alexander whose conquests would reach to the ends of the earth,
and as a gazi warrior leading jihad against the infidel. He would reverse the
flow of world history: Alexander swept east; he in his turn would bring
glory to the East and to Islam by conquering the West. It was a heady
vision, fueled by his personal advisers, who saw that their own careers
might be made on the wave of conquest.
The precocious Mehmet, supported by his tutors, started to plan a new
assault on Constantinople as early as 1445. He was thirteen years old. Halil
Pasha was thoroughly alarmed. He disapproved of the young sultan’s plan;
after the debacle of 1444, he feared such a move would end in further
disaster. Despite its formidable resources, the Ottoman Empire had all but
collapsed within living memory under civil war, and Halil retained the deep
fear of many, that a concerted attempt on Constantinople could provoke a
massive Christian response from the West. He had personal motives too: he
was concerned for the erosion of his own power and that of the traditional
Muslim-Turkish nobility at the expense of the warmongering Christian
converts. He decided to engineer Mehmet’s deposition by instigating a
Janissary revolt and petitioning Murat to return to Edirne to take control
again. He was welcomed back with wild enthusiasm; the haughty, aloof
young sultan was not popular with either the people or the Janissaries.
Mehmet retired to Manisa with his advisers. It was a humiliating rebuff that
he would never forgive or forget; one day it would cost Halil his life.
Mehmet remained in the shadows for the rest of Murat’s life, though he
continued to regard himself as sultan. He accompanied his father to the
second battle of Kosovo in 1448, where the Hungarians made one final bid
to break Ottoman power. It was Mehmet’s baptism of fire. The outcome,
despite huge Ottoman losses, was as decisive as Varna and further served to
cement the legend of Ottoman invincibility. A gloomy pessimism started to
pervade the West. “The Turks through such organisation are far ahead,”
wrote Michael the Janissary. “If you pursue him, he will flee; but if he
pursues you, you will not escape … the Tartars have several times won
victories over the Turks, but the Christians never, and especially in pitched
battle, most of all because they let the Turks encircle them and approach
from the flank.”
Murat’s final years were spent in Edirne. The sultan seems to have lost
the appetite for further military adventure, preferring the stability of peace
to the uncertainties of war. As long as he lived, Constantinople breathed in
uneasy peace; when he died in February 1451 he was mourned by friend
and foe alike. “The treaties that he had sworn sacredly with the Christians,”
declared the Greek chronicler Doukas, “he always kept intact. His anger
was short-lived. He was averse to warfare and keen on peace, and for this
reason the Father of Peace rewarded him with a peaceful death, rather than
being dispatched by the sword.” The Greek chronicler would have been less
generous had he known the recommendation Murat left to his successor.
Byzantine meddlings in the 1440s had convinced him that the Ottoman state
could never be secure as long as Constantinople remained a Christian
enclave. “He left as a bequest to his illustrious successor,” said the Ottoman
chronicler Sad-ud-din, “the erection of the standards of the jihad for the
capture of that city, by the addition of which … he might protect the
prosperity of the people of Islam and break the back of the wretched
misbelievers.”
The death of a sultan always constituted a dangerous moment for the
Ottoman state. In accordance with tradition, and to forestall any armed
revolt, the news was kept secret. Murat had one other son, a baby called
Little Ahmet, who posed no immediate threat to Mehmet’s succession, but
the pretender Orhan remained in Constantinople, and Mehmet was hardly
popular. News of his father’s death was dispatched in a sealed letter by
flying courier. In it Halil advised Mehmet not to tarry; a swift arrival at
Edirne was imperative – any delay might provoke insurrection. According
to legend, Mehmet immediately had his horse saddled and called to his
retainers, “Let him who loves me, follow me.” Accompanied by his
household troops, he made the crossing at Gallipoli in two days. As he rode
across the plain to Edirne, he was met by a vast throng of officials, viziers,
mullahs, state governors, and common people, in a ritual harking back to
their tribal past on the Asian steppes. When they were a mile off, the
welcoming party dismounted and walked toward their new ruler in dead
silence. Half a mile distant, they stopped and broke into wild ululations for
the dead sultan. Mehmet and his retinue similarly dismounted and joined in
the communal lamentation. The winter landscape echoed with mournful
cries. The chief officials bowed before the new sultan, then the whole
gathering remounted and progressed back to the palace.
The following day the official presentation of the ministers took place.
It was an edgy occasion, the moment when the viziers of the old sultan
discovered their fate. Mehmet was seated on the throne, flanked by his own
trusted advisers. Halil Pasha hung back, waiting to see what Mehmet would
do. The boy sultan said, “Why do my father’s viziers hang back? Call them
forward, and tell Halil to take his usual place.” Halil was restored to the role
of chief vizier. It was a typical move by Mehmet: to maintain a status quo
while he kept his deeper plans close to his chest and bided his time.
The new sultan was just seventeen years old, a mixture of confidence
and hesitancy, ambition and reserve. His early years had evidently marked
Mehmet deeply. He had probably been separated from his mother when
very young and had survived in the shadow world of the Ottoman court
largely through luck. Even as a young man he emerges as deeply secretive
and suspicious of others: self-reliant, haughty, distant from human affection,
and intensely ambitious – a personality of paradox and complexity. The
man whom the Renaissance later presented as a monster of cruelty and
perversion was a mass of contradictions. He was astute, brave, and highly
impulsive – capable of deep deception, tyrannical cruelty, and acts of
sudden kindness. He was moody and unpredictable, a bisexual who
shunned close relationships, never forgave an insult, but who came to be
loved for his pious foundations. The key traits of his mature character were
already in place: the later tyrant who was also a scholar; the obsessive
military strategist who loved Persian poetry and gardening; the expert at
logistics and practical planning who was so superstitious that he relied on
the court astrologer to confirm military decisions; the Islamic warrior who
could be generous to his non-Muslim subjects and enjoyed the company of
foreigners and unorthodox religious thinkers.
A handful of portraits painted over the course of his life provide
probably the first authentic likenesses of an Ottoman sultan. A reasonably
consistent face emerges – an aquiline profile, the hawk nose protruding over
sensual lips like “a parrot’s beak resting on cherries” in the memorable
phrase of an Ottoman poet, complemented by a reddish beard on a thrusting
chin. In one stylized miniature, he is delicately holding an uncrushed rose to
his nose between jeweled fingers. It is the conventional representation of
the sultan as aesthete, the lover of gardens and the author of Persian
quatrains, but it is informed by a fixed gaze, as if he were looking at some
faraway point where the world vanishes. In other mature portraits he is bull-
necked and corpulent, and in the famous late portrait by Bellini now
hanging in the National Gallery in London he just looks grave and ill. All
these pictures contain a note of steady authority, the natural abrogation of
power by “God’s shadow on earth,” that assumes the world sits in his hand
too naturally to be called arrogance, but there is a chilly melancholy too that
recalls the cold and dangerous childhood years.
The pictures are matched by a vivid account of the complex young
Mehmet by an Italian, Giacomo de Languschi:
The sovereign, the Grand Turk Mehmet Bey is a youth … well-built, of large rather than medium
stature, expert at arms, of aspect more frightening than venerable, laughing seldom, full of
circumspection, endowed with great generosity, obstinate in pursuing his plans, bold in all
undertakings, as eager for fame as Alexander of Macedon. Daily he has Roman and other historical
works read to him. He speaks three languages, Turkish, Greek and Slavic. He is at great pains to
learn the geography of Italy … where the seat of the pope is and that of the emperor, and how many
kingdoms there are in Europe. He possesses a map of Europe with the countries and provinces. He
learns of nothing with greater interest and enthusiasm than the geography of the world and of military
affairs; he burns with desire to dominate; he is a shrewd investigator of conditions. It is with such a
man that we Christians have to deal … Today, he says, the times have changed, and declares that he
will advance from east to West as in former times the Westerners advanced into the Orient. There
must, he says, be only one empire, one faith, and one sovereignty in the world.

It was a vivid snapshot of Mehmet’s ambition to reverse the tide of history

by carrying Islamic banners into Europe, but at his accession the obsession
and intelligence were largely hidden from the West. They saw only a callow
and inexperienced youth whose early taste of power had ended in
humiliation.

Two years before Mehmet’s accession to the throne, Constantinople had

also welcomed a new emperor, though in very different circumstances. The
man destined to oppose Mehmet in the struggle ahead bore the name of the
city’s founder – a fact that superstitious Byzantines would be quick to
recall. Constantine XI was the eighth member of the ruling dynasty of
Palaiologos to sit on the throne since 1261. The family had usurped power,
and their rule coincided with the relentless downward spiral of the empire
into anarchy and discord. His own background was typically multiracial. He
was Greek speaking but hardly Greek: his mother was Serbian, and
Constantine adopted her family name of Dragases, his father was half
Italian. He described himself, like all Byzantines, as a Roman, and signed
himself with the proud and ancient title of his predecessors: “Constantine
Palaiologos, in Christ true Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans.”

Signature of Constantine as emperor of the Romans

It was a hollow protocol but typical of the ritual formulas and

ceremonial that the Byzantines clung to during their relentless decline. The
empire had a high admiral, but no fleet, a commander in chief but few
soldiers. Within the Lilliputian world of the court, the nobility jostled and
squabbled for absurdly pretentious titles such as Grand Domestic, Grand
Chancellor, or Lord of the Imperial Wardrobe. Constantine was effectively
an emperor without power. His territory had shrunk to the city and its
suburbs, a few islands, and linked dominions in the Peloponnese, which the
Greeks called, rather poetically, the Morea, the Mulberry Leaf: the
peninsula was famous for its silk production, and its shape reminded them
of this food of silkworms.
It is hard to envy Constantine his crown. He inherited bankruptcy, a
family with a taste for civil war, a city divided by religious passions, and an
impoverished and volatile proletariat. The empire was a snake pit of
internecine feuding – in 1442 his brother Demetrios marched on the city
with Ottoman troops. It lived a half-life as the vassal of the Ottoman
emperor, who could lay siege to the city at any time. Nor was Constantine’s
personal authority particularly secure: a whiff of illegitimacy surrounded
his accession to the throne in 1449. He was invested in Mistra in the
Peloponnese, a highly unusual protocol for an emperor, and never
subsequently crowned in St. Sophia. The Byzantines had to ask Murat’s
approval of their new emperor but were then too poor to provide him with
transport home. Humiliatingly, he had to beg passage to his throne on a
Catalan ship.
There are no contemporary illustrations of the city he returned to in
March 1449. A slightly earlier Italian map shows Constantinople to be a
place of empty spaces, while across the Golden Horn, the Genoese trading
colony known as Galata, or Pera, was reported to be thriving and
prosperous: “a large town, inhabited by Greeks, Jews and Genoese”
according to the traveler Bertrandon de la Brocquière, who declared it to be
the handsomest port he had ever seen. The French knight found
Constantinople itself fascinating but down at its heels. The churches were
impressive, particularly St. Sophia, where he saw “the gridiron on which St.
Lawrence was broiled, and a large stone in the shape of a washstand, on
which they say Abraham gave the angels food when they were going to
destroy Sodom and Gomorra.” The great equestrian statue of Justinian,
which he mistook for Constantine the Great, was still in place: “He holds a
sceptre in his left hand, and holds his right extended towards Turkey in Asia
and the road to Jerusalem, as if to denote that the whole of that country was
under his rule.” But the truth was obvious – the emperor was scarcely
master in his own house.
There are merchants from all nations in this city, but none so powerful as the Venetians, who have a
bailey to regulate all their affairs independently of the Emperor and his ministers. The Turks also
have an officer to superintend their commerce, who, like the Venetian bailiff, is independent of the
Emperor. They have even the privilege, that if one of their slaves should run away and take refuge
within the city, on their demanding him, the Emperor is bound to give him up. This prince must be
under great subjection to the Turk, since he pays him, I am told, a tribute of ten thousand ducats
annually.

De la Brocquière noted everywhere the epitaphs of vanished greatness –

none more telling than (apparently) three empty marble plinths in the
Hippodrome: “here stood once three gilt horses, now at Venice.” It seemed
only a matter of time before the Ottomans came for the city again and the
people just opened the gates for them. They had received a terrible warning
of the alternatives in 1430 when Thessaloniki had refused to submit to
Murat. It took the Ottomans just three hours to storm the walls; three days
of rape and plunder followed; 7,000 women and children were carried off
into slavery.
An Italian map of Constantinople from the early fifteenth century. It portrays a sizeable moat on the
left-hand side outside the land walls. Galata is at the top.

We have little idea what Constantine looked like; his face is almost a
blank. He seemed to have inherited the strong, regular features and bearing
of his father Manuel II, but the empire was too distracted to commission
portraits of the new emperor, and the gold seal of state that shows a thin
hawklike face is far too schematic to be meaningful. However, there is
consensus about his personality. Of all the sons of Manuel, Constantine was
the most capable and trustworthy, “a philanthropist and without malice,”
imbued with resoluteness, courage, and a deep patriotism. Unlike his
quarrelsome and unprincipled brothers, Constantine was straightforward; he
seems to have inspired deep loyalty among those around him. He was by all
accounts a man of action rather than a skilled administrator or a deep
thinker, adept in horsemanship and the arts of war, courageous and
enterprising. Above all, he was resolute in the face of setbacks. A strong
sense of responsibility for the Byzantine inheritance ran through his
character; he spent a lifetime trying to shore it up.
Constantine was twenty-seven years older than Mehmet; he was born in
Constantinople in 1405, and from his early youth can have had few illusions
about the city’s plight. At seventeen he experienced Murat’s siege of 1422;
the following year he was appointed regent while his brother John VIII
made one of the many fruitless trips around the states of Christendom to
seek support for the Byzantine cause. At his accession in 1449, he was
forty-four years old, and he had twenty years of fighting behind him. The
majority of this time had been spent trying to regain full Byzantine control
of the Peloponnese, with varying success. By 1430 he had cleared most of
the small foreign kingdoms out of the peninsula, and during the 1440s, as
despot of Morea, he pushed its boundaries forward into Northern Greece.
To Murat he was a constant irritant; a rebellious vassal who needed to be
cuffed back into line. Definitive retribution came in 1446 after the failed
Crusade of Varna. An Ottoman army swept into the Morea, devastating the
countryside and enslaving 60,000 Greeks. Constantine was forced to
conclude a humiliating truce, making vows of vassalage to the sultan and
paying a heavy tribute. Failure had dogged the enterprise of rebuilding
Byzantine fortunes in Greece, but his spirit, military skill, and
straightforwardness contrasted with the behavior of his three brothers –
Demetrios, Thomas, and Theodore – by turns self-seeking, treacherous,
quarrelsome, and indecisive, they contrived to hinder his attempts to prop
up the remnants of empire. Their mother, Helena, had to insist on
Constantine’s claim to the throne: he alone could be entrusted with the
inheritance.
 Coin of Constantine

In subsequent Byzantine legend bad luck clung to Constantine like a

curse – his well-meaning imperial venture in the Morea had been
courageous but ill-starred. He had fought on alone after the catastrophe at
Varna, when the Venetian fleet sailed home and the Genoese failed to send
their promised aid, but this persistence had visited considerable suffering on
the Greek people. His personal life was similarly unlucky. His first wife
died childless in 1429; his second in 1442. During the late 1440s he made
repeated attempts to forge a dynastic marriage that would shore up the
fortunes of his crown and create the possibility of a natural successor. They
all failed to come to fruition in the increasingly fraught political atmosphere
on the eve of Mehmet’s succession.

In February 1451 Mehmet settled into the royal palace at Edirne. His first
act was startling and decisive. When he died, Murat had left behind an
infant son by another wife – Little Ahmet. A few days later, while the
mother was paying an official visit to the throne room to express her grief at
his father’s death, Mehmet dispatched a minion, Ali Bey, to the women’s
quarters to drown Little Ahmet in the bath. The next day he executed Ali
Bey for the crime, then married the distraught mother off to one of his
nobles. It was an act of ruthless intelligence that carried the struggle for
power in the Ottoman court to its logical conclusion: only one could rule,
and to avoid the fractious possibilities of civil war, only one could survive –
to the Ottomans this seemed preferable to the endless struggles that sapped
the lifeblood of Byzantium. Instantly Mehmet had clarified the practice of
Ottoman succession, which he was later to codify as a law of fratricide:
“whichever of my sons inherits the sultan’s throne, it behooves him to kill
his brother in the interest of the world order. Most of the jurists have
approved this procedure. Let action be taken accordingly.” Henceforth
execution was to stalk the succession as a dreadful certainty. It would reach
its apogee with the sultanate of Mehmet III in 1595, when nineteen coffins
containing the bodies of his brothers were carried out of the palace. Despite
this, the fratricide law failed to prevent civil wars: with it came preemptive
acts of rebellion by frightened sons, a consequence that would return to
haunt Mehmet. In Constantinople the circumstances surrounding Little
Ahmet’s death should have provided a key to Mehmet’s character: it
appears they did not.
 4 Cutting the Throat FEBRUARY 1451-NOVEMBER
1452
The Bosphorus with one key opens and closes two worlds, two seas.
Pierre Gilles, sixteenth-century French scholar

Throughout the West, news of Murat’s death was greeted with relief. In
Venice, Rome, Genoa, and Paris they were all too ready to accept the
opinion set out in a letter from the Italian Francesco Filelfo to King Charles
of France a month later, that the young Mehmet was young, inexperienced,
and simpleminded. They would probably have been less interested in his
conclusion – that the time was ripe for a decisive military operation to drive
the Ottomans, “a mob of venal corrupt slaves,” out of Europe for good. Any
immediate appetite for crusading had been firmly scotched by the bloody
debacle at Varna in 1444, and the potentates of Europe welcomed the
prospect of the inexperienced, and so far disastrous, Mehmet ascending the
throne.
Those with a deeper knowledge of the Great Turk knew better. George
Sphrantzes, Constantine’s most trusted ambassador, was crossing the Black
Sea on his way from the king of Georgia to the emperor of Trebizond at the
time of Murat’s death. He was engaged in an interminable round of
diplomacy, seeking a suitable match for the widowed Constantine with the
aim of shoring up his beleaguered position, providing the possibility of an
heir and filling his coffers with dowry. At Trebizond the emperor John
Komnenos greeted him jovially with word of Mehmet’s accession: “Come,
Mr. Ambassador, I have good news for you and you must congratulate me.”
Sphrantzes’s reaction was startling: “Overcome by grief, as if I had been
told of the death of those dearest to me, I stood speechless. Finally, with
considerable loss of spirit, I said: ‘Lord this news brings no joy; on the
contrary, it is a cause for grief.’” Sphrantzes went on to explain what he
knew of Mehmet – that he was “an enemy of the Christians since
childhood” and keen to march against Constantinople. Moreover
Constantine was so short of funds that he needed a period of peace and
stability to repair the city’s finances.
Rumeli Hisari

Back in Constantinople ambassadors were hastily dispatched to Edirne

to present their respects to the young sultan and seek reassurance. They
were pleasantly surprised by the reception. Mehmet exuded sweet
reasonableness. He is said to have sworn by the Prophet, the Koran, “and by
the angels and archangels that he would devote himself to peace with the
City and the Emperor Constantine for his whole life.” He even granted the
Byzantines an annual sum from the tax revenues of some Greek towns in
the lower Struma valley that legally belonged to Prince Orhan, the Ottoman
pretender. The money was to go toward the upkeep of Orhan so long as he
was detained in the city.
 The stream of embassies that followed was similarly reassured. In
September the Venetians, who had trading interests in Edirne, renewed their
peace with Mehmet, while the Serbian despot, George Brankovi , was
soothed by the return of his daughter Mara, who had been married to Murat,
and the handing back of some towns. Mehmet, for his part, requested
George’s help in brokering a deal with the Hungarians, whose brilliant
leader, the regent John Hunyadi, presented the most potent threat from
Christian Europe. As Hunyadi needed to crush some domestic intrigues of
his own, he was willing to agree to a three-year truce. Emissaries from the
Genoese at Galata, from the lords of Chios, Lesbos, and Rhodes, from
Trebizond, Wallachia, and Dubrovnik were similarly able to secure
guarantees of peace on reasonable terms. By the autumn of 1451 it was
commonly accepted in the West that Mehmet was firmly under the thumb of
his peaceable vizier, Halil Pasha, and would pose a threat to no one – and it
seems too that many at Constantinople, less wary or less experienced than
Sphrantzes, were similarly lulled. It suited kings and potentates across the
Christian world to believe that all was well. Mehmet guarded his hand
carefully.
Christians were not alone in misreading Mehmet’s strength of character.
In the autumn of 1451, the troublesome bey of Karaman tried yet again to
wrest back territory in western Anatolia from Ottoman control. He occupied
fortresses, reinstated former chieftains, and invaded Ottoman land. Mehmet
sent his generals to put down the uprising, and having concluded his peace
treaties at Edirne, appeared on the scene himself. The effect was immediate.
The revolt was quickly crushed and Mehmet turned for home. At Bursa he
encountered a further test of strength – this time from his own Janissary
corps. “Standing with their arms in two rows on either side of the road, they
shouted at him: ‘This was our sultan’s first campaign, and he should reward
us with the customary bonus.’” On the spot he was forced to accede; ten
sacks of coins were distributed among the mutineers, but for Mehmet it was
a crucial test of wills that he was determined to win. A few days later he
summoned their general and castigated and stripped him of his office;
several of the officer corps were similarly punished. This was the second
revolt Mehmet had experienced, and he recognized the imperative to secure
the full loyalty of the Janissary corps if the capture of Constantinople were
to be successful. Accordingly the regiment was restructured; he added
7,000 men from his personal household troops and gave command to a new
general.
It was at this moment that Constantine and his advisers advanced an
initiative of their own that demonstrated how little they understood
Mehmet. Prince Orhan, the only other claimant to the Ottoman throne, was
lodged in Constantinople, his upkeep paid for out of the tax revenues agreed
with the sultan in the summer. The Byzantines dispatched ambassadors to
Halil at Bursa with a peremptory demand:
the Emperor of the Romans does not accept the annual allowance of three hundred thousand aspers.
For Orhan, who is equal to your leader as a descendant of Osman, has now come of age. Every day
many flock to him. They call him lord and leader. He himself does not have the means to be generous
to his followers, so he asks the Emperor, who because he lacks funds, cannot satisfy these requests.
Therefore we ask one of two things: either double the allowance, or we will release Orhan.

The implication was clear enough – if the young sultan failed to pay, a rival
claimant to the throne would be at large to foment civil war in the empire.
It was a classic ploy. Throughout its history, the exploitation of dynastic
rivalry among adjacent states had been a cornerstone of Byzantine
diplomacy. It had frequently offset periods of military weakness and earned
Byzantium an unenviable and unequaled reputation for cunning. The
Ottomans had had a prior taste of these tactics under Constantine’s father,
Manuel II, when the dynasty had almost collapsed in a civil war shrewdly
promulgated by the emperor, an episode of which Mehmet was keenly
aware. Constantine evidently saw Orhan as a golden card, perhaps the only
card left, and decided to play it. Under the circumstances it was a serious
blunder – and almost inexplicable, given the knowledge of seasoned
diplomats such as Sphrantzes about the politics of the Ottoman court. It
may simply have been dictated by the state of the imperial finances rather
than any realistic expectation of stirring up insurrection, but it confirmed
for the war party at the Ottoman court all the reasons why Constantinople
must be taken. It was a proposal almost calculated to destroy Halil’s
attempts at peacekeeping – and to endanger the vizier’s own position. The
old vizier exploded with anger:
You stupid Greeks, I have had enough of your devious ways. The late sultan was a lenient and
conscientious friend to you. The present sultan is not of the same mind. If Constantine eludes his
bold and imperious grasp, it will be only because God continues to overlook your cunning and
wicked schemes. You are fools to think that you can frighten us with your fantasies, and that when
the ink on our recent treaty is barely dry. We are not children without strength or reason. If you think
you can start something, do so. If you want to proclaim Orhan as sultan in Thrace, go ahead. If you
want to bring the Hungarians across the Danube, let them come. If you want to recover the places
which you lost long since, try this. But know this: you will make no headway in any of these things.
All that you will achieve is to lose what little you still have.

Mehmet himself received the news with a poker face. He dismissed the
ambassadors with “affable sentiments” and promised to look into the matter
when he returned to Edirne. Constantine had handed him an invaluable
pretext for breaking his own word when the time was right.
On his way back to Edirne Mehmet discovered that it was impossible to
cross to Gallipoli as he intended. The Dardanelles were blocked by Italian
ships. Accordingly he made his way up the straits of the Bosphorus to the
Ottoman fortress of Anadolu Hisari – “the Anatolian castle” – built by his
grandfather Bayezit in 1395 at the time of his siege of the city. At this spot
the distance that separates Asia from Europe shrinks to a mere 700 yards,
and it affords the best point to cross the fast-flowing and treacherous
waters, a fact known to the Persian king Darius, who moved an army of
700,000 men across on a bridge of boats on his way to battle 2,000 years
earlier. As Mehmet’s small fleet of ships scuttled back and forth ferrying
men across to Europe, his fertile mind pondered the Bosphorus and he
seems to have come to a number of conclusions. The straits represented an
area of vulnerability for the Ottomans: it was impossible to be the secure
lord of two continents if crossing between them could not be guaranteed; at
the same time, if he could find a way to dominate the Bosphorus, Mehmet
could strangle the supply of grain and help to the city from the Greek
colonies on the Black Sea and cut off the customs revenues it derived from
shipping. The idea came to him to construct a second fortress on the
European side, on land belonging to the Byzantines, to secure control of the
straits, so that the “path of the vessels of the infidels may be blocked.” It
was probably now that he also recognized the acute need for a larger fleet to
counter Christian maritime superiority.
Once back at Edirne he took immediate action over the Byzantine
ultimatum, confiscating the taxes from the towns on the Struma intended
for Orhan’s maintenance and expelling its Greek inhabitants. Perhaps
Constantine could already feel pressure tightening on the city; he had
dispatched an envoy to Italy in the summer of 1451 who went first to
Venice to seek permission to recruit archers from the Venetian colony of
Crete and then to Rome with a message to the pope. More likely,
Constantine was still hopeful that positive offensive action could be taken
against the new sultan: there was no hint of emergency in the messages sent
to the Italian states.
As the winter of 1451 approached, Mehmet was in Edirne, restlessly
making plans. Here he surrounded himself with a group of Westerners,
particularly Italians, with whom he discussed the great heroes of classical
antiquity, Alexander and Caesar, his role models for the future that he
intended. Remembering the disturbance among the Janissaries at Bursa in
the autumn, he carried out further reforms of the army and the
administration. New governors were appointed to some provinces, the pay
of the palace regiments was increased, and he began to stockpile armaments
and supplies. It is likely that he also embarked on a shipbuilding program.
At the same time the idea of the castle was taking shape in his mind. He
sent out proclamations to every province of the empire requisitioning the
services of thousands of masons, laborers, and limekiln workers the
following spring. Arrangements were also made for the collection and
transportation of building materials – “stone and timber and iron and
everything else that was useful” … “for the construction of a castle at the
Sacred Mouth above the city” – near the site of the ruined church of St.
Michael.
The news of this decree swiftly reached Constantinople and the Greek
colonies on the Black Sea and the islands of the Aegean. A mood of
pessimism swept the people; old prophecies were recalled foretelling the
end of the world: “now you can see the portents of the imminent destruction
of our nation. The days of the Antichrist have come. What will happen to
us? What should we do?” Urgent prayers were offered up for deliverance in
the city churches. At the end of 1451 Constantine dispatched another
messenger to Venice with more urgent news: the sultan was preparing a
massive buildup against the city and unless help was sent it would surely
fall. The Venetian Senate deliberated at its own speed and delivered their
reply on February 14, 1452. It was characteristically cautious; they had no
desire to compromise their commercial advantages within the Ottoman
Empire. They suggested that the Byzantines should seek the cooperation of
other states rather than relying on the Venetians alone, though they did
authorize the dispatch of gunpowder and breastplates that Constantine had
requested. Constantine meanwhile had no option but to make direct
representations to Mehmet. His ambassadors trundled back over the hills of
Thrace for another audience. They pointed out that Mehmet was breaking a
treaty by threatening to build this new castle without consultation, that
when his great-grandfather had built the castle at Anadolu Hisari he had
made this request of the emperor, “as a son would beg his father.” Mehmet’s
response was short and to the point: “what the city contains is its own;
beyond the fosse it has no dominion, owns nothing. If I want to build a
fortress at the sacred mouth, it can’t forbid me.” He reminded the Greeks of
the many Christian attempts to bar Ottoman passage over the straits and
concluded in typically forthright style: “Go away and tell your emperor this:
‘the sultan who now rules is not like his predecessors. What they couldn’t
achieve, he can do easily and at once; the things they did not wish to do, he
certainly does. The next man to come here on a mission like this will be
flayed alive.’” It could hardly be clearer.
In mid-March Mehmet set out from Edirne to start the building work.
He went first to Gallipoli; from there he dispatched six galleys with some
smaller warships, “well-prepared for a sea battle – in case that should be
necessary,” and sixteen transport barges to carry equipment. He then made
his way to the chosen spot by land with the army. The whole operation was
typical of his style. Mehmet’s genius at logistical arrangements ensured that
men and materials were mobilized on cue and in enormous quantities with
the aim of completing the task in the shortest possible time. The governors
of provinces in both Europe and Asia gathered their conscripted men and
set out for the site. The vast army of workers – “masons, carpenters, smiths,
and lime burners, and also various other workmen needed for that, without
any lack, with axes, shovels, hoes, picks, and with other iron tools” –
arrived to start the work. Building materials were ferried across the straits in
lumbering transport barges: lime and slaking ovens, stone from Anatolia,
timber from the forests of the Black Sea and from Izmit, while his war
galleys cruised the outer straits. Mehmet personally surveyed the site on
horseback and in conjunction with his architects, who were both Christian
converts, planned the details of the layout: “the distance between the outer
towers and the main turrets and the gates and everything else he worked out
carefully in his head.” He had probably sketched outline plans for the castle
over the winter in Edirne. He oversaw the staking out of the ground plan
and laid the cornerstone. Rams were killed and their blood mixed with the
chalk and mortar of the first layer of bricks for good luck. Mehmet was
deeply superstitious and strongly influenced by astrology; there were those
who claimed the curious shape of the castle to be cabbalistic; that it
represented the interwoven Arabic initials of the Prophet – and of Mehmet
himself. More likely the layout was dictated by the steep and difficult
terrain of the Bosphorus shore, comprising “twisting curves, densely
wooded promontories, retreating bays and bends” and rising to a height of
two hundred feet from the shore to the apex of the site.
The work started on Saturday, April 15, and was carefully organized
under a system of competitive piecework that relied on Mehmet’s
characteristic mixture of threats and rewards and involved the whole
workforce, from the greatest vizier to the humblest hod carrier. The
structure was four sided, with three great towers at its cardinal points linked
by massive walls and a smaller fourth tower inserted into the southwest
corner. The responsibility for building – and funding – the outer towers was
given to four of his viziers, Halil, Zaganos, Shihabettin, and Saruja. They
were encouraged to compete in the speedy construction of their portion,
which given the tense internal power struggles at court and the watchful eye
of their imperious sultan who “gave up all thoughts of relaxation” to
oversee their work, was a powerful spur to performance. Mehmet himself
undertook the building of the connecting walls and minor towers. The
workforce of over 6,000, which comprised 2,000 masons and 4,000
masons’ assistants, as well as a full complement of other workmen, was
carefully subdivided on military principles. Each mason was assigned two
helpers, one to work each side of him, and was held responsible for the
construction of a fixed quantity of wall per day. Discipline was overseen by
a force of kadis (judges), gathered from across the empire, who had the
power of capital punishment; enforcement and military protection was
provided by a substantial army detachment. At the same time Mehmet
“publicly offered the very best rewards to those who could do the work
quickly and well.” In this intense climate of competition and fear, according
to Doukas even the nobility sometimes found it useful to encourage their
workforce by personally carrying stones and lime for the perspiring masons.
The scene resembled a cross between a small makeshift town and a large
building site. Thousands of tents sprang up nearby at the ruined Greek
village of Asomaton; boats maneuvered their way back and forth across the
choppy running currents of the strait; smoke billowed from the smoldering
lime pits; hammers chinked in the warm air; voices called. The work went
on around the clock, torches burning late into the night. The walls, encased
in a latticework of wooden scaffolding, rose at an astounding speed. Around
the site, spring unfolded along the Bosphorus: on the densely wooded
slopes wisteria and judas trees put out their blossom; chestnut candles
flowered like white stars; in the tranquil darkness, when moonlight rippled
and ran across the glittering straits, nightingales sang in the pines.

Within the city they watched the preparations with growing apprehension.
The Greeks had been stunned by the sudden appearance of a hitherto
unknown Ottoman fleet in the straits. From the roof of St. Sophia and the
top of the Sphendone, the still surviving raised section at the southern end
of the Hippodrome, they could glimpse the hive of activity six miles
upstream. Constantine and his ministers were at a loss about how to
respond, but Mehmet went out of his way to tease a reaction. Early in the
project Ottoman workmen began to pillage certain ruined monasteries and
churches near the castle for building materials. The Greek villagers who
lived nearby and the inhabitants of the city still held these places as sacred
sites. At the same time Ottoman soldiers and builders started to raid their
fields. As the summer wore on and the crops approached harvest, these twin
aggravations turned into flashpoints. Workmen were removing columns
from the ruined church of Michael the Archangel when some inhabitants of
the city tried to stop them; they were captured and executed. If Mehmet was
hoping to draw Constantine out to fight, he failed. The emperor may have
been tempted to make a sortie but was talked out of it. Instead he resolved
to defuse the situation by offering to send food out to the building workers
to prevent them robbing Greek crops. Mehmet responded by encouraging
his men to let their animals loose in the fields to graze, while ordering the
Greek farmers not to hinder them. Eventually the farmers, provoked beyond
endurance by the sight of their crops being ravaged, chased the animals out
and a skirmish ensued in which men were killed on both sides. Mehmet
ordered his commander, Kara Bey, to punish the inhabitants of the
offending village. The following day a detachment of cavalry surprised the
farmers as they harvested their fields and put them all to the sword.
When Constantine heard of the massacre, he closed the city gates and
detained all the Ottoman subjects within. Among these were a number of
Mehmet’s young eunuchs who were on a visit to the city. On the third day
of their captivity they petitioned Constantine for release, declaring that their
master would be angry with them for not returning. They begged either to
be freed at once or executed, on the grounds that release later would still
result in their death at the sultan’s hand. Constantine relented and let the
men go. He sent one more embassy to the sultan with a message of
resignation and defiance:
since you have preferred war to peace and I can call you back to peace neither with oaths or pleas,
then follow your own will. I take refuge in God. If He has decreed and decided to hand over this city
to you, who can contradict Him or prevent it? If He instills the idea of peace in your mind, I would
gladly agree. For the moment, now that you have broken the treaties to which I am bound by oath, let
these be dissolved. Henceforth I will keep the city gates closed. I will fight for the inhabitants with all
my strength. You may continue in your power until the Righteous Judge passes sentence on each of
us.

It was a clear declaration of Constantine’s resolve. Mehmet simply executed

the envoys and sent a curt reply: “Either surrender the city or stand ready to
do battle.” An Ottoman detachment was dispatched to ravage the area
beyond the city walls and carry off flocks and captives, but Constantine had
largely removed the population from the nearby villages into the city,
together with the harvested crops. The Ottoman chroniclers record that he
also sent bribes to Halil to pursue his quest for peace, but this seems more
likely to be the propaganda of the vizier’s enemies. From midsummer the
gates of the city were to remain shut, and the two sides were effectively at
war.
On Thursday, August 31, 1452, Mehmet’s new fortress was complete, a
bare four and a half months after the first stone was laid. It was huge, “not
like a fortress,” in the words of Kritovoulos, “more like a small town,” and
it dominated the sea. The Ottomans called it Bogaz Kesen, the Cutter of the
Straits or the Throat Cutter, though in time it would become known as the
European castle, Rumeli Hisari. The triangular structure with its four large
and thirteen small towers, its curtain walls twenty-two feet thick and fifty
feet tall, and its towers roofed with lead represented an astonishing building
feat for the time. Mehmet’s ability to coordinate and complete extraordinary
projects at breakneck speed was continually to dumbfound his opponents in
the months ahead.

A re-creation of Rumeli Hisari, the Throat Cutter

On August 28, Mehmet rode around the top of the Golden Horn with his
army and camped outside the city walls, now firmly barred against him. For
three days he scrutinized the defenses and the terrain in forensic detail,
making notes and sketches and analyzing potential weaknesses in the
fortifications. On September 1, with autumn coming on, he rode off back to
Edirne well satisfied with his summer’s work, and the fleet sailed back to its
base at Gallipoli. The Throat Cutter was garrisoned with 400 men under its
commander Firuz Bey, who was ordered to detain all ships passing up and
down the straits on payment of a toll. To add force to this menace, a number
of cannon had been constructed and hauled to the site. Small ordnance was
mounted on the battlements, but a battery of large guns, “like dragons with
fiery throats,” was installed on the seashore beneath the castle wall. The
guns, which were angled in different directions to command a wide field of
fire, were capable of sending huge stone balls weighing 600 pounds
whistling low across the surface of the water level with the hulls of passing
ships, like stones skimming across a pond. They were matched by other
guns at the castle opposite, so that “not even a bird could fly from the
Mediterranean to the Black Sea.” Henceforth no ship could pass up or down
to the Black Sea unexamined, either by day or night. “In this manner,”
recorded the Ottoman chronicler Sad-ud-din, “the Padishah, the asylum of
the world, blockading that strait, closed the way of the vessels of the enemy,
and cauterized the liver of the blind-hearted emperor.”
In the city Constantine was gathering his resources against a war that
now looked inevitable, and dispatching messengers to the West with
increasing urgency. He sent word to his brothers in the Morea, Thomas and
Demetrios, asking them to come at once to the city. He made extravagant
offers of land to any who would send help: to Hunyadi of Hungary he
offered either Selymbria or Mesembria on the Black Sea, to Alfonso of
Aragon and Naples the island of Lemnos. He made appeals to the Genoese
on Chios, to Dubrovnik, Venice, and yet again to the pope. Practical help
was hardly forthcoming, but the powers of Christian Europe were
reluctantly becoming aware that an ominous shadow was falling over
Constantinople. A flurry of diplomatic notes was exchanged. Pope Nicholas
had persuaded the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick III, to send a stern but
empty ultimatum to the sultan in March. Alfonso of Naples dispatched a
flotilla of ten ships to the Aegean then withdrew them again. The Genoese
were troubled by the threat to their colonies at Galata and on the Black Sea
but were unable to provide practical help; instead they ordered the podesta
(mayor) of Galata to make the best arrangements he could with Mehmet
should the city fall. The Venetian Senate gave similarly equivocal
instructions to its commanders in the eastern Mediterranean: they must
protect Christians while not giving offense to the Turks. They knew that
Mehmet threatened their Black Sea trade almost before the Throat Cutter
was finished; soon their spies would be sending back detailed sketch maps
of the threatening fortress and its guns. The issue was coming closer to
home: a vote in the Senate in August to abandon Constantinople to its fate
was easily defeated but resulted in no more decisive counteraction.
Back in Edirne, Mehmet had either predicted, or got wind of,
Constantine’s appeal to his brothers in the Morea – and moved rapidly to
scotch it. On October 1, 1452, he ordered his elderly general Turahan Bey
to march into the Peloponnese and attack Demetrios and Thomas. He
ravaged the countryside, striking far into the south and making the release
of forces back to Constantinople an impossibility. Meanwhile the supply of
grain from the Black Sea was starting to dry up. A new embassy was sent to
Venice in the autumn. The Senate’s reply on November 16 was as vague as
before, but the Venetians were shortly to have their attention drawn into
sharp focus by events farther east.
By November the masters of Italian ships plying the routes between the
Black Sea and the Mediterranean found themselves in a quandary as to
whether to submit to Mehmet’s custom toll at the Throat Cutter or to ignore
it and risk the consequences. The force of the current meant that ships
traveling downstream had a fair chance of passing through the checkpoint
before they could be blasted out of the water. On November 26, a Venetian
captain, Antonio Rizzo, came down the Bosphorus from the Black Sea with
a cargo of food for the city. Approaching the castle, he decided to take the
risk. Ignoring warning shouts from the bank to lower his sails, Rizzo
pressed on. A volley of shots sped low across the water, and one giant stone
ball struck the lightweight hull of his galley, shattering it. The captain and
thirty survivors were able to make it to the shore in a small boat where they
were promptly captured, bound in chains, and marched off to face the
sultan’s displeasure in the town of Didimotkon near Edirne. While they
languished in prison, the Venetian ambassador in Constantinople traveled
quickly to the imperial court to beg for the sailors’ lives. He arrived too
late. Mehmet had determined to make an example of the Venetians. Most of
the men he beheaded; Rizzo himself was impaled “by a stake through his
anus.” All the bodies were then left to rot outside the town walls as a
warning against disobedience. “I saw them a few days later, when I went
there,” the Greek chronicler Doukas recalled. A few of the sailors were
returned to Constantinople to ensure the news got back to the city. There
was one other survivor: Mehmet took a fancy to the son of Rizzo’s clerk
and put the boy in the seraglio.
This savage demonstration had the desired effect. It drove the populace
of Constantinople into instant panic. Meanwhile, despite Constantine’s
emissaries, there was still no sign of concerted help from the West. Only the
pope could stand above Europe’s factional mercantile interests, dynastic
feuds, and wars and appeal for help in the name of Christendom, but the
papacy itself was involved in an intractable and long-running dispute with
the Orthodox Church that cast a shadow over all such dealings. It was about
to severely blight Constantine’s chances of organizing effective resistance.
 5 The Dark Church NOVEMBER 1452–FEBRUARY
1453
It is far better for a country to remain under the rule of Islam than be governed by Christians who
refuse to acknowledge the rights of the Catholic Church.
Pope Gregory VII, 1073

Flee from the papists as you would from a snake and from the flames of a fire.
St. Mark Eugenicus, fifteenth-century Greek Orthodox theologian

The principal source of Constantine’s difficulties in mustering help from the

West and organizing an effective defense of his city could be pinpointed to
a dramatic incident one summer’s day nearly four hundred years earlier –
though its causes were far older even than that.
On July 16, 1054, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, as the clergy
were preparing for the afternoon liturgy in St. Sophia, three prelates,
dressed in full canonical robes, stepped into the church through one of the
great west doors and walked purposefully toward the altar, watched by the
gathering congregation. The men were cardinals of the Catholic Church
sent from Rome by the pope to settle theological disputes with their
brothers in the East and led by one Humbert of Mourmoutiers. They had
been in the city for some time, but this afternoon, after lengthy and
awkward negotiations, they had lost patience and were coming to take
decisive action. Humbert carried in his hands a document whose content
was to prove explosive for Christian unity. Advancing into the sanctuary, he
placed a bull of excommunication on the great altar, turned smartly on his
heels, and walked out. As the stiff-necked cardinal clopped back into the
brilliant summer light he shook the dust from his feet and proclaimed: “Let
God look and judge.” One of the church deacons ran into the street after
Humbert, waving the bull and beseeching him to take it back. Humbert
refused and walked off, leaving the document lying in the dust. Two days
later the cardinals took a ship back to Rome; violent religious rioting broke
out in the streets that was only pacified by pronouncing anathema on the
papal delegation; the offending document was publicly burned. This
incident was the start of a process known to history as the Great Schism,
which was to inflict deep wounds on Christendom – the anathemas were not
rescinded until 1965, but the scars still remain. And for Constantine in the
winter of 1452 they were to pose an intractable problem.
The church of St. Sophia

In reality the events of that day were only the culmination of a lengthy
process of separation between two forms of worship that had been gathering
force for hundreds of years. It was based as much as anything on cultural,
political, and economic differences. In the East they worshiped in Greek, in
the West in Latin; there were different forms of worship, different
approaches to church organization, and differing views on the role of the
pope. More generally the Byzantines had come to regard their Western
neighbors as uncouth barbarians; they probably had more in common with
the Muslims on their frontier than the Franks across the sea. At the center of
their disagreement, however, were two key issues. The Orthodox were
prepared to accept that the pope had a special place among the patriarchs,
but they bridled at the notion articulated by Pope Nicholas I in 865 that his
office was endowed with authority “over all the earth, that is, over every
church.” This they perceived as autocratic arrogance.
The second issue was doctrinal. The bull of excommunication had
accused the Eastern Church of omitting one word from the creed – a matter
of supreme importance to the theologically preoccupied citizens of
Byzantium. The apparently innocuous word, in Latin filioque, “and from
the son,” had immense significance. Whereas the original Nicene Creed
ran: “I believe … in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life, who
proceeds from the Father, who with the Father and the Son together is
worshipped and together glorified,” the Church in the West had come to add
the additional word “filioque” to make the text read “who proceeds from the
father and from the son.” In time the upshouldering Roman church even
started to accuse the Orthodox of error for omitting the phrase. The
Orthodox, in reply, claimed that the addition was theologically untrue; that
the Holy Spirit proceeds only from the Father, and to add the name of the
Son was heretical. Such issues were the stuff of riots within Constantinople.
With time the rift widened, despite efforts to patch it up. The sack of
Constantinople in 1204 by “Christian” crusaders, which Pope Innocent III
himself declared to be “an example of perdition and the works of darkness,”
added a wider cultural hatred of all things connected to the West; so did the
mercantile power of the Italian city-states that grew at Byzantium’s expense
as a direct result of the plunder. In 1340 Baalaam of Calabria suggested to
Pope Benedict XII that it was not so much “a difference of dogma that turns
the hearts of the Greeks against you as the hatred of the Latins which has
entered into their spirits, in consequence of the many and great evils which
the Greeks have suffered from the Latins at various times, and are still
suffering day by day.” It was true up to a point. But dogma was always
central to the way ordinary people in the city lived their faith, and their
tenacity to its tenets, in the face of attempts over the centuries by their own
emperors to impose anything they considered contrary, had been a stubborn
and persistent pattern in the mosaic of Byzantine history.
By the fifteenth century the relentless pressure of the Ottoman state was
forcing successive emperors westward in a wearying round of pleas for
help. When the emperor John VIII toured Italy and Hungary in the 1420s
the Catholic king of Hungary suggested that aid would be more readily
forthcoming if the Orthodox united with the Church of Rome and swore
loyalty to its pope and creed. Union had become for the ruling families a
potential tool of policy as much as a matter of faith: the threat of a united
Christian Crusade was used repeatedly to restrain Ottoman aggression
against the city. (John’s father Manuel had given typically Byzantine advice
to his children on his deathbed: “Whenever the Turks begin to be
troublesome, send embassies to the West at once, offer to accept union, and
protract negotiations to great length; the Turks so greatly fear such union
that they will become reasonable; and still the union will not be
accomplished because of the enmity of the Latin nations!”) The advice had
proved useful in the past, but as the Ottomans grew stronger they tended to
exactly the opposite course of action: the move toward union became
increasingly a spur to armed intervention. For John VIII, however, fear of
Ottoman displeasure and the distrust of his people were being outweighed
by the frequency with which the enemy was knocking on the gates of the
city, and when Pope Eugenius IV proposed a council in Italy to accomplish
union of the churches, he set sail again in November 1437, leaving his
brother Constantine as regent to mind the city.
The resulting Council of Florence was a protracted, bitter affair that was
not concluded until June 1439. When it finally proclaimed that the union of
the two churches had been achieved, church bells rang out across Europe all
the way to England. Only one of the Orthodox delegates had refused to sign
the document, which had been phrased in a wording designed to fudge
some of the key issues: papal claims to supremacy were recognized along
with the concept of the filioque, though the Orthodox were not actually
required to insert it into their creed. But for the Greeks, acceptance began to
unravel almost before the ink was dry. Back in the city the Orthodox
faithful greeted the returning delegation with hostility; many of those who
signed immediately revoked their signatures. The Eastern patriarchs refused
to accept the decision of their delegates; the next patriarch of
Constantinople, Gregory Mammas, who supported the union, was widely
unpopular, and it became impossible to celebrate the union in St. Sophia.
The issue split the city in two: Constantine and most of his immediate circle
of nobles, officers, and civil servants supported the union; only a fraction of
the clergy and people did – they believed that union had been forced on
them by the treacherous Franks and that their immortal souls had been
imperiled for base and materialistic motives. The people were profoundly
antipapist: they were accustomed to equate the pope with the antichrist, “the
wolf, the destroyer”; “Rum Papa,” the Roman Pope, was a popular choice
of name for city dogs. The citizens formed a volatile proletariat:
impoverished, superstitious, easily swayed to riot and disorder.
 The sea of religious trouble that Constantine inherited with the title of
emperor was not untypical of the whole long history of Byzantium:
Constantine the Great had been similarly vexed by doctrinal disputes eleven
hundred years earlier. Constantine XI was a soldier rather than a theologian,
and his view of the union was strictly pragmatic. He was obsessed by only
one thing – saving the city whose ancient past had been put in his care. If
union presented the only chance of doing this, then so be it, but this did not
endear him to his citizens. His constitutional position was also precarious:
he had never been formally crowned in Mistra. The ceremony should have
taken place in St. Sophia, but there was a strong feeling that the coronation
of a unionist emperor by a unionist patriarch would risk grave public
disorder. It was quietly shelved. Many in the city refused to remember their
new emperor in their prayers, and one of the chief doubters at the Council,
George Scholarios, took to a monastery under the monastic name of
Gennadios and started to orchestrate resistance in the form of a synod of
antiunionist clergy. In 1451 the patriarch Gregory tired of this unremitting
hostility and departed for Rome, where he kept Pope Nicholas fully
informed of the activities of the antiunionists. No suitable candidate could
be found to replace him. Constantinople henceforth had neither a fully
legitimate emperor nor a patriarch.
As the threat of war with Mehmet grew, Constantine addressed a series
of increasingly desperate pleas to the pope; unwisely perhaps, he also
included a statement from the antiunionists proposing a new synod.
Gregory’s briefings about the state of the union in Constantinople had
hardened Nicholas’s heart, and he was in no mood for further prevarication
from the backsliding Greeks. The response was frosty: “If you, with your
nobles and the people of Constantinople accept the decree of union, you
will find Us and Our venerable brothers, the cardinals of the Holy Roman
Church, ever eager to support your honour and your empire. But if you and
your people refuse to accept the decree, you will force Us to take such
measures as are necessary for your salvation and Our honour.” The threat
only stiffened the resolve of the antiunionists, who continued to work to
undermine Constantine’s position in the city. In September 1452 one of
their number wrote: “Constantine Palaiologos … remains uncrowned
because the church has no leader and is indeed in disarray as a result of the
turmoil and confusion brought upon it by the falsely named union … This
union was evil and displeasing to God and has instead split the church and
scattered its children and destroyed us utterly. Truth to tell, this is the source
of all our other misfortunes.”
Back in Rome Pope Nicholas resolved on steps to enforce the decisions
taken in Florence. He decided to send a papal legate to Constantinople to
ensure that the union was celebrated in St. Sophia. The man he chose was
Cardinal Isidore, formerly Bishop of Kiev. Isidore was a Byzantine who
understood the delicacies of the problem at first hand. He had accepted
union at Florence. On his return to Kiev his Orthodox flock had rejected
and imprisoned him. He set out for Constantinople in May 1452 with a
body of 200 archers, funded by the pope, as a gesture of military support for
his principally theological mission. En route he was joined by Leonard of
Chios, the Genoese archbishop of Lesbos, a man who was to be an engaged
and partisan commentator on everything that ensued. Advance warning had
reached the antiunionists of their coming and whipped the city into deeper
turmoil. Gennadios delivered a virulent public harangue against union that
lasted from midday until evening. He begged the people to hold fast to their
faith rather than hope for material assistance that would be of little value.
However, when Cardinal Isidore stepped ashore at Constantinople on
October 26, 1452, the sight of his small body of archers made a favorable
impression on the populace. This small troop of men might only be the
advance guard of a substantial force: there was a visible shift in favor of
union. For a while opinion seesawed back and forth in the volatile city. The
antiunionists were held to be unpatriotic, but when no further ships arrived,
the people again swung back to Gennadios, and there were outbreaks of
antiunionist rioting. Leonard demanded in shrill tones that Constantine
should imprison the ringleaders. He complained bitterly that: “apart from …
a certain few monks and laymen, pride had possessed nearly all the Greeks,
so that there was no one who, moved by zeal for the true Faith or for his
own salvation, would be seen to be the first to be contemptuous of his
obstinate opinions.” Constantine refused to act on this advice; he feared the
city might descend into chaos. Instead he called the antiunionist synod to
the palace to explain their objections.
Ten days later, the sound of gunfire at the Throat Cutter could be heard
in the city. As the fate of Rizzo and his crew became known, a new spasm
of fear gripped the population. Support returned to the unionists once more.
Gennadios issued another blast against the waverers: that help from the
West would lead to the loss of their faith, that its value would be doubtful,
and that he at least would have nothing to do with it. Gennadios had deeper
worries than the loss of the city: he sincerely believed that the end of the
world was nigh. He was concerned that the Orthodox should face the
apocalypse with spotless souls. There was further disorder in the streets.
Monks, nuns, and lay people ranged about shouting: “We don’t want Latin
help or Latin union; let us be rid of the worship of the unleavened.” Despite
Gennadios, it seems that a begrudging decision was taken by the frightened
populace to accept the Council of Florence, at least temporarily. (With true
sophistry, the Byzantines had a time-honored escape clause for such an
action: the Doctrine of Economy, which permitted the temporary acceptance
of an unorthodox theological position to ensure survival – it was an
approach to spiritual matters that had repeatedly infuriated the Catholic
Church.) Cardinal Isidore for his part judged that the moment was ripe to
enforce the act of union – and to save the imperiled souls of the Greeks.
In this supercharged atmosphere of fear and religious hysteria, a liturgy
to celebrate the union was performed on December 12, 1452, in the dead
days of winter. It took place in St. Sophia “with the greatest solemnity on
the part of the clergy, and also the reverend cardinal of Russia was there,
who was sent by the Pope, and also the most serene Emperor with all his
lords and the whole population of Constantinople.” The decrees of the
union were read out and the pope was commemorated in the prayers, along
with the absent patriarch Gregory, but the details of the service were alien to
many of the watching Greeks: the language and ritual of the service were
Catholic rather than Orthodox, the consecrated Host consisted of
unleavened bread, a heresy to the Orthodox, and cold water was poured into
the cup and mixed with the wine. Isidore wrote to the pope announcing the
success of his mission:
the whole of the city of Constantinople was united with the Catholic church; your Holiness was
remembered in the liturgy, and the most reverend patriarch Gregory, who during his stay in
Constantinople was not remembered in any church, not even his own monastery, after the union was
remembered in the whole city. They were all from the least to the greatest, together with the emperor,
thanks be to God, united and catholic.
Only Gennadios and eight other monks had refused to participate, according
to Isidore. It was probably wishful thinking. One Italian eyewitness
recorded that the day was marked by great lamentations in the city. There
was evidently no rioting during the service. More likely the Orthodox
faithful participated through clenched teeth, then marched off to the
monastery of the Pantocrator to consult Gennadios, who had become de
facto the spiritual father of Orthodoxy and the patriarch in waiting. He,
however, had retreated to his cell in silence and would not come out.
Henceforth the Orthodox shunned St. Sophia as “nothing better than a
Jewish synagogue or a heathen temple”; they worshiped only in the
securely Orthodox churches of the city. Without patriarch or congregation,
the great church fell dark and silent. The continuous round of prayer died
away, and the thousands of oil lamps that illuminated its dome, “like the
whole heaven, scattered with glittering stars,” sputtered and went out. The
sparsely attended services of the unionists huddled before the sanctuary.
Birds fluttered mournfully around the nave. The Orthodox felt that the
fulminations of Gennadios had proved justified: no mighty fleet sailed up
the Marmara in defense of Christendom. From now on the split between
unionist and Orthodox, between Greek and Latin, was deeper than ever, and
it was reflected, henceforward, in all the Christian accounts of the siege.
Schism was to cast a long shadow over Constantine’s attempts to defend the
city.
On November 1, 1452, shortly before he retreated into self-imposed
isolation, Gennadios had posted a manifesto on the monastery door of the
Pantocrator. It read like the blast of prophecy, full of apocalyptic doom and
self-justification:
Wretched Romans, how you have been led astray! You have departed from hope, which rests in God,
by trusting in the power of the Franks. As well as the City itself, which will soon be destroyed, you
have lost the true religion. O Lord, be merciful to me. I give witness in Your presence that I am pure
and innocent from blame in this matter. Be aware, miserable citizens, what you are doing today. With
slavery, which is hanging over your heads, you have denied the true faith handed down to you by
your forefathers. You have confessed your impiety. Woe to you when you are judged!

A hundred and fifty miles away in Edirne, Mehmet followed these

developments with more than passing interest. Fear of Christian unity had
always been one of the guiding principles of Ottoman foreign policy; to
Halil Pasha it justified the continuation of a peace policy: any attempt on
the city might finally unite Christendom and turn Constantinople into the
cause of a new Crusade. However, to Mehmet the intelligence from the city
seemed promising. It encouraged him to be bold.
The sultan spent the short winter days and long nights brooding over his
dreams of conquest. He was obsessed but uncertain. He tried on the
trappings of imperial power in his new palace at Edirne, continuing to
reform his household troops and tampering with the silver content of the
currency to pay for it all. Mehmet gathered about him a group of Italian
advisers, from whom he gleaned intelligence about the events in the West
and military technology. He spent his days poring over illustrated treatises
on fortifications and siege warfare. He was restless, febrile, irresolute. He
consulted astrologers and turned over in his mind a method for unlocking
the city’s defenses, struggling with the conservative wisdom of the old
viziers who declared that it could not be done. At the same time he studied
Ottoman history and the accounts of previous sieges of the city, forensically
examining the causes for their failure. Unable to sleep, he spent his nights
drawing sketches of the fortifications that he had scrutinized in the summer
and designing strategies for storming them.
The chronicler Doukas has left a vivid account of these dark obsessive
days. The picture he paints of the secretive, mistrustful sultan, eaten up by
ambition, has a ring of truth about it, though probably intensified for his
Christian audience. According to Doukas, Mehmet took to wandering about
the streets at dusk disguised as a common soldier, listening to the gossip
about him in the markets and caravanserais. If anyone were unwise enough
to recognize and hail their sultan with the customary acclamation, Mehmet
would stab the man to death. It was the kind of story, repeated with endless
variants, that fully satisfied the Western image of the bloodthirsty tyrant.
One night, toward the small hours, he sent his palace guards to fetch Halil,
whom he perhaps saw as the main hindrance to his plans. The old vizier
trembled at the summons; to be called to appear before “God’s shadow on
earth” at such an hour did not bode well. He embraced his wife and children
as if for the last time and followed the soldiers, carrying a golden salver
loaded with coins. Doukas suggests that his fear was justified: that he had
taken many bribes from the Greeks to dissuade Mehmet from war, though
the truth of this remains forever unclear – Halil had been rich enough in his
own right to lend money to the old sultan, Mehmet’s father. When Halil
reached the royal bedchamber, he found Mehmet up and dressed. The old
man prostrated himself on the ground and proffered the dish. “What is
this?” Mehmet asked. “Lord,” Halil replied, “it is customary when a noble
is summoned before his master at an unusual hour not to appear empty
handed.” “I do not need gifts,” Mehmet said, “just give me the City.”
Thoroughly frightened, as he was intended to be, at the strangeness of the
summons and the feverish demeanor of the sultan, Halil gave his
wholehearted support to the project. Mehmet concluded: “by placing our
trust in the assent of God and in the prayer of the Prophet, we will take the
city,” and dismissed the chastened vizier back into the night.
Whatever the exact truth of this episode, sometime around January 1453
Mehmet called his ministers together and made the case for war in a speech
recorded by the Greek chronicler Kritovoulos. It set the matter of
Constantinople within the whole story of the rise of the Ottomans. Mehmet
clearly understood the damage that the city had inflicted on the fledgling
state during the ruinous civil war fifty years earlier, how it “has not stopped
marching against us, constantly arming our people against each other,
promoting disorder and civil war and damaging our realm.” He feared its
potential to furnish a cause for endless war with Christian powers in the
future. Captured, it would provide the centerpiece of the empire, “without
it, or while it is as at present, nothing we have is safe, and we can hope for
nothing additional.” Constantine’s recent initiative to exploit Orhan must
have been clearly in the mind of his listeners. He also attempted to overturn
a deep-seated belief in the Islamic mind-set dating all the way back to the
Arab sieges: that the city was simply not conquerable. He was well
informed on recent events in the city; he knew that as he spoke the
inhabitants “are fighting as enemies over their differing religious beliefs,
and their internal organisation is full of sedition and disturbance on this
very account,” and that, unlike in the past, the Christians no longer
controlled the sea lanes. There was also an appeal to the gazi tradition – like
their forefathers, it was the duty of Muslims to wage holy war. Mehmet was
particularly keen to emphasize the need for speed; all available resources
must be concentrated to deliver a knockout blow; “we must spare nothing
for the war, neither human resources nor money nor weapons nor anything
else, nor must we consider anything else as important until we take or
destroy it.” It was the rallying cry for a massive strike, and it seemed to
have carried the day. Preparations for war started to gather pace.

Winters on the Bosphorus can be surprisingly severe, as the Arabs had

discovered during the siege of 717. The site of the city, jutting out into the
straits, leaves it exposed to fierce squalls hurtling down from the Black Sea
on the north wind. A particularly dank and subzero cold penetrates to the
marrow of the bones; weeks of cheerless rain can churn the streets into mud
and prompt flash floods down the steep lanes; sudden snowstorms arise as
if from nowhere to obliterate the Asian shore half a mile away then vanish
as quickly as they have come; there are long still days of muffling fog when
an eerie silence seems to hold the city in an iron grasp, choking the clappers
in church bells and deadening the sound of hooves in the public squares, as
if the horses were shod in boots of felt. The winter of 1452–1453 seems to
have afflicted the citizens with particularly desolate and unstable weather.
People observed “unusual and strange earthquakes and shakings of the
earth, and from the heavens thunder and lightning and awful thunderbolts
and flashing in the sky, mighty winds, floods, pelting rain and torrential
downpours.” It did not improve the overall mood. No flotillas of Christian
ships came to fulfill the promises of union. The city gates remained firmly
closed, and the supply of food from the Black Sea dried up under the
sultan’s throttle. The common people spent their days listening to the words
of their Orthodox priests, drinking unwatered wine in the taverns, and
praying to the icon of the Virgin to protect the city, as it had in the Arab
sieges. A hysterical concern for the purity of their souls seized the people,
doubtless influenced by the fulminations of Gennadios. It was considered
sinful to have attended a liturgy celebrated by a unionist or to have received
communion from a priest who was present at the service of union, even if
he were simply a bystander to the rites. Constantine was jeered as he rode in
the streets.
 Seal depicting the protecting Virgin

Despite this unpromising atmosphere, the emperor made what plans he

could for the city’s defense. He dispatched envoys to buy food from the
Aegean islands and beyond: “wheat, wine, olive oil, dried figs, chick peas,
barley and other pulses.” Work was put in hand to repair neglected sections
of the defenses – both the land and sea walls. There was a shortage of good
stone and no possibility of obtaining more from quarries outside the city.
Materials were scrounged from ruined buildings and abandoned churches;
even old tombstones were pressed into service. The ditch was cleared out in
front of the land wall, and it appears that despite their reservations,
Constantine was successful in persuading the populace to participate in this
work. Money was raised by public collection from individuals and from the
churches and monasteries to pay for food and arms. All the available
weapons in the city – of which there were far too few – were called in and
redistributed. Armed garrisons were dispatched to the few fortified
strongholds still held by Byzantium beyond its own walls: at Selymbria and
Epibatos on the north shore of the Marmara, Therapia on the Bosphorus
beyond the Throat Cutter, and to the largest of the Princes’ Islands. In a
final gesture of impotent defiance, Constantine sent galleys to raid Ottoman
coastal villages on the Sea of Marmara. Captives were taken and sold in the
city as slaves. “And from this the Turks were roused to great anger against
the Greeks, and swore that they would bring misfortune on them.”
The only other bright spot for Constantine during this period was the
arrival of a straggle of Italian ships that he was able to persuade – or
forcibly detain – to take part in the city’s defense. On December 2 a large
Venetian transport galley from Kaffa on the Black Sea, under the command
of one Giacomo Coco, managed to trick its way past the guns at the Throat
Cutter by pretending that it had already paid its customs dues farther
upstream. As it approached the castle, the men on board began to salute the
Ottoman gunners “as friends, greeting them and sounding the trumpets and
making cheerful sounds. And by the third salute that our men made, they
had got away from the castle, and the water took them on toward
Constantinople.” At the same time news of the true state of affairs had
reached the Venetians and Genoese from their representatives in the city,
and the Republics stirred themselves into tardy activity. After the sinking of
Rizzo’s ship, the Venetian Senate ordered its vice-captain of the Gulf,
Gabriel Trevisano, to Constantinople to accompany its merchant convoys
back from the Black Sea. Among the Venetians who came at this time was
one Nicolo Barbaro, a ship’s doctor, who was to write the most lucid diary
of the months ahead.

A Venetian great galley, the bulk carriers of the Mediterranean

 Within the Venetian colony in the city, concern was growing. The
Venetian bailey, Minotto, an enterprising and resolute man, was desperate to
keep three great merchant galleys and Trevisano’s two light galleys for the
defense of the city. At a meeting with the emperor, Trevisano, and the other
captains on December 14, he begged them to stay “firstly for the love of
God, then for the honour of Christianity and the honour of our Signoria of
Venice.” After lengthy negotiations the ships’ masters, to their credit,
agreed to remain, though not without considerable wrangling over whether
they could have their cargo on board or should keep it in the city as surety
of their good faith. Constantine was suspicious that once the cargo was
loaded, the masters would depart; it was only after swearing to the emperor
personally that they were allowed to load their bales of silk, copper, wax,
and other stuffs. Constantine’s fears were not unfounded: on the night of
February 26, one of the Venetian ships and six from the city of Candia on
Crete slipped their anchors and fled before a stiff northeasterly wind. “With
these ships there escaped many persons of substance, about 700 in all, and
these ships got safely away to Tenedos, without being captured by the
Turkish armada.”
This dispiriting event was offset by one other positive contribution. The
appeals of the Genoese podesta at Galata had elicited a concrete offer of
help. On about January 26 two large galleons arrived loaded “with many
excellent devices and machines for war, and outstanding soldiers, who were
both brave and confident.” The spectacle of these ships entering the
imperial harbor with “four hundred men in full armour” on deck made an
immediate impression on both the populace and the emperor. Their leader
was a professional soldier connected to one of the great families of the
republic, Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, a highly experienced commander
who had prepared this expedition at his own initiative and cost. He brought
700 well-armed men in all, 400 recruited from Genoa, another 300 from
Rhodes and the Genoese island of Chios, the power base of the Giustiniani
family. Constantine was quick to realize the value of this man and offered
him the island of Lemnos if the Ottoman menace should be repulsed.
Giustiniani was to play a fateful role in the defense of the city in the weeks
ahead. A straggle of other soldiers came. Three Genoese brothers, Antonio,
Paolo, and Troilo Bocchiardo, brought a small band of men. The Catalans
supplied a contingent, and a Castilian nobleman, Don Francisco of Toledo,
answered the call. Otherwise the appeal to Christendom had brought
nothing but disharmony. A sense of betrayal ran through the city. “We had
received as much aid from Rome as had been sent to us by the sultan of
Cairo,” George Sphrantzes recalled bitterly.
 6 The Wall and the Gun JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1453
From the flaming and flashing of certain igneous mixtures and the terror inspired by their noise,
wonderful consequences ensue which no-one can guard against or endure … when a quantity of this
powder, no bigger than a man’s finger, be wrapped up in a piece of parchment and ignited, it
explodes with a blinding flash and a stunning noise. If a larger quantity were used, or the case were
made of some more solid material, the explosion would be much more violent and the flash and noise
altogether unbearable.
Roger Bacon, thirteenth-century English monk, on the effects of gunpowder

With the arrival of the Genoese contingent the preparations for a siege were
carried forward with greater urgency. Giustiniani, who was “an expert in the
art of wall fighting,” appraised the city’s defenses with a cool eye and took
appropriate measures. Under his direction, during February and March they
“dredged the fosse and repaired and built up the walls, restoring the
battlements, refortifying inner and outer towers and strengthening the whole
wall – both the landward and seaward sectors.”
Despite their dilapidated condition, the city still possessed formidable
fortifications. Among all the many explanations for the longevity of
Byzantium, the impregnable defenses of its capital city remain a cardinal
factor. No city in the world owed as much to its site as Constantinople. Of
the twelve miles of its perimeter, eight were ringed by sea. On the south
side, the city was fringed by the Sea of Marmara, whose swift currents and
unexpected storms made any sea-borne landing a risky undertaking. In a
thousand years no aggressor ever seriously attempted an attack at this point.
The seashore was guarded by a single unbroken wall at least fifty feet above
the shoreline interspersed with a chain of 188 towers and a number of small
defended harbors. The threat to this wall came not from ships but from the
ceaseless action of the waves undermining its foundations. At times nature
was more brutal still: in the bitter winter of 764 the sea walls were crushed
by ice floes that rode up over the parapets. The whole length of the
Marmara wall was studded with marble inscriptions commemorating the
repairs of successive emperors. The sea ran strongly around this shoreline
as far as the tip of the Acropolis point, before turning north into the calmer
waters of the Golden Horn. The Horn itself provided an excellent sheltered
anchorage for the imperial fleet; 110 towers commanded a single wall along
this stretch with numerous water gates and two substantial harbors, but the
defenses were always considered vulnerable. It was here that the Venetians
had driven their ships up on the foreshore during the Fourth Crusade,
overtopping the ramparts and storming the city. In order to block the mouth
of the Horn in times of war, the defenders had been in the habit since the
Arab siege of 717 of drawing a boom across the entrance of the Horn. This
took the form of a 300-yard chain, consisting of massive cast-iron links
each twenty inches long that were supported on sturdy wooden floats. With
the goodwill of the Genoese, the chain could then be secured to a tower on
the sea wall of Galata on the far side. During the winter months both chain
and floats were prepared against the possibility of a naval attack.

Inscription on the walls: “The Tower of St. Nicholas was restored from the foundations, under
Romanus, the Christ-loving Sovereign”

The base of the triangle of the city’s site on the westward side was
protected by the four-mile land wall, the so-called wall of Theodosius,
which ran across the grain of the land from the Sea of Marmara to the
Golden Horn and sealed off Constantinople from any conventional land-
borne assault. Many of the most significant events in the history of the city
had been played out along this extraordinary structure. It almost matched
the city itself in longevity, and projected a sense of legendary immutability
within the Mediterranean world. For many approaching Constantinople
across the flat Thracian plains as a trader or pilgrim, an ambassador from a
Balkan court, or a plundering army with pretensions to conquest, the first
sight of Constantinople at its apogee was the ominous prospect of the land
walls riding the gentle undulations of the landscape from horizon to horizon
in a regular unbroken succession of ramparts and towers. In the sunlight the
limestone walls created a facade of brilliant white, banded with horizontal
running seams of ruby-red Roman brick and arrow slits similarly arched;
the towers – square, hexagonal, octagonal, occasionally circular – were so
close together that, as one crusader put it, “a seven-year-old boy could toss
an apple from one turret to the next.” They rose up in successive tiers to the
summit of the inner wall, where the eagle banners of the emperor fluttered
proudly in the wind. At intervals the eye could pick out the darkness of a
heavily guarded entrance to the city through which men and animals
vanished in times of peace, and at the western end, close to the Sea of
Marmara, a gateway paneled with flat plates of gold and decorated with
statues of marble and bronze shining in the sun. This was the Golden Gate,
the great ceremonial archway flanked by two massive towers of polished
marble through which, in the heyday of Byzantium, emperors returned in
triumph with the visible tokens of their victories: conquered kings walking
in chains, recaptured sacred relics, elephants, outlandishly dressed barbarian
slaves, carts piled high with booty, and the whole might of the imperial
army. By 1453 the gold and many of the decorations were gone, but the
structure was still an impressive monument to Roman glory.

The walls in cross section showing the three defensive layers: inner and outer walls and moat
 The man responsible for the land wall, built to define the mature limits
of the city, was not the boy emperor Theodosius after whom it was named,
but a leading statesman of the early fifth century, Anthemius, “one of the
wisest men of the age,” for whose farsightedness the city owed a limitless
debt of gratitude. The first line of the walls built in 413 deterred Attila the
Hun, “the scourge of God,” from making an attack on the city in 447. When
it collapsed under a severe earthquake the same year with Attila ravaging
Thrace not far away, the whole population responded to the crisis. Sixteen
thousand citizens totally rebuilt the wall in an astonishing two months, not
just restoring Anthemius’s original structure, but adding an outer wall with
a further string of interspaced towers, a protecting breastwork, and a brick-
lined moat – the fosse – to create a formidable barrier of extraordinary
complexity. The city was now protected on this side by a chain of 192
towers in a defensive system that comprised five separate zones, 200 feet
wide and 100 feet high from the bed of the moat to the top of the tower. The
achievement was recorded with a suitably boastful inscription: “in less than
two months, Constantine triumphantly set up these strong walls. Scarcely
could Pallas have built so quickly so strong a citadel.”
In its mature form, the Theodosian wall summarized all the accumulated
wisdom of Greco-Roman military engineering about defending a city before
the age of gunpowder. The heart of the system remained the inner wall
constructed by Anthemius: a core of concrete faced on both sides by
limestone blocks quarried nearby, with brick courses inserted to bind the
structure more firmly. Its fighting ramparts were protected by battlements
and reached by flights of steps. In line with Roman practice, the towers
were not bound to the walls, ensuring that the two structures could each
settle at their own rate without breaking apart. The towers themselves rose
to a height of sixty feet and consisted of two chambers with a flat roof on
which engines to hurl rocks and Greek fire could be placed. Here the
sentinels scanned the horizon unceasingly, keeping themselves awake at
night by calling out to one another down the line. The inner wall was forty
feet high; the outer one was lower, about twenty-seven feet high, and had
correspondingly lower towers that interspaced those on the inner wall. The
two walls were separated by a terrace sixty feet wide, where the troops
defending the outer wall massed, ready to engage the enemy at close
quarters. Below the outer wall was another terrace sixty feet wide providing
a clear killing field for any aggressor who made it over the moat. The brick-
lined moat itself was another sixty-feet-wide obstacle, surmounted by a wall
on the inner side; it remains unclear whether it was in parts flooded in 1453
or simply comprised a dry ditch. The depth and complexity of the system,
the stoutness of its walls, and the height from which it commanded its field
of fire rendered the Theodosian wall virtually impregnable to an army
equipped with the conventional resources of siege warfare in the Middle
Ages.
Along its length the land wall was pierced by a succession of gates.
Some gave access to the surrounding countryside via bridges over the moat,
which would be destroyed in the run-up to a siege; others, the military
gates, allowed connection between the different layers of the walls and were
used to move troops about within the system. The wall also contained a
number of posterns – small subsidiary doorways – but the Byzantines were
always aware of the danger these sally ports posed for the security of their
city and managed them rigorously. In general the two sets of gates
alternated along the length of the wall, with the military gates being referred
to by number while the public gates were named. There was the Gate of the
Spring, named after a holy spring outside the city, the Gate of the Wooden
Circus, the Gate of the Military Boot Makers, the Gate of the Silver Lake.
Some spawned multiple names as associations were forgotten and new ones
created. The Third Military Gate was also referred to as the Gate of the
Reds, after a circus faction in the early city, while the Gate of Charisius, a
leader of the blue faction, was also called the Cemetery Gate. And into the
structure were built some remarkable monuments that expressed the
contradictions of Byzantium. Toward the Golden Horn the imperial palace
of Blachernae nestled behind the wall, a building said once to be of such
beauty that foreign visitors could find no words to describe it; adjoining it,
the dank and dismal prison on Anemas, a dungeon of sinister reputation,
scene of some of the most ghastly moments in Byzantine history. Here John
V blinded both his son and his three-year-old grandson, and from here one
of Byzantium’s most notorious emperors, Andronikos the Terrible, already
horribly mutilated, was led out on a mangy camel among taunting crowds to
the Hippodrome, where he was strung upside down between two columns
and mockingly slaughtered.
 The continuous life of the wall was so long that a deep accretion of
history, myth, and half-forgotten associations attached to the various
sectors. There was hardly a place that had not witnessed some dramatic
moment in the city’s history – scenes of terrible treachery, miraculous
deliverance, and death. Through the Golden Gate Heraclius brought the
True Cross in 628; the Gate of the Spring saw the stoning of the unpopular
emperor Nicephorus Phocas by an enraged mob in 967 and the restoration
of the Orthodox emperors after Latin rule in 1261 when the gate was
opened from within by sympathizers. The dying emperor Theodosius II was
carried through the Fifth Military Gate in 450 following a fall from his
horse in the valley outside, while the Gate of the Wooden Circus was
blocked up in the twelfth century after a prophecy that the emperor
Frederick Barbarossa would use it to capture the city.
Next to St. Sophia itself no structure expressed the psychic life of the
city’s people as powerfully as the walls. If the church was their vision of
heaven, the wall was their shield against the battering of hostile forces,
under the personal protection of the Virgin herself. During sieges the
constant prayer and the procession of her sacred relics along the ramparts
were considered by the faithful to be generally more crucial than mere
military preparations. A powerful spiritual force field surrounded such
actions. Her robe, housed at the nearby church at Blachernae, was accorded
more credit for seeing off the Avars in 626 and the Russians in 860 than
military engineering. People saw visions of guardian angels on the
ramparts, and emperors inserted marble crosses and prayers into the
outward facing walls. Near the center point of the wall there was a simple
talisman that expressed Constantinople’s deepest fear. It said: “O Christ
God, preserve your city undisturbed and free from war. Conquer the fury of
the enemies.”
At the same time, the practical maintenance of the walls was the one
essential public work for the city, in which every citizen was required to
help, without exemption. Whatever the state of the Byzantine economy,
money was always found to patch up the wall. It was sufficiently important
to have its own special officials under the overall authority of the
impressively named “Count of the Walls.” As time and earthquakes
shattered towers and crumbled masonry, running repairs were marked by a
wealth of commemorative marble inscriptions set into the stonework. They
spanned the centuries from the first reconstruction in 447 to a total
renovation of the outer wall in 1433. One of the last dated repairs before the
siege expressed the cooperation of divine and human agencies in the
maintenance of the city’s shield. It read: “This God-protected gate of the
life-giving spring was restored with the co-operation and at the expense of
Manuel Bryennius Leontari, in the reign of the most pious sovereigns John
and Maria Palaeologi in the month of May 1438.”
Perhaps no defensive structure summarized the truth of siege warfare in
the ancient and medieval world as clearly as the walls of Constantinople.
The city lived under siege for almost all its life; its defenses reflected the
deepest character and history of the place, its mixture of confidence and
fatalism, divine inspiration and practical skill, longevity and conservatism.
Like the city itself, the walls were always there, and for anyone in the
eastern Mediterranean, it was assumed they always would be. The structure
of the defenses was mature in the fifth century and changed little thereafter;
the building techniques were conservative, harking back to practices of the
Greeks and Romans. They had no particular reason to evolve because siege
warfare itself remained static. The basic techniques and equipment –
blockade, mining, and escalade, the use of battering rams, catapults, towers,
tunnels, and ladders – these were largely unchanging for longer than anyone
could recall. The advantage always lay with the defender; in the case of
Constantinople its coastal position increased that weighting. None of the
armies camped before the land walls had ever succeeded in effecting an
entry through the multiple defensive layers, while the city always took
prudent measures as a matter of state policy to keep its cisterns brimming
and its granaries full. The Avars came with an impressive array of stone-
throwing machinery, but their looping trajectory made them far too puny to
breach the walls. The Arabs froze to death in the cold. The Bulgar Khan
Krum tried magic – he performed human sacrifices and sprinkled his troops
with seawater. Even its enemies came to believe that Constantinople was
under divine protection. Only the Byzantines themselves were ever
successful in taking their own city from the land, and always by treachery:
the messy final centuries of civil war produced a handful of instances where
gates were flung open at night, usually with inside help.
There were just two places where the land wall could be considered
potentially weak. In the central section the ground sloped down a long
valley to the Lycus River and then up the other side. As the wall followed
the downward slope, its towers no longer commanded the high ground and
were effectively below the level occupied by a besieging army on the hill
beyond. Furthermore the river itself, which was ducted into the city through
a culvert, made it impossible to dig a deep moat at this point. Nearly all
besieging armies had identified this area as vulnerable, and though none
had succeeded, it provided attackers with a vestige of hope. A second
anomaly in the defenses existed at the northern end. The regular procession
of the triple wall was suddenly interrupted as it approached the Golden
Horn. The line took an abrupt right-angle turn outward to include an extra
bulge of land; for 400 yards, until it reached the water, the wall became a
patchwork structure of different-shaped bastions and sectors, which, though
stoutly built on a rocky outcrop, was largely only one line deep and for
much of its length unmoated. This was a later addition undertaken to
include the sacred shrine of the Virgin at Blachernae. Originally the church
had been outside the walls. With a typical Byzantine logic it had been held
initially that the protection of the Virgin was sufficient to safeguard the
church. After the Avars nearly burned it in 626 – the shrine was saved by
the Virgin herself – the line of the wall was altered to include the church,
and the palace of Blachernae was also built in this small bight of land. Both
these perceived weak spots had been keenly appraised by Mehmet when he
reconnoitered in the summer of 1452. The right-angle turn where the two
walls joined was to receive particular attention.
As they patched up their walls under Giustiniani’s direction and paraded
the sacred icons on the ramparts, the people of the city could be pardoned
for expressing confidence in their protective powers. Immutable,
forbidding, and indestructible, they had proved time and again that a small
force could keep a huge army at bay until its willpower collapsed under the
logistical burden of siege, or dysentery, or the disaffection of the men. If the
walls were decayed in places, they were still basically sound. Brocquière
found even the vulnerable right angle to be protected by “a good and high
wall” when he came in the 1430s. The defenders, however, were unaware
that they were preparing for conflict on the cusp of a technological
revolution that would profoundly change the rules of siege warfare.
No one knows exactly when the Ottomans acquired guns. Gunpowder
weapons probably made their way into the empire through the Balkans
sometime around 1400. By medieval standards this was a technology
traveling at lightning speed – the first written mention of a gun does not
occur until 1313, the first pictorial representation dates from 1326 – but by
the end of the fourteenth century, cannon were being widely manufactured
across Europe. Small-scale workshops for the production of iron and bronze
guns mushroomed in France, Germany, and Italy, and secondary industries
developed around them. Saltpeter “factories” sprang up; middlemen
imported copper and tin; technical mercenaries sold their skills in metal
casting to the highest bidder. In practical terms the benefits of early
gunpowder weapons were dubious: field artillery present at the battle of
Agincourt beside the longbow made little material difference. The weapons
themselves were cumbersome, tedious to prepare, impossible to aim with
any accuracy, and as dangerous to their crews as to the enemy. However,
cannon fire undoubtedly had a psychological effect. King Edward III at
Creçy “struck terror into the French Army with five or six pieces of cannon,
it being the first time they had seen such thundering machines” and the
giant Dutch gun of Philip van Artevelde in 1382 “made such a noise in the
going as though all the devils of hell had been in the way.” Metaphors of
the inferno are common to these early accounts. There was something
infernal about the thunderous roar of “the devilish instrument of war”: it
upturned the natural order of things and stripped the chivalry out of combat.
The church placed a ban on the use of fiery compositions for military
purposes as early as 1137 and anathematized the crossbow for good
measure, but it made little difference. The genie had exploded out of the
bottle.
With the exception of sieges, the contribution of artillery to the conduct
of warfare was still minimal by 1420, the moment when the Ottomans
started to show a serious interest. Pushing into the Balkans, they captured
the resources and the craftsmen to begin manufacturing guns of their own.
These included foundries and skilled foundry men, copper mines, cutters of
stone balls, makers of saltpeter, and gunpowder factories. The Ottomans
learned fast. They were hugely receptive to new techniques and adept at
integrating skilled Christians into their armies and training their own
soldiers too. Murat, Mehmet’s father, created the infrastructure for an
artillery force, forming a gunnery corps and corps of gun-carriage drivers in
the palace army. At the same time, despite a papal edict that outlawed
gunrunning to the infidel, Venetian and Genoese merchants shipped
weapons across the eastern Mediterranean, and technical mercenaries, keen
to sell their skills to the rising sultanate, made their way to the Ottoman
court.
Constantinople experienced its first taste of this new capability in the
summer of 1422 when Murat laid siege to the city. The Greeks record that
he brought huge “bombards” to the walls under the direction of Germans –
and that they were largely ineffective: seventy balls struck one tower
without inflicting significant damage. When Murat brought guns to another
wall twenty-four years later, the story was completely different. In the
1440s Constantine was attempting to protect one of the city’s few remaining
provinces, the Peloponnese, from Ottoman incursions and rebuilt a six-mile
wall, the Hexamilion, across the Isthmus of Corinth from sea to sea to fence
it off. It was a substantial piece of military engineering thought capable of
withstanding prolonged assault. Early in December 1446 Murat attacked the
wall with long cannon and breached it in five days. Constantine barely
escaped with his life.

Packing a cannon with gunpowder

 In between the two events the Ottomans had deepened their knowledge
of artillery, and they had done so at a critical moment in the evolution of
cannon construction and explosives. Sometime in the 1420s a development
took place throughout Europe in the manufacture of gunpowder that
substantially increased its potency and stability. Up till then it had been the
practice to carry the constituent ingredients – sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal
– in different barrels and to mix them on site. The resulting powder was
slow burning, susceptible to damp, and had a tendency to separate out. In
the early fifteenth century, experimentation revealed that mixing the
ingredients into a paste and drying it into preformed cakes that could be
broken down into granules as required produced better results. The so-
called corned powder was faster burning, 30 percent more powerful, and
more resistant to atmospheric moisture. A heavy shot could now be
projected at a city wall with impressive momentum. By then giant siege
guns, up to sixteen feet long and capable of hurling balls well over 750
pounds, had also begun to appear. Dulle Griete, the Great Bombard of
Ghent, roared with a noise “made by the furies of Hell” and shattered the
walls of Bourges in 1412. At the same time the new powder increased the
danger to gunners and affected cannon founding: barrels were built stronger
and longer, and there was a move to guns made in one piece, which had to
be cast of bronze – and at a huge price differential. A bronze cannon cost
three times as much as a forged iron one, but the exponential benefits
evidently justified the expense. For the first time since trumpets flattened
the walls of Jericho, a significant advantage was handed back to the side
besieging a stoutly fortified castle. Fifteenth-century Europe rang to the roar
of great siege guns, the shattering of stone balls against stone walls, and the
sudden collapse of hitherto impregnable bastions.
The Ottomans were uniquely placed to take advantage of these
developments. The expanding empire was self-sufficient in copper and
naturally occurring saltpeter; it acquired the expertise by conquest or
purchase and then set up the structures to disseminate it among its own
army corps. It quickly became proficient in manufacturing, transporting,
and firing its artillery – and was second to none in the deep logistical
requirements of gunpowder warfare. To put an effective cannon battery in
the field at a given moment made exceptional demands on medieval supply
chains: adequate quantities of stone balls matched in caliber to the barrels
and serviceable gunpowder had to coincide with the arrival of the slow-
moving guns. The Ottomans sourced men and materials from across the
empire – cannonballs from the Black Sea, saltpeter from Belgrade, sulfur
from Van, copper from Kastamonu, tin from overseas trade, scrap bronze
from the church bells of the Balkans – and distributed them through an
overland transport network by cart and camel that was unmatched in its
efficiency. Deep planning was a hallmark of the Ottoman military machine,
and it transferred these talents naturally to the special requirements of the
gunpowder age.
So rapid was the Ottoman assimilation of cannon technology that by the
1440s they had evidently acquired the unique ability, widely commented on
by eyewitnesses, to cast medium-size barrels on the battlefield in makeshift
foundries. Murat transported gunmetal to the Hexamilion and cast many of
his long guns on the spot. This allowed extraordinary flexibility during
siege warfare: rather than hauling the finished weapon to the siege, it could
be transported more quickly in bits and could be broken up again afterward
if need be. Guns that ruptured in use, as they frequently did, could be
repaired and pressed back into service, and in an age when the match
between gun caliber and available cannonballs could be uncertain, barrels
could be tailor-made to the ammunition available. (This facility reached its
logical conclusion during the epic siege of the Venetian city of Candia on
Crete in the seventeenth century. After twenty-one years of fighting, the
Ottomans had collected 30,000 Venetian cannonballs unusable in their own
guns. They cast three new barrels matched to the enemy calibers and fired
them back.)
For the Ottomans, the siege gun seemed to answer something
particularly deep in the tribal soul: it fed their rooted opposition to defended
settlements. The descendants of the steppe nomads had proved their
continuous superiority in open battle; it was only when confronted with the
city walls of sedentary peoples that military matters became intractable.
Artillery offered the possibility of a quick solution to the dangers of long-
drawn-out sieges. It immediately attracted Mehmet’s scientific interest as he
considered the impregnable walls of the city. Early in his reign he began to
experiment with casting large guns.
The Byzantines were also aware of the potential of gunpowder
weapons. Within the city they had some medium-size cannon and
handguns, for which Constantine made strenuous attempts to stockpile
resources. He was successful in obtaining supplies of gunpowder from the
Venetians, but the empire was too poor to invest heavily in expensive new
weapons. Sometime, probably earlier than 1452, there arrived in the city a
Hungarian cannon founder called Orban, seeking his fortune at the imperial
court. He was one of the growing band of technical mercenaries who plied
their trade across the Balkans; he offered the Byzantines his skill in casting
large, single-piece bronze guns. The cash-strapped emperor was interested
in the man but had few resources to use his skill; he authorized a tiny
stipend to detain Orban in the city, but even this was not paid regularly. The
luckless master craftsman became increasingly destitute; sometime during
1452 he left the city and made his way to Edirne to seek an audience with
Mehmet. The sultan welcomed the Hungarian, provided him with food and
clothes, and questioned him closely. The ensuing interview was vividly re-
created by the Greek chronicler Doukas. Mehmet asked if he could cast a
cannon suitable to project a stone large enough to smash the city walls, and
gestured the size of the stone he had in mind. Orban’s reply was emphatic:
“If you want, I can cast a cannon of bronze with the capacity of the stone
you want. I have examined the walls of the city in great detail. I can shatter
to dust not only these walls with the stones from my gun but the very walls
of Babylon itself. The work required to make the gun, I can fully carry out,
but,” he added, keen to limit his guarantee, “I don’t know how to fire it and
I cannot guarantee to do so.” Mehmet ordered him to cast the cannon, and
declared that he would see to its firing afterward.
Whatever the details of the actual interview, it seems that Orban set to
work to create his first great gun sometime during the building of the Throat
Cutter in the summer of 1452. At about this time, Mehmet must have
started to stockpile substantial quantities of materials for guns and
gunpowder: copper and tin, saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal. He also seems to
have sent out the order for masons to produce granite balls in quarries on
the Black Sea. Within three months Orban had cast his first great gun,
which was lugged to the Throat Cutter to guard the Bosphorus. It was this
weapon that shattered Rizzo’s galley in November 1452 and first sent news
of Ottoman artillery power rippling through the city. Satisfied with the
results, Mehmet now ordered Orban to produce a truly monstrous cannon,
double its size – the archetype of a supergun.
 The Ottomans were probably already casting guns at Edirne by this
time; what Orban brought was the skill to construct the molds and control
the critical variables on a far greater scale. During the winter of 1452, he set
to the task of casting what was probably the largest cannon ever built. This
painstaking and extraordinary process was described in detail by the Greek
chronicler Kritovoulos. Initially, a barrel-shaped mold some twenty-seven
feet long was constructed of clay mixed with finely chopped linen and
hemp. The mold was of two widths: the front compartment for the stone
ball had a diameter of thirty inches, with a smaller after-chamber to take the
powder. An enormous casting pit had to be excavated, and the fired clay
core was placed in it with the muzzle facedown. An outer cylindrical clay
casing “like a scabbard” was fashioned to fit over this and held in position,
leaving space between the two clay molds to receive the molten metal. The
whole thing was packed about tightly with “iron and timbers, earth and
stones, built up from outside” to support the huge weight of the bronze. At
the last moment wet sand would be drizzled around the mold and the whole
thing covered over again, leaving just a hole through which the molten
metal could be poured. Meanwhile Orban constructed two brick-lined
furnaces faced with fired clay inside and out and reinforced with large
stones – sufficient to withstand a temperature of 1,000 degrees centigrade –
and surrounded on the outside by a mountain of charcoal “so deep that it
hid the furnaces, apart from their mouths.”
The operation of a medieval foundry was fraught with danger. A visit by
the later Ottoman traveler Evliya Chelebi to a gun factory catches the note
of fear and risk surrounding the process:
On the day when cannon are to be cast, the masters, foremen and founders, together with the Grand
Master of the Artillery, the Chief Overseer, Imam, Muezzin and timekeeper, all assemble and to the
cries of “Allah! Allah!,” the wood is thrown into the furnaces. After these have been heated for
twenty-four hours, the founders and stokers strip naked, wearing nothing but their slippers, an odd
kind of cap which leaves nothing but their eyes visible, and thick sleeves to protect the arms; for,
after the fire has been alight in the furnaces twenty-four hours, no person can approach on account of
the heat, save he be attired in the above manner. Whoever wishes to see a good picture of the fires of
Hell should witness this sight.

When the furnace was judged to have reached the correct temperature, the
foundry workers started to throw copper into the crucible along with scrap
bronze probably salvaged, by a bitter irony for Christians, from church
bells. The work was incredibly dangerous – the difficulty of hurling the
metal piece by piece into the bubbling cauldron and of skimming dross off
the surface with metal ladles, the noxious fumes given off by the tin alloys,
the risk that if the scrap metal were wet, the water would vaporize,
rupturing the furnace and wiping out all close by – these hazards hedged the
operation about with superstitious dread. According to Evliya, when the
time came to throw in the tin:
the Vezirs, the Mufti and Sheiks are summoned; only forty persons, besides the personnel of the
foundry, are admitted all told. The rest of the attendants are shut out, because the metal, when in
fusion, will not suffer to be looked at by evil eyes. The masters then desire the Vezirs and sheiks who
are seated on sofas at a great distance to repeat unceasingly the words “There is no power and
strength save in Allah!” Thereupon the master-workmen with wooden shovels throw several
hundredweight of tin into the sea of molten brass, and the head-founder says to the Grand Vizier,
Vezirs and Sheiks: “Throw some gold and silver coins into the brazen sea as alms, in the name of the
True Faith!” Poles as long as the yard of ships are used for mixing the gold and silver with the metal
and are replaced as fast as consumed.

For three days and nights the lit charcoal was superheated by the action of
bellows continuously operated by teams of foundry workers until the keen
eye of the master founder judged the metal to be the right tone of molten
red. It was another critical moment, the culmination of weeks of work,
involving fine judgment: “The time limit having expired … the head-
founder and master-workmen, attired in their clumsy felt dresses, open the
mouth of the furnace with iron hooks exclaiming ‘Allah! Allah!’ The metal,
as it begins to flow, casts a glare on the men’s faces at a hundred paces’
distance.” The molten metal flowed down the clay channel like a slow river
of red-hot lava and into the mouth of the gun mold. Sweating workers
prodded the viscous mass with immensely long wooden poles to tease out
air bubbles that might otherwise rupture the gunmetal under fire. “The
bronze flowed out through the channel into the mould until it was
completely full and the mould totally covered, and it overflowed it by a
cubit above. And in this way the cannon was finished.” The wet sand
packed around the mold would hopefully slow the rate of cooling and
prevent the bronze from cracking in the process. Once the metal was cold,
the barrel was laboriously excavated from the ground like an immense grub
in its cocoon of clay and hauled out by teams of oxen. It was a powerful
alchemy.
 Fifteenth-century cast cannon

What finally emerged from Orban’s foundry after the molds had been
knocked out and the metal scraped and polished was “a horrifying and
extraordinary monster.” The primitive tube shone dully in the winter light.
It was twenty-seven feet long. The barrel itself, walled with eight inches of
solid bronze to take the force of the blast, had a diameter of thirty inches,
big enough for a man to enter on his hands and knees and designed to
accommodate a monstrous stone shot eight feet in circumference weighing
something over half a ton. In January 1453 Mehmet ordered a test firing of
the great gun outside his new royal palace at Edirne. The mighty bombard
was hauled into position near the gate and the city was warned that the
following day “the explosion and roar would be like thunder, lest anyone
should be struck dumb by the unexpected shock or pregnant women might
miscarry.” In the morning the cannon was primed with powder. A team of
workmen lugged a giant stone ball into the mouth of the barrel and rolled it
back down to sit snugly in front of the gunpowder chamber. A lighted taper
was put to the touch hole. With a shattering roar and a cloud of smoke that
hazed the sky, the mighty bullet was propelled across the open countryside
for a mile before burying itself six feet down in the soft earth. The
explosion could be heard ten miles off: “so powerful is this gunpowder,”
recorded Doukas, who probably witnessed this test firing personally.
Mehmet himself ensured that ominous reports of the gun filtered back to
Constantinople: it was to be a psychological weapon as well as a practical
one. Back in Edirne, Orban’s foundry continued to turn out more guns of
different sizes; none were quite as large as the first super-gun, but a number
measured more than fourteen feet.
During early February, consideration turned to the great practical
difficulties of transporting Orban’s gun the 140 miles from Edirne to
Constantinople. A large detachment of men and animals was detailed for
the task. Laboriously the immense tube was loaded onto a number of
wagons chained together and yoked to a team of sixty oxen. Two hundred
men were deployed to support the barrel as it creaked and lurched over the
rolling Thracian countryside while another team of carpenters and laborers
worked ahead, leveling the track and building wooden bridges over rivers
and gullies. The great gun rumbled toward the city walls at a speed of two
and a half miles a day.
 7 Numerous as the Stars MARCH–APRIL 1453
When it marched, the air seemed like a forest because of its lances and when it stopped, the earth
could not be seen for tents.
Mehmet’s chronicler, Tursun Bey, on the Ottoman army

Mehmet needed both artillery and numerical superiority to fulfill his plans.
By bringing sudden and overwhelming force to bear on Constantinople, he
intended to deliver a knockout blow before Christendom had time to
respond. The Ottomans always knew that speed was the key to storming
fortresses. It was a principle clearly understood by foreign observers such
as Michael the Janissary, a prisoner of war who fought for the Ottomans at
this time: “the Turkish Emperor storms and captures cities and also
fortresses at great expense in order not to remain there long with the army.”
Success depended on the ability to mobilize men and equipment quickly
and on an impressive scale.
Accordingly, Mehmet issued the traditional call to arms at the start of
the year. By ancient tribal ritual, the sultan set up his horsetail banner in the
palace courtyard to announce the campaign. This triggered the dispatch of
“heralds to all the provinces, ordering everyone to come for the campaign
against the City.” The command structure of the two Ottoman armies – the
European and the Anatolian – ensured a prompt response. An elaborate set
of contractual obligations and levies enlisted men from across the empire.
The provincial cavalry, the sipahis, who provided the bulk of the troops,
were bound by their ties as land-holders from the sultan to come, each man
with his own helmet, chain mail, and horse armor, together with the number
of retainers relative to the size of his holding. Alongside these, a seasonal
Muslim infantry force, the azaps, were levied “from among craftsmen and
peasants” and paid for by the citizens on a pro-rata basis. These troops were
the cannon fodder of the campaign: “when it comes to an engagement,” one
cynical Italian commented, “they are sent ahead like pigs, without any
mercy, and they die in great numbers.” Mehmet also requisitioned Christian
auxiliaries from the Balkans, largely Slavs and Vlachs, obligated under the
laws of vassalage, and he prepared his elite professional household
regiments: the infantry – the famous Janissaries – the cavalry regiments,
and all the other attendant corps of gunners, armorers, bodyguards, and
military police. These crack troops, paid regularly every three months and
armed at the sultan’s expense, were all Christians largely from the Balkans,
taken as children and converted to Islam. They owed their total loyalty to
the sultan. Although few in number – probably no more than 5,000 infantry
– they comprised the durable core of the Ottoman army.
Ottoman tents and guns

The mobilization for the season’s campaign was extraordinarily

efficient. Within the Muslim heartlands it was not a press gang. Men came
at the call to arms with a willingness that amazed European eyewitnesses
such as George of Hungary, another prisoner in the empire at this time:
 Horsetail banner: symbol of Ottoman authority

When recruiting for the army is begun, they gather with such readiness and speed you might think
they are invited to a wedding not a war. They gather within a month in the order they are summoned,
the infantrymen separately from the cavalrymen, all of them with their appointed chiefs, in the same
order which they use for encampments and when preparing for battle … with such enthusiasm that
men put themselves forward in the place of their neighbors, and those left at home feel an injustice
has been done to them. They claim they will be happier if they die on the battlefield among the spears
and arrows of the enemy than at home … Those who die in war like this are not mourned but are
hailed as saints and victors, to be set as an example and given high respect.

“Everyone who heard that the attack was to be against the City came
running,” added Doukas, “both boys too young to march and old men bent
double with age.” They were fired by the prospect of booty and personal
advancement and holy war, themes that were woven together in the Koran:
by Islamic holy law, a city taken by force could be legitimately subjected to
three days of plunder. Enthusiasm was made all the keener by knowledge of
the objective: the Red Apple of Constantinople was popularly, but perhaps
mistakenly, held to possess fabulous hoards of gold and gems. Many came
who had not been summoned: volunteers and freelance raiders, hangers-on,
dervishes and holy men inspired by the old prophecies who stirred the
populace with words of the Prophet and the glories of martyrdom. Anatolia
was on fire with excitement and remembered that “the promise of the
Prophet foretold that that vast city … would become the abode of the
people of the Faith.” Men flocked from the four corners of Anatolia – ”from
Tokat, Sivas, Kemach, Erzurum, Ganga, Bayburt and Trabzon” – to the
collecting points at Bursa; in Europe they came to Edirne. A huge force was
gathering: “cavalry and foot soldiers, heavy infantry and archers and
slingers and lancers.” At the same time, the Ottoman logistical machine
swung into action, collecting, repairing, and manufacturing armor, siege
equipment, cannons, tents, ships, tools, weapons, and food. Camel trains
crisscrossed the long plateaus. Ships were patched up at Gallipoli. Troops
were ferried across the Bosphorus at the Throat Cutter. Intelligence was
gathered from Venetian spies. No army in the world could match the
Ottomans in the organization of a military campaign.
In February, troops of the European army under its leader, Karaja Bey,
started to clear the hinterland of the city. Constantinople still had some
fortified outposts on the Black Sea, the north shore of the Marmara, and the
Bosphorus. Greeks from the surrounding countryside retreated into the
strongholds. Each was systematically encircled. Those that surrendered
were allowed to go unharmed; others, such as those at a tower near
Epibatos on the Marmara, resisted. It was stormed and the garrison
slaughtered. Some could not be quickly taken; they were bypassed but kept
under guard. News of these events filtered back to Constantinople and
intensified the woe of the population, now riven by religious feuding. The
city itself was already under careful observation by three regiments from
Anatolia lest Constantine should sally out and disrupt preparations.
Meanwhile the sapper corps was at work strengthening bridges and leveling
roads for the convoys of guns and heavy equipment that started to roll
across the Thracian landscape in February. By March a detachment of ships
from Gallipoli sailed up past the city and proceeded to ferry the bulk of the
Anatolian forces into Europe. A great force was starting to converge.
Finally on March 23 Mehmet set out from Edirne in great pomp “with
all his army, cavalry and infantry, traveling across the landscape,
devastating and disturbing everything, creating fear and agony and the
utmost horror wherever he went.” It was a Friday, the most holy day of the
Muslim week, and carefully chosen to emphasize the sacred dimension of
the campaign. He was accompanied by a notable religious presence: “the
ulema, the sheiks and the descendants of the Prophet … repeating prayers
… moved forward with the army, and rode by the rein of the Sultan.” The
cavalcade also probably included a state functionary called Tursun Bey,
who was to write a rare firsthand Ottoman account of the siege. At the start
of April, this formidable force converged on the city. The first of April was
Easter Sunday, the most holy day in the Orthodox calendar, and it was
celebrated throughout the city with a mixture of piety and apprehension. At
midnight candlelight and incense proclaimed the mystery of the risen Christ
in the city’s churches. The haunting and simple line of the Easter litany rose
and fell over the dark city in mysterious quarter-tones. Bells were rung.
Only St. Sophia itself remained silent and unvisited by the Orthodox
population. In the preceding weeks people had “begged God not to let the
City be attacked during Holy Week” and sought spiritual strength from their
icons. The most revered of these, the Hodegetria, the miracle-working
image of the Mother of God, was carried to the imperial palace at
Blachernae for Easter week according to custom and tradition.
The next day Ottoman outriders were sighted beyond the walls.
Constantine dispatched a sortie to confront them, and in the ensuing
skirmish some of the raiders were killed. As the day wore on, however, ever
increasing numbers of Ottoman troops appeared over the horizon, and
Constantine made the decision to withdraw his men into the city. All the
bridges over the fosse were systematically destroyed and the gates closed.
The city was sealed against whatever was to come. The sultan’s army began
to form up in a sequence of well-rehearsed maneuvers that combined
caution with deep planning. On April 2, the main force came to a halt five
miles out. It was organized into constituent units, and each regiment was
assigned its position. Over the next few days it moved forward in a series of
staged advances that reminded watchers of the remorseless advance of “a
river that transforms itself into a huge sea” – a recurrent image in the
chroniclers’ accounts of the incredible power and ceaseless motion of the
army.
 A Janissary

The preparatory work progressed with great speed. Sappers began

cutting down the orchards and vineyards outside the walls to create a clean
field of fire for the guns. A ditch was dug the length of the land wall and
250 yards from it, with an earth rampart in front as a protection for the
guns. Latticework wooden screens were placed on top as a further shield.
Behind this protective line, Mehmet moved the main army into its final
position about a quarter of a mile from the land walls: “According to
custom, the day that camp was to be made near Istanbul the army was
ordered by regiment into rows. He ranged at the centre of the army around
his person the white-capped Janissary archers, the Turkish and European
crossbowmen, and the musketeers and cannonneers. The red-capped azaps
were placed on his right and left, joined at the rear by the cavalry. Thus
organised, the army marched in formation on Istanbul.” Each regiment had
its allotted place: the Anatolian troops on the right, in the position of honor,
under their Turkish commander Ishak Pasha, assisted by Mahmut Pasha,
another Christian renegade; the Christian, Balkan troops on the left under
Karaja Pasha. A further large detachment under the Greek convert Zaganos
Pasha was sent to build a roadway over the marshy ground at the top of the
Horn and to cover the hills down to the Bosphorus, watching the activities
of the Genoese settlement at Galata in the process. On the evening of April
6, another Friday, Mehmet arrived to take up his carefully chosen position
on the prominent hillock of Maltepe at the center of his troops and opposite
the portion of the walls that he considered to be the most vulnerable to
attack. It was from here that his father Murat had conducted the siege of
1422.
Before the appalled gaze of the defenders on the wall, a tented city
sprang up in the plain. According to one writer, “his army seemed as
numberless as grains of sand, spread … across the land from shore to
shore.” Everything in an Ottoman campaign was conducted with a sense of
order and hushed purpose that was all the more threatening for its quietness.
“There is no prince,” conceded the Byzantine chronicler Chalcocondylas,
“who has his armies and camps in better order, both in abundance of
victuals and in the beautiful order they use in encamping without any
confusion or embarrassment.” Conical tents were ranged in ordered
clusters, each unit with its officer’s tent at its center and a distinctive banner
flying from its principal pole. In the heart of the encampment, Mehmet’s
richly embroidered red and gold pavilion had been erected with due ritual.
The tent of the sultan was the visual symbol of his majesty – the image of
his power and an echo of the khanate origins of the sultans as nomadic
leaders. Each sultan had a ceremonial tent made at his accession; it
expressed his particular kingship. Mehmet’s was sited beyond the outer
reach of crossbow fire and was by custom protected by a palisade, ditch,
and shields and surrounded in carefully formed concentric circles “as the
halo encircles the moon” by the protecting corps of his most loyal troops:
“the best of the infantry, archers and support troops and the rest of his
personal corps, which were the finest in the army.” Their injunction, on
which the safety of the empire depended, was to guard the sultan like the
apple of their eye.
The encampment was carefully organized. Standards and ensigns
fluttered from the sea of tents: the ak sancak, the supreme white and gold
banner of the sultan, the red banner of his household cavalry, the banners of
the Janissary infantry – green and red, red and gold – the structural
emblems of power and order in a medieval army. Elsewhere the watchers
on the walls could make out the brightly colored tents of the viziers and
leading commanders, and the signifying hats and clothes of the different
corps: the Janissaries in the distinctive white headdresses of the Bektashi
order, the azaps in red turbans, cavalry men in pointed turban helmets and
chain mail coats, Slavs in Balkan costumes. Watching Europeans
commented on the array of men and equipment. “A quarter of them,”
declared the Florentine merchant Giacomo Tetaldi, “were equipped with
mail coats or leather tunics, of the others many were armed in the French
manner, others in the Hungarian and others still had iron helmets, Turkish
bows and crossbows. The rest of the soldiers were without equipment apart
from the fact that they had shields and scimitars – a type of Turkish sword.”
What further astonished the watchers on the walls were the vast numbers of
animals. “While conceding that these are found in greater numbers than
men in military encampments, to carry supplies and food” noted
Chalcocondylas, “only these people … not only take enough camels and
mules with them to meet their needs, but also use them as a source of
enjoyment, each one of them being eager to show the finest mules or horses
or camels.”
The defenders could only survey this purposeful sea of activity with
trepidation. As sunset approached, the call to prayer would rise in a sinuous
thread of sound above the tents from dozens of points as the muezzins
called the men to prayer. Campflres would be lit for the one meal of the day
– for the Ottoman army campaigned frugally – and smoke drifted in the
wind. A bare 250 yards from their citadel, they could catch the purposeful
sounds of camp activity: the low murmuring of voices, the hammering of
mallets, the sharpening of swords, the snorting and braying of horses,
mules, and camels. And far worse, they could probably make out the fainter
sound of Christian worship from the European wing of the army. For an
empire intent on holy war, the Ottomans ruled their vassals with remarkable
tolerance: “although they were subjects of the Sultan, he had not compelled
them to resign their Christian faith, and they could worship and pray as they
wished,” Tetaldi noted. The help the Ottomans received from Christian
subjects, mercenaries, converts, and technical experts was a theme of
repeated lament for the European chroniclers. “I can testify,” howled
Archbishop Leonard, “that Greeks, Latins, Germans, Hungarians,
Bohemians and men from all the Christian countries were on the side of the
Turks … Oh, the wickedness of denying Christ like this!” The vituperation
was not wholly justified; many of the Christian soldiers came under duress
as vassals of the sultan. “We had to ride forward to Stambol and help the
Turks,” remembered Michael the Janissary, recording that the alternative
was death. Among those brought unwillingly to the siege was a young
Orthodox Russian, Nestor-Iskander. He had been captured by an Ottoman
detachment near Moldavia on the fringes of southern Russia and
circumcised for conversion to Islam. When his troop reached the siege he
evidently escaped into the city and wrote a lively account of the events that
ensued.
No one knows exactly how many men Mehmet brought to the siege.
The Ottoman genius for mobilizing both regular troops and volunteers on a
grand scale repeatedly stunned their opponents into the wildest projections.
To the eulogizing Ottoman chroniclers they were simply “a river of steel”
“as numerous as the stars.” The European eyewitnesses were more
mathematical but given to very large round numbers. Their calculations
ranged from 160,000 men to upward of 400,000. It took Michael the
Janissary, who had seen Ottoman armies up close, to impose some sense of
realism on such “facts”: “know therefore that the Turkish emperor cannot
assemble such a large army for pitched battle as people tell of his great
might. For some relate that they are innumerable, but it is an impossible
thing, that an army could be without number, for every ruler wants to know
the number of his army and to have it organised.” The most realistic
numerical guess seems to be that of Tetaldi, who soberly calculated that “at
the siege there were altogether two hundred thousand men, of whom
perhaps sixty thousand were soldiers, thirty to forty thousand of these being
cavalry.” In the fifteenth century, when the French and English fought the
Battle of Agincourt with a combined total of 3 5,000 men, this was a huge
force. If Tetaldi’s estimate was anywhere close, even the number of horses
that must have come to the siege was impressive. The rest of the Ottoman
host were auxiliaries or hangers-on: supply teams, carpenters, gun-founders,
blacksmiths, ordnance corps, as well as “tailors, pastry-cooks, artisans,
petty traders, and other men who followed the army in the hope of profit or
plunder.”
Constantine had no such difficulty estimating his army. He simply
counted it. At the end of March he ordered a census of districts to record
“how many able-bodied men there were including monks, and whatever
weapons each possessed for defense.” Having collected the returns he
entrusted the adding up to his faithful chancellor and lifelong friend, George
Sphrantzes. As Sphrantzes recalled, “the Emperor summoned me and said,
‘This task belongs to your sphere of duties and to no-one else, because you
are competent to make the necessary calculations and to observe that the
proper measures are taken for the defense and that full secrecy is observed.
Take these lists and study them at home. Make an accurate assessment of
how many hand weapons, shields, bows and cannon we have.’” Sphrantzes
duly did the toting up. “I carried out the Emperor’s orders and presented to
him a detailed estimate of our resources with considerable gloom.” The
reason for his mood was clear: “in spite of the great size of our city, our
defenders amounted to 4,773 Greeks, as well as just 200 foreigners.” In
addition there were the genuine outsiders, the “Genoese, Venetians and
those who came secretly from Galata to help the defense,” who numbered
“hardly as many as three thousand,” amounting to something under 8,000
men in total to defend a perimeter wall of twelve miles. Even of these, “the
greater part of the Greeks were not skilled in warfare, and fought with
shields, swords, lances and bows by natural instinct rather than with any
skill.” Desperately lacking were those “skilled in the use of the bow and
cross-bow.” Nor was it certain what help the disaffected Orthodox
population would give to the cause. Constantine was appalled by the
possible effects of this information on morale and determined to suppress it.
“The true figure remained a secret known only to the emperor and myself,”
Sphrantzes recalled. It was clear that the siege was to be a conflict between
the few and many.
Constantine kept this knowledge to himself and set about making final
preparations. On April 2, the day that the gates were closed for the last time,
he ordered the boom to be hauled across the Golden Horn by ship, from
Eugenius, the gate near to the Acropolis Point in the city, to a tower within
the sea walls of Galata. The work was undertaken by a Genoese engineer,
Bartolamio Soligo, chosen probably for his ability to persuade his fellow
Genoese at Galata to let the chain be fixed to their walls. This was a
contentious matter. By permitting it, the citizens could be said to be
compromising their strict neutrality. It was certain to invoke Mehmet’s ire if
the siege went badly, but they agreed. For Constantine it meant that the
four-mile stretch of shoreline along the Horn could be left virtually
unguarded as long as sufficient naval resources were deployed to protect the
boom itself.
As Mehmet spread his army out around the city, Constantine called a
council of war with Giustiniani and his other commanders to deploy his
small force along the twelve-mile front. He knew that the Horn was secure
as long as the boom was held; the other sea walls were also not cause for
major concern. The Bosphorus currents were too strong to permit an easy
assault by landing craft around the point of the city; the Marmara walls
were similarly unpromising for concerted attack because of currents and the
pattern of shoals off the shore. It was the land walls, despite their apparent
strength, that needed the most detailed attention.
Both sides were well aware of the two weak spots. The first was the
central section of wall, called by the Greeks the Mesoteichion, the “middle
wall,” which lay between two strategic gates, the St. Romanus and the
Charisian, on ridges either side. Between the gates the land sloped down
about a hundred feet to the Lycus valley, where the small stream was
culverted under the wall and into the city. This section had been the focus of
the Ottoman siege of 1422, and Mehmet set up his headquarters on the hill
of Maltepe opposite as a clear signal of intent. The second vulnerable zone
was the short length of single wall near the Golden Horn that was
unmoated, particularly the point where the two walls met at right angles. In
late March, Constantine had persuaded the Venetian galley crews to dig out
a ditch hurriedly along part of this stretch, but it remained a cause for
concern.
Constantine set about organizing his forces accordingly. He divided the
fourteen zones of the city into twelve military divisions and allocated his
resources. He decided to establish his headquarters in the Lycus valley, so
that emperor and sultan almost confronted each other across the walls. Here
he stationed the bulk of his best troops, about 2,000 in all. Giustiniani was
originally positioned at the Charisian Gate on the ridge above, but
subsequently moved his Genoese soldiers to join the emperor in the central
section and to take effective day-today command of this critical sector.
Sections of the land wall were then parceled out for defense under the
command of “the principal persons of Constantinople.” On the emperor’s
right, the Charisian Gate was probably commanded by Theodore of
Karystes, “an old but sturdy Greek, highly skillful with the bow.” The next
section of the wall north, up to the right-angle turn, was entrusted to the
Genoese Bocchiardi brothers who had come “at their own expense and
providing their own equipment,” which included handguns and powerful
frame-mounted crossbows, and the vulnerable section of single wall that ran
around the Blachernae Palace was also largely entrusted to Italians. The
Venetian bailey, Minotto, took up residence in the palace itself; the flag of
St. Mark flew from its tower beside that of the emperor. One of its gates,
the Caligaria, was commanded by “John from Germany,” a professional
soldier and “an able military engineer” who was actually Scottish. He was
also given the task of managing the city’s supply of Greek fire.
Constantine’s force was truly multinational but was similarly divided
along the fault lines of religion, nationality, and commercial rivalry. In order
to minimize potential friction between Genoese and Venetian, Orthodox and
Catholic, Greek and Italian, he seems to have made it a deliberate policy to
intermix the forces in the hope of increasing their interdependence. On his
immediate left a section of wall was commanded by his kinsman, “the
Greek Theophilus, a noble from the house of Palaiologos, highly erudite in
Greek literature and an expert geometrician” – a man who probably knew
more about the Iliad than actually defending Troy’s walls. Toward the
Golden Gate, the wall was supervised by a succession of Greek, Venetian,
and Genoese soldiers, with a noble of the great Byzantine family of
Cantacuzenos, Demetrios, at the corner point where the land wall met the
sea wall at the Marmara shore.
The defenses along the Marmara shore were even more mixed. Another
Contarini – Jacopo – was stationed at the village of Studion, while
Orthodox monks watched an adjacent section where little attack was
expected. Constantine had then placed his renegade Turkish contingent
under the pretender Prince Orhan at the harbor of Eleutherii – well away
from the land walls, though their loyalty was hardly to be questioned, given
their certain fate should the city fall. Toward the apex of the city, the
seashore was manned by a Catalan contingent, and the Acropolis point
itself was entrusted to Cardinal Isidore and a force of 200. It says much
about the fighting skills of the men on these sections that despite the natural
protection afforded by the sea, Constantine decided to supply each tower
with two skilled marksmen – one archer plus a crossbowman or
handgunner. The Golden Horn itself was guarded by Genoese and Venetian
sailors under the command of the Venetian sea captain Trevisano, while the
crews of two Cretan ships in the harbor manned a gate near the boom, the
Horaia. Protection of the boom itself and the ships in the harbor was in the
charge of Aluvixe Diedo.
In order to provide further support for his overstretched “army,”
Constantine decided to keep a rapid-reaction force in reserve. Two troops
were kept in readiness back from the walls. One, under the grand duke
Lucas Notaras, a skilled soldier and “the most important man in
Constantinople apart from the emperor,” was stationed in the Petra quarter
with a hundred horses and some mobile guns; another under Nicephorus
Palaiologos was placed on the central ridge near the ruined church of the
Holy Apostles. These reserves comprised about a thousand men.
Constantine brought a lifetime’s experience of warfare and troop
management to these arrangements, but he probably had little idea how well
this democracy of competing contingents would function together in days
ahead. Many of the crucial positions had been given to foreigners because
he was uncertain where his own position on church union placed him with
the Orthodox faithful of the city. He entrusted keys to four of the principal
city gates to leading Venetians and ensured that the Greek commanders on
the walls were unionist in their religious leanings. Lucas Notaras, who was
probably against union, had been pointedly kept away from having to
cooperate with Catholics at the defense of the walls.
As Constantine sought to match his scanty resources to the four-mile
extent of the land wall, there was one further crucial decision to make. The
triple wall had been designed for defense by a far larger contingent, which
could man it in depth – at both the high inner wall and the lower outer one.
He lacked the resources adequately to defend both layers, so he was forced
to choose where to make a stand. The wall had been bombarded in the 1422
siege, and whereas the outer one had been substantially repaired, the inner
had not. Defenders at the previous siege had faced the same choice and had
opted – successfully – for a defense of the outer wall. Constantine and his
siege expert, Giustiniani, adopted the same strategy. In some quarters it was
a controversial decision. “This was always against my advice,” wrote the
ever-critical Archbishop Leonard, “I urged us not to desert the protection of
our high inner walls,” but this was probably the counsel of perfection.
 The emperor resolved to do all he could for the morale of his troops,
and knowing that Mehmet feared the possibility of Catholic aid arriving for
the Orthodox city, decided on his own small show of force. At his request
on April 6 the men of the Venetian galleys disembarked and paraded the
length of the land walls in their distinctive European armor “with their
banners in front … to give great comfort to the people of the city,” as a
highly visible statement that there were Franks at the siege. On the same
day the galleys themselves were put on a war footing.
Mehmet for his part sent a small detachment of cavalry up to the city
gates, pennants fluttering in the wind, indicating that they had come to
parley. They brought with them the traditional invitation to surrender
required under Koranic law; “Nor do We punish,” says the Koran, “until We
have sent forth a messenger. When We resolve to raze a city, We first give
warning to those its people who live in comfort. If they persist in sin,
judgement is irrevocably passed, and We destroy it utterly.” Under this
formula the Christian defenders could convert to Islam, surrender, and pay
the poll tax, or hold out and anticipate three days of plunder, should their
city be stormed. The Byzantines had first heard this formula as long ago as
674, and several times since. The response had always been the same: “we
accept neither the tax, nor Islam, nor the capitulation of our fortress.” With
this denial, the Ottomans could feel that the siege had been sanctioned by
Holy Law, and heralds moved among the camp formally proclaiming the
start of the siege. Mehmet proceeded to wheel up his guns.
Constantine decided on a policy of maximum visibility. His
headquarters was a large tent behind the St. Romanus gate, from which he
rode out on his small Arab mare each day with George Sphrantzes and the
Spaniard Don Francisco of Toledo, “encouraging the soldiers, inspecting
the watches, and searching for those missing from their posts.” He heard
mass in whatever church was closest at the time and ensured that a group of
monks and priests was attached to each body of men to hear confession and
deliver the last rites in battle. Orders were also issued to conduct services
day and night for the salvation of the city, and morning liturgies were
concluded by procession of the icons through the streets and along the walls
to cheer the troops. The watching Muslims could make out the long beards
of the Christians and catch the sound of hymns in the spring air.
 The morale of the defenders was not improved by the weather. There
was a series of minor earthquakes and torrential rain. In the heightened
atmosphere, portents were seen and old prophecies remembered. “Icons
sweated in the churches, and the pillars and statues of saints,” recalled the
chronicler Kritovoulos. “Men and women were possessed and inspired by
visions that did not bode well, and soothsayers foretold many misfortunes.”
Constantine himself was probably more perturbed by the arrival of the
guns. He must have known what to expect from his previous experience of
Ottoman artillery fire at the Hexamilion in 1446 when his carefully built
wall collapsed in five days and a massacre ensued.

With his logistical skill in coordinating equipment, materials, and huge

numbers of men, Mehmet was now ready to act. His supplies of
cannonballs and saltpeter, mining equipment, siege engines, and food were
collected, counted, and ordered; weapons were cleaned, cannon were
hauled into position, and the men – cavalry and infantry, archers and
lancers, armorers, gunners, raiders, and miners – had been assembled and
brought to a pitch of expectation. The Ottoman sultans were close enough
to a shared tribal past to understand the motivations of men and how to
work their enthusiasm into a common purpose. Mehmet knew well how to
whip up fervor for holy war. The ulema went among the corps, reciting the
old prophecies from the Hadith about the city’s fall and its meaning to
Islam. Daily Mehmet prayed in public on a carpet in front of the red and
gold tent turned east toward Mecca – and also toward St. Sophia. This went
hand in hand with the promise of limitless booty if the city had to be taken
by force. The lure of the Red Apple was dangled before the expectant gaze
of the faithful. It was on these dual promises, so attractive to the tribal
raider, of taking plunder while fulfilling the will of God, that Mehmet
prepared his strike.
He knew, and his old vizier Halil Pasha knew even better, that speed
was now essential. Capturing cities required human sacrifice. The
enthusiasm and expectation whipped up for the assault – and the
willingness to fill up ditches with trampled corpses – had a limited time
frame. Unexpected setbacks could quickly tip morale; among such a
condensed body of men, rumor, dissent, and disaffection could ripple
through the tents like wind over the grasslands, and even the well-organized
camps of the Ottomans were prey to typhus if they tarried too late in the
summer. There was clearly danger for Mehmet in this venture. He was
aware, through his network of Venetian spies, that help from the West
would eventually come by land or sea no matter how quarrelsome and
divided the Christian powers might be. As he gazed up from the hill at
Maltepe at the rise and fall of the land walls with their close-packed towers,
their triple defensive system, and their history of stubborn resistance, he
might have expressed public faith in the valor of his troops, but his ultimate
confidence was probably in the potential of the guns.
Time was the prime coordinate for Constantine too. The calculation for
the defenders was depressingly simple. There was no possibility of lifting
the siege by counterattack. Their only hope lay in holding on long enough
for some relieving force from the West to muscle its way through the
blockade. They had resisted the Arabs in 678. They must hold out now.
If Constantine possessed one trump card it lay in the person of Giovanni
Giustiniani. The Genoese had come to the city with a reputation that
preceded him as a “man experienced in war.” He understood how to
appraise and rectify obvious weaknesses in the fortifications, the best use of
defensive weapons such as catapults and handguns, and deployment of the
limited numbers of men to greatest advantage. He drilled the defenders in
effective techniques of siege fighting and contemplated the opportunities
for counterattack from the city’s sally ports. The vicious wars among Italian
city-states bred generations of such talented specialists, technical
mercenaries who studied city defense as both a science and an art.
However, Giustiniani could never have encountered massive artillery
bombardment before. The events about to unfold would test his skill to the
limit.
 8 The Awful Resurrection Blast APRIL 6–19, 1453
Which tongue can profess or speak of these misfortunes and fears?
Nestor-Iskander

The big guns took a long time to arrive, lurching along the muddy tracks
from Edirne on their solid-wheeled carts through the spring rain. They
could be heard far ahead. The ox teams floundered and bellowed; the men
shouted; the grating axles emitted a continuous, single-note music like an
eerie transmission from the stars.
When they did reach the front line, each cannon took an age to unload
on hoists, site, and aim. By April 6 only some of the light guns were
probably in place. They fired their first shots at the walls with apparently
little effect. Soon after the start of the siege an enthusiastic but ragged
assault by irregular troops was made against the weak section of the wall in
the Lycus valley. Giustiniani’s men sallied out from the ramparts and put
the intruders to flight, “killing some and wounding a few.” Order in the
Ottoman camp was only restored by a substantial counterattack that forced
the defenders back behind the walls. The initial failure probably convinced
the sultan to await a full deployment of artillery, rather than risk further
damage to morale.
 In the interim he instigated the other set procedures of an Ottoman
siege. Hidden in bunkers behind the earth ramparts, sappers commenced
discreet mining operations in the central sector; their aim was to tunnel the
250 yards to the wall, which could then be collapsed from underneath.
Orders were also given to start trying to fill in the great fosse at suitable
points by “bringing up stones and timbers and mounds of earth and
amassing every other kind of material,” against the day when a concerted
assault of the walls should be undertaken. This was dangerous, even deadly
work, for the troops. The fosse was only forty yards from the defended wall
and provided an unprotected sector that could be raked from the ramparts
unless deterred by heavy counterfire. Each sphere of operation where a
toehold could be established or a line moved forward was to be bitterly
contested. Giustiniani studied the terrain and set about disrupting their
efforts. Sorties were made and ambushes laid in the dark when defenders
would “burst out of the city gates to attack those outside the walls. Leaping
out of the fosse, they would sometimes be beaten back; at other times they
would take Turkish captives” who could then be tortured for intelligence.
These fierce skirmishes for the ditch were effective, but it quickly became
clear to the defenders that the ratio of losses was unacceptable. The death of
each skilled fighter was significant, no matter how many Turks were killed
in the process, so the decision was taken early on to fight mainly from the
ramparts, “some firing crossbow bolts, others plain arrows.” The war for
the fosse was to be one of the bitter inner struggles of the siege.
Firing a cannon

In the days after April 7 while he awaited the arrival of his heavy guns,
the impatient sultan turned his attention to other matters. As the Ottoman
army had swept up through Thrace it had taken the Greek villages in its
path, but a few isolated strongholds still held out. These Mehmet had
bypassed, leaving detachments to watch them. Probably on April 8 he set
out with a sizeable force and some guns to eradicate the fortress of
Therapia, which stood on a hilltop overlooking the Bosphorus beyond the
Throat Cutter. It resisted for two days until the cannons destroyed its
fortifications and killed most of the defenders. The rest “when they could
not hold out any longer, surrendered and said he could do with them as he
wanted. And he impaled these forty men.” A similar castle at Studius on the
Sea of Marmara was quickly demolished by gunfire. This time the thirty-six
unfortunate survivors were impaled outside the city walls.
A few days later Baltaoglu, Mehmet’s admiral, took a portion of the
fleet to seize the Princes’ Islands in the Sea of Marmara, the traditional
retreat of the imperial family in times of trouble. On the largest island,
Prinkipo, there was a solid fortress, manned by “thirty heavily-armed men
and some of the local people,” that refused to surrender. When gunfire
failed to reduce them to submission, Baltaoglu’s men piled huge quantities
of brushwood against the walls and set fire to it. With the help of pitch and
brimstone and a stiff wind the flames licked the turrets so that the castle
itself was soon alight. Those who were not burned alive surrendered
unconditionally. The soldiers were killed on the spot and the villagers sold
into slavery.
By April 11 Mehmet was back at his red and gold tent and the full
complement of guns had been assembled. Mehmet grouped them into
fourteen or fifteen batteries along the walls at key points considered to be
vulnerable. One of Orban’s great guns, “a terrible cannon,” was stationed at
the single Blachernae wall near the Horn, “which was protected by neither a
ditch nor an outer wall.” Another was positioned near the right-angle join
between the two walls, and a third at the Gate of the Spring farther south.
Others were trained on critical points along the vulnerable Lycus valley.
Orban’s supergun, which the Greeks called the Basilica – “the royal gun” –
was positioned in front of the sultan’s tent, from where he could critically
appraise its performance, to threaten the St. Romanus Gate, “the weakest
gate in all the city.” Each large cannon was supported by a posse of smaller
ones in a battery that the Ottoman gunners affectionately named “the bear
with its cubs.” They fired stone balls that ranged from 200 pounds up to a
colossal 1,500 pounds, in the case of Orban’s monster gun. In the estimate
of one observer, the two largest cannons fired “a shot that reached the knee
and a shot that reached the girdle” respectively. Another declared the largest
shot to measure “eleven of my palms in circumference.” Though
eyewitnesses spoke of “innumerable engines of war,” Mehmet probably had
about sixty-nine cannon in total, a huge artillery force by the standards of
the day, that were supported at various points by other, more antique
technologies for hurling stones, such as the trebuchet, a counterweighted
traction catapult. The trebuchet had been enormously influential in the
Muslim capture of crusader castles three hundred years earlier. Now it
looked merely like a device from another age.
Installing and readying the cannon for action was a laborious process.
The barrels were freestanding and did not have integral gun carriages. They
were simply strapped to sturdy wagons for transportation. On arrival a
massive block-and-tackle system had to be erected to lower the barrel into
position on a sloping wooden platform constructed on the protected side of
the Ottoman front line and guarded from enemy fire by a wooden palisade
and a hinged door that could be swung open at the moment of firing.
The logistical support behind this operation was immense. Great
quantities of black stone balls had been mined and shaped on the northern
coast of the Black Sea and transported by merchant ships. On April 12 such
a consignment arrived at the Double Columns with “stones balls for
cannon, hurdles and timber, and other munitions for their camp.”
Substantial quantities of saltpeter also had to be requisitioned if the guns
were to fire for any length of time. The roadway that Mehmet had ordered
his general Zaganos Pasha to build around the top of the Horn to the harbor
was presumably to facilitate the movement of such supplies. Transporting
the guns themselves required large wooden carts and substantial teams of
men and oxen. The founders who worked with Orban at Edirne were also
their gun crews. They moved, positioned, loaded, and fired their handmade
charges – and repaired them on site. For although Orban’s superguns had
been manufactured 150 miles away, the Ottomans brought sufficient
resources to the siege to remake existing cannons in the camp, and even to
forge and cast new ones, creating a whole secondary sphere of activity.
Quantities of iron, copper, and tin would have to be brought to the siege,
domed charcoal pits dug, and brick-lined foundries constructed. A separate
zone of the military encampment must have been transformed into an ad
hoc industrial workshop, from whence smoke billowed and blacksmiths’
hammers rang in the spring air.
Preparing the big cannon needed time and attention to detail.
Gunpowder was loaded into the barrel of the gun, backed by a wooden wad
that was pounded tight by iron bars, or a sheepskin one, to ensure that
“whatever happened, it could not be forced out by any means except by the
explosion of the gunpowder.” The stone ball was then manhandled around
to the front of the cannon and eased down the barrel. It was designed to be a
good fit in the chamber but an exact match of ball to caliber was frequently
not achieved. Aim was reckoned by “certain techniques and calculations
about the target”– in practice this meant trial and error – and the angle of
the cannon adjusted accordingly by chocking its platform up with wooden
wedges. The guns were further wedged into place with great beams of
timber weighted down with stones that acted as shock absorbers, “lest by
the force of its charge and by the violent recoil in its position, it should be
displaced and shoot wide of the target.” Priming powder was poured into
the touchhole and all was ready. On April 12 lighted tapers were put to the
touchholes of the sultan’s guns along a four-mile sector, and the world’s
first concerted artillery bombardment exploded into life.
If there is any single moment in the history of warfare at which an
authentic sense of awe at the exponential power of gunpowder could be
palpably felt, it is here in the accounts of the firing of the great guns in the
spring of 1453. The taper ignited the powder:
And when it had caught fire, faster than you can say it, there was first a terrifying roar and a violent
shaking of the ground beneath and for a great distance around, and a din such as has never been
heard. Then with a monstrous thundering and an awful explosion and a flame that illuminated
everything round about and scorched it, the wooden wad was forced out by the hot blast of dry air
and propelled the stone ball powerfully out. Projected with incredible force and power, the stone
struck the wall, which it immediately shook and demolished, and it was itself shattered into many
fragments and the pieces were hurled everywhere, dealing death to those standing nearby.

When the giant stone balls struck the walls at an advantageous spot, the
effects were devastating: “sometimes it destroyed a complete portion of
wall, sometimes half a portion, sometimes a greater or smaller part of a
tower, or a turret, or a parapet, and nowhere was the wall strong enough or
sturdy enough or thick enough to withstand it, or to hold out totally against
such a force or the velocity of the stone ball.” At first it seemed to the
defenders that the whole history of siege warfare was unraveling in front of
their eyes; the Theodosian land wall, the product of two thousand years of
defensive evolution, a miracle of engineering devised by human ingenuity
and protected by divine blessing, started to collapse wherever it was hit by a
volley of well-aimed balls. Archbishop Leonard watched the effects on the
single wall near the palace: “they pulverized the wall with it, and although
it was extremely thick and strong, it collapsed under the bombardment of
this appalling device.”
Balls from the superguns that cleared the walls could be propelled a
mile into the heart of Constantinople, shattering with devastating force
against houses or churches, mowing down civilians or more likely burying
themselves in the orchards and fields of the shrunken city. One eyewitness
was astonished to see a ball strike a church wall and fall apart like dust.
According to others, the ground was shaken for two miles around and even
the galleys tied up safely in the harbors within the Golden Horn felt the
explosions transmitted through their stout wooden hulls. The sound of
gunfire was heard in Asia, five miles away across the Bosphorus. At the
same time the trebuchets, with their more looping arc of fire, hurled rocks
onto the roofs of houses behind the walls and onto parts of the imperial
palace.
The psychological effects of artillery bombardment on the defenders
were initially even more severe than its material consequences. The noise
and vibration of the massed guns, the clouds of smoke, the shattering
impact of stone on stone dismayed seasoned defenders. To the civilian
population it was a glimpse of the coming apocalypse and a retribution for
sin. It sounded, according to one Ottoman chronicler, “like the awful
resurrection blast.” People ran out of their houses beating their chests,
crossing themselves and shouting “Kyrie Eleison! What is going to happen
now?” Women fainted in the streets. The churches were thronged with
people “voicing petitions and prayers, wailing and exclaiming: ‘Lord, Lord!
We moved far away from You. All that fell upon us and Your holy City was
accomplished through righteous and true judgements for our sins.’ By the
flickering light of their most sacred icons their lips moved in the same
unceasing prayer: ‘Do not betray us in the end to Your enemies; do not
destroy Your worthy people; and do not take away Your loving kindness
from us and render us weak at this time.’”
Constantine worked unstintingly to maintain the morale of the city on
both a practical and religious level. He toured the walls hourly, stiffening
the morale of the commanders and their soldiers. Church bells were rung
unceasingly, and he exhorted “all of the people so that they would not
renounce hope nor slacken their resistance against the enemy but place their
trust in the Almighty Lord.”
 The defenders tried different strategies to mitigate the shock of the stone
balls. A mortar of chalk and brick dust was poured down the wall’s outer
face as a toughened coating; in other places bales of wool attached to
wooden beams, sheets of leather and precious tapestries were suspended to
muffle the velocity of the projectiles. These measures made little difference
to the extraordinary force of gunpowder propulsion. The defenders did their
best to try to knock out the big guns with their own few cannon, but they
were short of saltpeter, and the Ottoman guns were screened by their
palisades. Worse still it was found that the walls and towers were
chronically unsuitable as gun platforms. They were neither wide enough to
accommodate the recoil of large explosive charges nor strong enough to
withstand the vibrations, which “shook the walls, and did more damage to
them than to the enemy.” Their largest cannon quickly exploded, enraging
the harassed defenders so much that they wanted to put the gun master to
death for being in the pay of the sultan, “but since there was no clear proof
that he deserved this fate, they set him free.” Underneath it all, it was
quickly clear that in a new age of warfare the Theodosian walls were
structurally inadequate.
The Greek chroniclers struggled to convey what they saw, or even to
find a vocabulary to describe the guns. “No ancient name exists for this
device,” declared the classically minded Kritovoulos, “unless someone
refers to it as a battering ram or a propeller. But in common speech
everyone now calls it an apparatus.” Other names proliferated: bombards,
skeves, helepoles – “takers of cities” – torments and teleboles. In the
pressure of the moment, language was being shaped by a terrifying new
reality – the infernal experience of artillery bombardment.

Mehmet’s strategy was attritional – and impatient. He decided to batter the

walls day and night with artillery fire and to launch unpredictable
skirmishes to wear down the defenders and to make a major breach for a
final assault. “The assault continued night and day with no relief from the
clashes and explosions, crashing of stones and cannon-balls on the walls,”
reported Melissenos, “for the Sultan hoped in this way to take the city
easily, since we were few against many, by pounding us to death and
exhaustion, and so he allowed us no rest from attack.” The bombardment,
and the struggle for the fosse, continued unabated from April 12 to 18.
 Despite their initial psychological impact, managing the great cannon
was difficult work. Loading and aiming were such laborious operations that
the Basilica could only be fired seven times a day, with a preliminary shot
before dawn to warn of the day’s firing. The guns could be unpredictable,
bad-tempered, and deadly to their teams. In the spring rain they proved hard
to keep in position, recoiling with the slam of a charging rhino so that they
frequently slipped from their cradles into the mud. The possibility of being
crushed to death was only exceeded by the risk of being blown to pieces by
the shrapnel of disintegrating gun barrels. The Basilica quickly became a
cause for concern to Orban; the intense heat of the explosions had started to
exploit hairline fractures in the impure metal – evidently casting on this
scale was extremely demanding. The Greek chronicler Doukas, who had a
keen technical interest in the problem, recalled how, in order to control the
problem, the barrel was soaked in warm oil as soon as the ball had been
shot to try to prevent cold air penetrating and enlarging the fissures.
However, the possibility that the barrel would shatter like glass
continued to trouble Orban, and according to legend, nemesis soon
overtook the Christian mercenary. Close examination had revealed that the
cracks were indeed serious. Orban wished to withdraw the gun and recast it.
Mehmet, ever present to watch the performance of his great guns and
impatient for success, ordered the firing to continue. Weighing up the risks
of a faulty gun against the sultan’s displeasure, Orban reloaded and asked
Mehmet to stand back. On lighting the powder charge, the Basilica
“cracked as it was being fired and split into many pieces, killing and
wounding many nearby” – including Orban. There is, however, strong
evidence to suggest that his demise – devoutly wished for by the Christian
chroniclers – never happened in this way, though it seems clear that the
great gun ruptured early in the siege. It was quickly strengthened with iron
hoops and pressed back into service but soon cracked again – to the intense
anger of Mehmet. The supergun was evidently working beyond the
tolerances of contemporary metallurgy. Its chief effect had been
psychological; it was left to the slightly smaller but still formidable posse of
other bombards to do the damage.
Mehmet’s need to take the city quickly was soon underlined by the
arrival of a deputation from the Hungarian John Hunyadi. Mehmet’s policy
had been to ensure that his enemies were divided; to this end he had signed
a three-year peace treaty with Hunyadi, then regent of Hungary, to ensure
that no land attack from the west should take place during his attempt on
Constantinople. Hunyadi’s embassy had now come to the Ottoman court to
announce that, since their master had resigned his regency and surrendered
power back to his ward King Vladislas, the treaty was no longer binding. In
consequence he wished to return the truce document and receive his own
back. It was conceived by the wily Hungarian as a threat to pressure the
Ottoman cause and had probably been instigated by agents from the
Vatican. It raised the specter of a Hungarian army crossing the Danube to
lift the siege, and it caused a ripple of uncertainty throughout the camp; the
news must have correspondingly strengthened the will of the defenders.
Unfortunately the visit also gave way to unsubstantiated rumors that the
visiting Hungarians had provided valuable assistance to the Ottoman cause.
One of the ambassadors at the camp watched the firing of the great cannons
with interest. When he saw a shot strike the wall at a certain point and the
gunners prepare a second shot at the same point, professional interest
overcame him and he openly laughed at their naivete. He advised them to
aim their second shot “about thirty to thirty-six feet from the first shot, but
at the same height” and to position a third shot between the two “so that the
shots form a triangular shape. Then you will see that portion of wall
collapse.” The immediate effect of this firing strategy was to accelerate the
speed at which sections of the wall could be brought down. Very soon the
“bear and cubs” were working as coordinated teams. Smaller guns would
make two outer hits, then one of Orban’s great guns completed the triangle
in the now weakened central section: “the shot being carried by such
devilish force and irresistible impetus that it caused irreparable damage.”
The chroniclers attached a weird explanation for this helpful piece of
advice: a Serbian prophet had declared that the misfortunes of the
Christians would not come to an end until Constantinople fell to the Turks.
The story of the Hungarian visit neatly wrapped up repeated preoccupations
of the Christians in one narrative: the belief that the Ottomans could only
prosper with superior technological knowledge of Europeans, that the
decline of Christendom was responsible for the fall, and the role of religious
prophecy.
Despite the difficulties of aiming and the slow rate of fire, the
bombardment continued unabated from April 12 for six days. Now the
heaviest fire was concentrated on the Lycus valley and the Romanus Gate.
About 120 shots a day could be launched at the city. Inexorably the wall
began to crumble. Within the week a section of the outer wall had fallen and
two towers and a turret on the inner wall behind. However, after their initial
terror at the bombardment, the defenders regained heart under fire: “by
experiencing the force of the sultan’s war engines daily our soldiers became
accustomed to them and displayed neither fear nor cowardice.” Giustiniani
worked unceasingly to repair the damage and quickly devised an effective
ad hoc solution to the collapsing outer wall. A makeshift replacement was
constructed of stakes, and on this foundation the defenders dumped any
material that came to hand. Stones, timber, brushwood, bushes, and large
quantities of earth were moved into the breach. Screen of skin and hide
were stretched over the outer wooden stockade as protection against
incendiary arrows, and when the new defensive mound was of sufficient
height, barrels filled with earth were placed on top at regular intervals to act
as crenellated fighting positions to protect the defenders against volleys of
arrows and bullets with which the Ottomans attempted to sweep clean the
ramparts. Immense human labor was thrown into this effort; after dark men
and women came from the city to work all night, carrying timber, stones,
and earth to rebuild the defenses wherever they had been smashed during
the day. This incessant nocturnal labor took its toll on the energy of the
increasingly exhausted population, but the resulting earthworks provided a
surprisingly effective solution to the devastating impact of the stone balls.
Like throwing stones into mud, the balls were smothered and neutralized:
they were “buried in the soft and yielding earth, and did not make any
breach by striking against hard and unyielding materials.”
At the same time the bitter struggle continued for control of the moat.
By day Ottoman troops attempted to fill it in with any material to hand: soil,
timber, rubble, even – according to one account – their own tents, were
dragged up into no man’s land under a protecting volley of fire, and tipped
into the trench. At night the defenders mounted counteroffensives from
their sally ports to clear the fosse out again and restore it to its original
depth. The skirmishing in front of the walls was bitter, and at close range.
Sometimes the attackers used nets to try to retrieve precious cannon balls
that had rolled back into the fosse; at others soldiers would advance to test
weakened sections of the wall and to ensure the overstretched defenders
could never relax. With hooked sticks they attempted to drag down the earth
barrels from the top.
At close range these encounters favored the better-armored and
protected defenders, but even the Greek and Italian eyewitnesses were
impressed by their enemy’s courage under fire. “The Turks fought bravely
at close quarters,” remembered Leonard, “so they all died.” They were
raked by fire from the walls from longbows, crossbows, and arquebuses,
and the carnage was terrible. Having found their cannon unusable for firing
heavy balls, the defenders had reinvented their artillery pieces as huge
shotguns. A cannon would be packed with five or ten lead balls the size of
walnuts. Fired at close range the effect of these bullets was appalling: they
had “immense power in penetrating and perforating, so that if one hit a
soldier in armor, it went straight through both his shield and body, then
through another behind who was in the line of fire, and then another, until
the force of the powder was dissipated. With one shot two or three men
could be killed at the same time.”
Hit by this withering fire, the Ottomans suffered terrible casualties, and
their desire to retrieve their dead provided the defenders with another
shooting gallery. The Venetian surgeon Nicolo Barbaro was startled by what
he saw:
And when one or two of them were killed, at once other Turks came and carried off the dead ones,
hoisting them over their shoulders as one would a pig, without caring how near they came to the city
walls. But our men who were on the ramparts shot at them with guns and crossbows, aiming at the
Turk who was carrying away his dead comrade, and both of them would fall to the ground dead, and
then other Turks came and took them away, not fearing death in the slightest, but preferring to let ten
of themselves be killed rather than suffer the shame of leaving a single Turkish corpse in front of the
city walls.

Despite the defenders’ best efforts, remorseless bombardment provided

sufficient cover for a section of the fosse in the Lycus valley to be filled in.
On April 18 Mehmet judged that the damage to the wall and attritional
skirmishing had been sufficient to launch a concerted attack. It had been a
fine spring day; as evening fell, the call to prayer rose with peaceful
certainty over the Ottoman camp, and within the walls the Orthodox retired
to the churches to hold vigils, light candles, and to pray to the Mother of
God. Two hours after sunset, under a soft spring moon, Mehmet ordered
forward a substantial detachment of his crack troops. To the rhythmic
thudding of camel skin drums, the braying of pipes, and the clashing of
cymbals – all the psychological warfare of the Ottoman military band –
amplified by flares, shouts, and battle cries, Mehmet started to roll forward
“the heavy infantry and the bowmen and the javelin-men and all the
imperial foot-guards.” He directed them at a vulnerable spot in the Lycus
valley where a section of wall had collapsed. The citizens were panic-
stricken, experiencing the hair-raising sound of a full-throated Ottoman
assault for the first time. “I cannot describe the cries with which they came
at the walls,” Barbaro later recalled with a shudder.
Constantine was deeply alarmed. He feared a general assault along the
whole line and knew that his men were unprepared. He ordered the church
bells to be rung; terrified people ran into the streets, and soldiers scrambled
back to their stations. Under a heavy covering fire of cannon, guns, and
bows, the Ottomans crossed the fosse. Withering volleys made it impossible
to stand on the improvised earth ramparts, so that the Janissaries were able
to reach the walls with ladders and battering rams. They worked to strip the
ramparts of their protective crenellations and further expose the defenders
to blanket fire. At the same time attempts were made to burn the wooden
stockade, but these failed, and the narrowness of the gap in the wall and the
sloping terrain hampered the onrush of the attackers. In the darkness
pandemonium broke out, a confused hubbub of sounds, according to
Nestor-Iskander:
the clatter of cannons and arquebuses, the roar of the bells, the cracking of arms – like lightning
flashing from both weapons – as the crying and sobbing of the people (the women and children of the
city) made one believe that the sky and the earth had joined the earth and they both trembled; one
could not hear another man’s words. Weeping and screaming, the cries and sobs of the people, the
roar of the cannons, and the pealing of bells combined into one din resembling great thunder. Again,
rising from many fires and the explosions of cannons and arquebuses, the smoke thickened on both
sides and covered the city. The armies were unable to see one another and did not know against
whom they fought.

Slashing and hacking at each other in the narrow spaces of the defile under
the bright moon, advantage rested with the defenders, who were well
armored and stoutly marshaled by Giustiniani. Slowly the momentum of the
attackers died: “slashed to pieces, they exhausted themselves on the walls.”
After four hours an abrupt quietness descended on the ramparts, broken
only by the moans of men dying in the ditch. The Ottomans retreated to
camp, “without even thought for their dead,” and the defenders, after six
days of continuous defense, “collapsed from the struggle as if dead.”
In the cool light of morning Constantine and his retinue came to inspect
the aftermath. The ditch and the banks were lined with “completely broken
corpses.” Battering rams lay abandoned before the walls, and fires
smoldered in the morning air. Constantine could rouse neither the army nor
the exhausted citizenry to bury the Christian dead, and this work had to be
assigned to the monks. As always, casualty figures varied wildly: Nestor-
Iskander gave the number of Ottoman dead at 18,000; Barbaro a more
realistic 200. Constantine ordered that no attempt should be made to hinder
the enemy from collecting their corpses, but the battering rams were
burned. Then he proceeded to St. Sophia with the clergy and nobles to give
thanks to “the all-powerful God and to the most pure Mother of God,
hoping that now the godless would retreat, having seen so many of their
own fall.” It was a moment of respite for the city. Mehmet’s response was
to intensify the bombardment.
 9 A Wind from God APRIL 1–20, 1453
Battles on the sea are more dangerous and fierce than the battles by land, for on the sea there is no
recoiling nor fleeing, there is no remedy but to fight and to abide fortune, and every man show his
prowess.
Jean Froissart, fourteenth-century French chronicler

In early April, while the big guns were busy pounding the land walls,
Mehmet began to deploy the fleet, his other new weapon, for the first time.
He had been quick to grasp a fact obvious to all potential besiegers from the
time of the Arabs onward – that without firm control of the sea an attempt
on the city was likely to fail. His father Murat had come to the siege of
1422 with no ability to strangle Byzantine sea-lanes – the Ottoman fleet had
been caught and destroyed at Gallipoli by the Venetians six years earlier.
Without a blockade of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles the city could be
easily resupplied by the Greek cities of the Black Sea or by Christian
sympathizers from the Mediterranean basin. It was with this in mind that
the Throat Cutter had been built and equipped with heavy guns in the
summer of 1452. No ship could henceforth pass up or down the Bosphorus
into the Black Sea unexamined.
At the same time he had set to work repairing and strengthening the
navy. During the winter of 1452 an ambitious program of shipbuilding work
was undertaken at the Ottoman naval base at Gallipoli and probably at
Sinop on the Black Sea and other shipyards on the Aegean coast. According
to Kritovoulos, Mehmet “thought that the fleet would be more influential in
the siege and the fighting ahead, than the army,” and gave great personal
attention to this work. The empire had acquired an experienced resource of
shipwrights, sailors, and pilots, both of Greek and Italian origin, as it rolled
up the coasts of the Black Sea and Mediterranean, and this skilled
manpower could be brought into play in naval reconstruction. Mehmet also
had access to the substantial natural resources essential to naval endeavor:
timber and hemp, cloth for sails, cast iron for anchors and nails, pitch and
tallow for caulking and greasing hulls. These materials were sourced widely
from within the empire and beyond. It was the logistical skill of Mehmet to
bring together all these resources for war.
Sailing ships off the sea walls

As with cannon, the Ottomans were swift to adopt the ships of their
Christian enemies. The key fighting vessel of the Mediterranean Middle
Ages was the oared galley, the natural successor of the Roman and Greek
galleys of classical antiquity, a vessel that dominated the Mediterranean in
evolving forms from the start of the Bronze Age until the eighteenth
century, and whose basic shape, echoed on Minoan seals, Egyptian papyri,
and the pottery of classical Greece, was to be as central to the sea’s history
as the vine and the olive tree. By the late Middle Ages the prototype war
galley was long, fast, and very lean, typically perhaps 100 feet in length,
under 12 feet in width with a raised prow or spur at the front to act as a
fighting platform or boarding bridge onto enemy ships. The tactics of naval
warfare were hardly distinguishable from those on land. The galleys would
be packed with a complement of fighting men who, after an initial
discharge of missiles, would attempt to storm the opposing vessel in vicious
hand-to-hand combat.
The galley itself was startlingly low in the water. To maximize the
mechanical advantage of the oars, a laden war galley might have clearance
above the water of two feet. It could be powered by sail, but it was the oars
that gave the galley its punch and flex in battle. The rowers were arranged
in a single tier, above deck – which left them horribly exposed in battle –
and usually two or three to a side on a single bench; each man worked an
individual oar whose length was determined by his place on the bench.
Conditions were cramped; galley rowing meant operating an oar in the seat
space of a modern passenger plane so that the basic rowing motion, where
sideways space was at a premium, involved the oarsmen pushing the oar
straight forward with his elbows kept in and rising up out of his seat in the
process, then dropping back into it. Not surprisingly galley rowing required
skilled crews able to row in perfect time – and considerable muscle power
to work an oar up to thirty feet long weighing some 100 pounds. The war
galley was bred for speed and maneuverability in battle; a galley with a
well-greased keel could maintain a dash speed of seven and a half knots for
twenty minutes under human power. The demand to row for longer than an
hour quickly tired the crew.
For all its pace on a calm sea, the galley suffered from extraordinary
disadvantages. The low freeboard rendered it surprisingly unseaworthy,
even in the short choppy seas of the Mediterranean, so that galley sailing
tended to be confined to the summer months and dictated a preference for
hugging the coast to making long journeys over open water. Galley fleets
were not infrequently swamped by unseasonal storms. The sails were only
useful with the wind full astern, and the oars themselves were useless
against any strong headwind. In addition the requirement for speed had
created a hull that was fragile and so low in the water as to be at a serious
disadvantage when attacking a high-sided vessel, such as a merchant sailing
ship or one of the taller Venetian great galleys. The galley’s strengths and
weaknesses were to be severely tested in the struggle for the city.
Mehmet had assembled a substantial fleet. He repaired and recaulked
older vessels and built a number of new triremes – galleys with oars
grouped in threes – as well as smaller scaled-down raiding galleys, “long
ships, fast and fully decked, with thirty to fifty rowers,” which Europeans
called fustae. He appears to have supervised much of this work himself,
choosing “skilled seamen from all the Asian and European coasts –
oarsmen with particular skills, deckhands, helmsmen, commanders of
triremes, captains and admirals, and the other ships’ crews.” Some of this
fleet was already in the Bosphorus in March, ferrying troops across the
straits, but it was not until the start of April that the main force could be
assembled at Gallipoli under his appointed admiral Baltaoglu, “a great man,
a skillful admiral experienced in sea warfare.” It was the first time in seven
sieges that the Ottomans had brought a fleet to the city. It was a crucial
development.
Gallipoli, “homeland of defenders of the faith,” was a talismanic city for
the Ottomans and an auspicious point of departure. It was here that they had
gained their first foothold in Europe in 1354 after a fortuitous earthquake.
The fleet, fired with zeal for holy war and the enterprise of conquest, started
out from the Dardanelles and began to work its way up the Sea of Marmara.
The crews apparently set out “with cries and cheering and the singing of
rowing chants, encouraging each other with shouts.” In practice the
enthusiasm may have been more muted: a substantial portion of the rowing
force were in all likelihood Christians working under compulsion.
According to a later chronicler, “the wind of divine help pushed them
forward,” but the reality must have been different. By now the prevailing
wind was blowing from the north, so the passage up the Marmara had to
made against wind and current. The 120 miles to Constantinople presented
a hard slog for the galleys. News of their progress preceded them up the
sea-lane with a mixture of astonishment and panic. As with his army,
Mehmet understood the psychological value of superior numbers. It was the
impression of a sea covered with oars and masts that appalled the watching
Greek villages along the coast. The most reliable estimates of the Ottoman
navy were made by experienced Christian seafarers, such Giacomo Tetaldi
and Nicolo Barbaro, rather than by more impressionable landlubbers.
Between them they estimated a fleet of something between 12 and 18 full
war galleys composed of a mixture of triremes and biremes, then 70 to 80
smaller fustae, about 25 parandaria – heavy transport barges – and a
number of light brigantines and other small message boats, a force of about
140 boats in all. It was an awesome sight to glimpse over the curve of the
western horizon.
Word of Mehmet’s impressive naval preparations reached the city long
before his ships, so that the defenders had time to draw up their naval plans
with care. On April 2 they closed the Golden Horn with the great chain to
create a secure anchorage for their ships and to seal off the puny sea walls
from attack. It was a practice embedded deep in the history of the city. As
early as 717 a chain had been strung across the strait to hamper besieging
Muslim navies. On April 6, according to Barbaro, “we put ready for battle
the three galleys from Tana and the two narrow galleys,” and their crews
then progressed the length of the land wall in a show of military strength.
On the 9th all the naval resources available to the defenders in the harbor
were organized and made ready. It was a mixed collection of craft, brought
together for a range of motives. There were ships from the Italian city-states
and their colonies – Venice, Genoa, Ancona, and Crete – as well as a
Catalan ship, one from Provence, and ten Byzantine craft. There were
galleys of various sizes including the three “great galleys,” the bulk carriers
of Italian maritime trade, slower than conventional war galleys but stoutly
built with higher sides, and two “narrow galleys,” slender hulled and low in
the water. The majority of the vessels at anchor in the Golden Horn in early
April 1453 were merchant sailing ships – high-sided, sail-driven “round
ships” – carracks with high poops and sterns, stoutly timbered and masted.
In theory none of these were fighting ships, but in the dangerous, pirate-
threatened waters of the Mediterranean, the distinction was a fine one. Their
height and the vantage points of their decks and crow’s nests gave them
natural advantages over low-slung war galleys if supplied with weapons
and skilled troops. At this snapshot moment in the history of naval warfare
the sailing ship could often hold its own against the most determined attack.
Galley-mounted guns were in their infancy; they were too small and
mounted too low to threaten a carrack. It was to be another fifty years
before the Venetians devised an effective ship-killing gun that could be
mounted on a galley. Furthermore, the sailors from Venice and Genoa in
particular, who depended totally on their prowess at sea for survival and
prosperity, approached all maritime matters with supreme confidence. They
made their plans accordingly.
On April 9 therefore they drew their ten largest merchantmen up in front
of the boom “in close array and with bows forward.” Barbaro faithfully
recorded their captains and the size of each one, ranging from that of Zorzi
Doria of Genoa, “2,500 botte,” to one of “600 botte”; three he named: the
Filomati and Guro of Candia, the Gataloxa of Genoa. Alongside these were
stationed the stoutest of the galleys. The ships, which were “well armed and
in excellent order, as if they wanted to join battle, and all equally good,”
spanned the length of the boom from the city to Galata on the other side. In
the inner harbor a further seventeen square-rigged merchantmen were kept
in reserve, together with more galleys, including five of the emperor’s,
which were probably disarmed to provide a concentration of equipment at
the boom. A few surplus ships were scuttled to lessen the risk of being hit
by cannon and spreading fire, the waking nightmare of mariners in a closely
packed fleet. Secure in both their defenses and their nautical skill, with
cannon positioned on the foreshore as an extra assurance, the captains sat to
await the arrival of the Ottoman fleet. They had perhaps 37 ships in total
against an armada of 140, on paper a huge discrepancy, but the Italian
seafarers understood the critical issues in sea warfare. Ship handling was a
craft skill dependent on well-trained crews, so that the outcome of naval
encounters rested less on numbers than on experience, determination, and
the random luck of winds and currents. “Seeing that we had such an
impressive fleet, we felt ourselves confidently secure against the fleet of the
infidel Turks,” recorded Barbaro smugly, betraying a consistent Venetian
tendency to underestimate Ottoman maritime skills.
The Ottoman fleet was finally sighted on April 12 at about one o’clock
in the afternoon, battling up against the north wind. Doubtless the sea walls
were crowded with watching citizens as the horizon slowly filled with
masts. The fleet came rowing on “with determination,” but seeing the
Christian ships drawn up at the boom in line of battle, it went over to the
other side of the strait, lining the opposite shore. It made a strong
impression on those watching and deepened the city’s gloom, hearing the
“eager cries and the sound of castanets and tambourines, with which they
filled our fleet and those in the city with fear.” Later in the afternoon, the
whole fleet moved two miles farther up the Bosphorus to a small harbor on
the European shore called by the Greeks the Double Columns, now the site
of the Dolmabache Palace. The size and power of the warlike fleet had
undoubtedly dented the confidence of even the Italians, because the ships at
the boom stood to arms all that day and into the night “waiting hour after
hour in case they came to attack our fleet,” but nothing happened. It was to
be the start of an attritional game of cat and mouse. To minimize the risk of
being surprised, two men were stationed permanently on the town walls of
neutral Galata from which vantage point the fleet at the Double Columns
farther up the Bosphorus could be closely watched. At any sign of
movement along the straits by even a single ship, a man hurried back down
the streets of Galata to the Horn to alert Alviso Diedo, the harbor
commander. The battle trumpet was sounded and those on the ships stood
immediately to arms. In this state of nervy apprehension they waited day
and night, rocking gently at anchor in the calm waters of the Horn.
Mehmet had three clear objectives for his new fleet: to blockade the
city, to attempt to force a way into the Horn, and to oppose any relieving
fleet that might sail up the Marmara. Initially Baltaoglu did nothing more
than send out patrols around the waters of the city specifically to prevent
ships entering or leaving the two small harbors on the Marmara side of the
city. At about the same time a further detachment of ships came from the
Black Sea laden with cannonballs and other munitions for the army. The
arrival of these supplies seemed to precipitate a new cycle of activity in the
Ottoman camp.
Impatient to tighten his stranglehold on the city, Mehmet ordered
Baltaoglu to make an attempt on the boom. If the Ottomans could force
their way into the Horn, Constantine would be compelled to strip the land
wall of much-needed defenders to guard the shoreline. Both sides had made
careful preparations for this moment. Doubtless at the instigation of
Mehmet, whose appetite for artillery innovations was boundless, the
Ottomans loaded small cannon onto their galleys. They packed the fighting
beaks with heavy infantry and provisioned the vessels with stocks of
weapon: stone cannonballs, arrows, javelins, and inflammable material. The
lookouts on the Galata walls closely observed these preparations, so that
Lucas Notaras, the commander of the Byzantine ships, had ample time to
prepare the big merchant carracks and galleys with men and ammunition.
Probably on April 18, at the same time as the first major assault on the
land walls at the St. Romanus Gate, Baltaoglu launched the new navy’s first
attack. Putting out in force from the Double Columns, the fleet rounded the
point and advanced at speed toward the boom. They rowed hard at the
steady line of tall ships anchored in front of the chain, with the crews
encouraging one another with shouts and battle cries. They came on to
within a bowshot, then slowed and released a volley of fire from bows and
cannon; stone balls, metal bolts, and flaming arrows whistled across the
water and swept the enemy decks. After the initial salvos, they came on
again toward the anchored ships. As they clashed, the Ottomans attempted
the standard boarding procedures of close engagement. Grappling hooks
and ladders were thrown up as they tried to scale the sides of the taller
ships; attempts were made to slash the merchantmen’s anchor cables. A hail
of javelins, pikes, and spears was hurled at the defenders. The ferocity of
the assault was unquestionable, but the advantage of battle lay with the
higher and more stoutly built carracks. Stone balls from the ship-mounted
cannon of the Ottoman galleys were too small to inflict damage on the
sturdy wooden hulls, and the sea-borne soldiers were attacking from below,
like troops trying to storm the land walls from the bottom of a ditch. The
sailors and marines on board the Christian ships could hurl down missiles
from the bow and stern platforms and from higher up in the crow’s nests.
Volleys of gads – iron javelins with stabilizing fins – arrows and stones
were rained down on the undefended attackers scrabbling at the sides of the
ships, “wounding many, and killing a considerable number too.” The
merchantmen were practiced and equipped for close combat at sea; jars of
water were at hand to extinguish incendiary devices, and simple rope hoists
extending from their masts allowed them to swing out heavy stones clear
from the sides of the ships and drop them onto the fragile shells of the
swarming long boats, “and inflicted considerable damage in this way.” The
struggle to capture and to protect the chain was intense, but eventually the
Christians started to prevail. They managed to turn the flank of the galley
fleet. Fearing humiliation, Baltaoglu withdrew his ships and sailed back to
the Double Columns.
The first round of naval warfare had gone to the defenders. They
understood their ships well and a basic fact of naval warfare: that a well-
prepared merchantman could hold its own against a swarm of low-lying
galleys if the crew were disciplined and well equipped. Mehmet’s hopes for
artillery power had not been met at sea. The guns that could be mounted on
light-framed galleys were too small to be effective against the stout sides of
sailing ships, and the conditions of operation – the difficulty both of
preventing the powder absorbing atmospheric moisture at sea and of aiming
effectively on a pitching deck – further decreased the chances of success.
By the morning of April 19, Mehmet’s troops had been repulsed by both
land and sea, while the spirits of the defenders remained undaunted. The
lengthening time frame of the siege increased Mehmet’s impatience day by
day – and the possibility of aid from the West.

For Constantine a successful defense of the city depended on relief from

Christian Europe. The endless round of diplomatic missions that preceded
the siege had all been undertaken to beg or borrow men and resources for
the cause of Christendom. Daily the population looked in the direction of
the setting sun for another fleet – a squadron of Venetian or Genoese war
galleys, their beaked prows surging up the Marmara to the beating of
drums, the rallying of war trumpets, the lion flags of St. Mark’s or the
gonfalons of Genoa cracking in the salt wind. But the sea remained
ominously empty.
In effect the fate of the city hung on the complex internal politics of the
Italian city-states. As early as the end of 1451 Constantine had sent
messengers to Venice to report that the city would fall without help. The
matter had been debated by the Venetian Senate at length; it was the subject
of prevarication in Genoa; in Rome the pope was concerned but required
evidence that the union of the churches had been fully implemented. In any
case he lacked practical resources to intervene without the Venetians. Genoa
and Venice eyed each other in cold commercial rivalry and did nothing.
Constantine’s appeal to the West rested on notions that were religious
and medieval, but they were directed at states whose motivations were
economic – and surprisingly modern. The Venetians were largely indifferent
to whether the Byzantines were unionists or not and had little appetite for
the role of defenders of the faith. They were hard-nosed traders,
preoccupied with commercial agreements, the security of their sea routes,
and the calculation of interest. They worried about pirates more than
theology, about commodities rather than creeds. Their merchants studied
the price of what could be bought and sold – wheat, fur, slaves, wine, and
gold – the supply of manpower for the galley fleets, and the pattern of
Mediterranean winds. They lived by trade and the sea, by discount, profit
margins, and ready coin. The doge was on excellent terms with the sultan,
and trade with Edirne was profitable; furthermore Constantine had
considerably damaged Venetian interests in the Peloponnese in the previous
twenty years.
It was in this spirit that in August 1452 a minority of senators actually
voted to abandon Constantinople to its fate. The lack of concern was
modified the following spring as reports trickled in of the throttling of trade
routes to the Black Sea and the sinking of Venetian ships. On February 19
the Senate decided to prepare a fleet of two armed transports and fifteen
galleys to sail on April 8. The organization of the expedition was entrusted
to Alviso Longo with cautious instructions that included a helpful dictat to
avoid confrontation with the Ottomans in the straits. He finally departed on
April 19, one day after the first major assault on the walls. Others made
similarly uncoordinated efforts. On April 13 the government of the
Republic of Genoa invited its citizens, merchants, and officials “in the East,
in the Black Sea and in Syria” to help with all means the emperor of
Constantinople and Demetrios, despot of the Morea. Five days earlier it had
been authorizing loans to arm ships against the Venetians. At about the
same time the pope had written to the Venetian Senate informing them of
his desire to get up five galleys, on loan from the Venetians, for the relief of
the city. The Venetians, ever sticklers for a debt, accepted the commission
in principle but wrote back reminding the papacy that the cost of galleys for
the failed Crusade of Varna in 1444 was still outstanding.
Pope Nicholas had however already undertaken one prompt initiative at
his own expense. Fearful of the fate of Constantinople, in March he hired
three Genoese merchant ships, provisioned them with food, men, and
weapons, and dispatched them to the city. By the start of April they had
reached the Genoese island of Chios off the Anatolian coast but could
proceed no farther. The north wind that impeded the Ottoman fleet held the
Genoese at Chios for a fortnight. On April 15 the wind shifted to the south
and the ships set sail. By the 19th they had reached the Dardanelles where
they fell in with a heavy imperial transport, laden with a cargo of corn the
emperor had purchased from Sicily and commanded by an Italian,
Francesco Lecanella. They swept up the Dardanelles and passed the
Ottoman naval base at Gallipoli unopposed – the entire fleet had decamped
to the Double Columns. The ships were in all likelihood similar to those
that had seen off the Ottomans at the boom a few days previously: high-
sided sail-powered vessels, probably carracks, described by the Ottoman
chronicler Tursun Bey as “cogs.” On the swell of the south wind they made
rapid time up the Marmara so that by the morning of April 20 the crews
could make out the great dome of St. Sophia forming on their eastern
horizon.
The lookout for a relieving fleet was a constant obsession in the city.
The ships were seen at about ten in the morning, and the Genoese flags – a
red cross on a white background – identified. The news caused an instant
stir among the people. Almost simultaneously the ships were also sighted
by Ottoman naval patrols, and word was sent to Mehmet in his camp at
Maltepe. He galloped down to the Double Columns to deliver clear and
peremptory orders to Baltaoglu. Doubtless stung by the failure of his fleet at
the boom and the reversal at the land walls, Mehmet gave a message to
commander and fleet that was unequivocal: “either to take the sailing ships
and bring them to him or never to come back alive.” The galley fleet was
hurriedly made ready with a full complement of rowers and crammed with
crack troops – heavy infantry, bowmen, and Janissaries from his personal
bodyguard. Light cannon were again loaded on board, as well as incendiary
materials and “many other weapons: round and rectangular shields, helmets,
breast plates, missiles and javelins and long spears, and other things useful
for this kind of battle.” The fleet set out down the Bosphorus to confront the
intruders. Success was imperative for morale, but this second naval battle
was to be fought farther out in the straits where the vagaries of the
Bosphorus’s extraordinary winds and local currents were less predictable
and the demands on ships could be exacting. The Genoese merchantmen
were battering up the straits with the wind astern. The Ottoman fleet, unable
to use their sails against the wind, lowered them as they rowed downstream
against a choppy sea.
By early afternoon the four ships were off the southeast shore of the
city, keeping a steady course for the tower of Demetrios the Great, a
prominent landmark on the city’s Acropolis, and well out from the shore,
ready to make the turning maneuver into the mouth of the Horn. The huge
disparity in numbers filled Baltaoglu’s men “with ambition and hope of
success.” They came on steadily, “with a great sounding of castanets and
cries towards the four ships, rowing fast, like men wanting victory.” The
sound of beating drums and the braying of zornas spread across the water as
the galley fleet closed in. With the masts and oars of a hundred ships
converging on the four merchantmen, the outcome seemed inevitable. The
population of the city crowded to the walls, onto the roofs of houses, or to
the Sphendone of the Hippodrome, anywhere that had a wide view of the
Marmara and the entrance of the Bosphorus. On the other side of the Horn,
beyond the walls of Galata, Mehmet and his retinue watched from the
vantage point of an opposing hill. Each side looked on with a mixture of
hope and anxiety as Baltaoglu’s trireme drew near to the lead ship. From
the poop he peremptorily ordered them to lower their sails. The Genoese
kept their course, and Baltaoglu commanded his fleet to lie to and rake the
carracks with fire. Stone shot whistled through the air; bolts, javelins, and
incendiary arrows were poured up at the ships from all directions but the
Genoese did not waver. Again the advantage was with the taller ships: “they
fought from high up, and indeed from the yardarms and the wooden turrets
they hurled down arrows, javelins, and stones.” The weight of the sea made
it hard for the galleys to steady their aim or to maneuver accurately around
the carracks still surging forward with the south wind in their sails. The
fight developed into a running skirmish, with the Ottoman troops struggling
to get close enough in the choppy sea to board or to fire the sails, the
Genoese flinging a hail of missiles from their castellated poops.
The small convoy of tall ships reached the point of the Acropolis
unscathed and was ready to make the turn into the safety of the Horn when
disaster struck. The wind suddenly dropped. The sails hung lifeless from the
masts, and the ships, almost within touching distance of the city walls, lost
all headway and started to drift helplessly on a perverse countercurrent
across the open mouth of the Horn and toward Mehmet and his watching
army on the Galata shore. At once the balance shifted from the ships with
sails to the galleys with oars. Baltaoglu gathered his larger vessels around
the merchantmen at a slight distance and again pelted them with missiles,
but with no greater effect than before. The cannon were too light and too
low in the water to damage the hulls or disable the masts. The Christian
crews were able to put out any fires with barrels of water. Seeing the failure
of raking fire, the admiral “shouted in a commanding voice” and ordered
the fleet to close in and board.
The swarm of galleys and longboats converged on the cumbersome and
disabled carracks. The sea congealed into a struggling mass of interlocking
masts and hulls that looked, according to the chronicler Doukas, “like dry
land.” Baltaoglu rammed the beak of his trireme into the stern of the
imperial galley, the largest and least heavily armed of the Christian ships.
Ottoman infantry poured up the boarding bridges trying to get onto the
ships with grappling hooks and ladders, to smash their hulls with axes, to
set fire to them with flaming torches. Some climbed up anchor cables and
ropes; others hurled lances and javelins up at the wooden ramparts. At close
quarters the struggle developed into a series of vicious hand-to-hand
encounters. From above, the defenders, protected by good armor, smashed
the heads of their assailants with clubs as they emerged over the ships’
sides, cut off scrabbling hands with cutlasses, hurled javelins, spears, pikes,
and stones down on the seething mass below. From higher up in the
yardarms and crow’s nests “they threw missiles from their terrible catapults
and a rain of stones hurled down on the close-packed Turkish fleet.”
Crossbowmen picked off chosen targets with well-aimed bolts and
crewmen deployed cranes to hoist and drop weighty stones and barrels of
water through the light hulls of the longboats, damaging and sinking many.
The air was a confused mass of sounds: shouts and cries, the roaring of
cannon, the splash of armored men falling backward into the water, the
snapping of oars, the shattering of stone on wood, steel on steel, the
whistling of arrows falling so fast “that the oars couldn’t be pushed down
into the water,” the sound of blades on flesh, of crackling fire and human
pain. “There was great shouting and confusion on all sides as they
encouraged each other,” recorded Kritovoulos, “hitting and being hit,
slaughtering and being slaughtered, pushing and being pushed, swearing,
cursing, threatening, moaning – it was a terrible din.”
 Ottoman galleys attacking Christian sailing ships

For two hours the Ottoman fleet grappled with its intractable foe in the
heat of battle. Its soldiers and sailors fought bravely and with extraordinary
passion, “like demons,” recorded Archbishop Leonard begrudgingly.
Gradually, and despite heavy losses, the weight of numbers started to tell.
One ship was surrounded by five triremes, another by thirty longboats, a
third by forty barges filled with soldiers, like swarms of ants trying to down
a huge beetle. When one longboat fell back exhausted or was sunk, leaving
its armored soldiers to be swept off in the current or clinging to spars, fresh
boats rowed forward to tear at their prey. Baltaoglu’s trireme clung
tenaciously to the heavier and less well-armed imperial transport, which
“defended itself brilliantly, with its captain Francisco Lecanella rushing to
help.” In time, however, it became apparent to the captains of the Genoese
ships that the transport would be taken without swift intervention.
Somehow they managed to bring their ships up alongside in a practiced
maneuver and lash the four vessels together, so that they seemed to move,
according to an observer, like four towers rising up among the swarming
seething confusion of the grappling Ottoman fleet from a surface of wood
so dense that “the water could hardly be seen.”
The spectators thronging the city walls and the ships within the boom
watched helplessly as the matted raft of ships drifted slowly under the point
of the Acropolis and toward the Galata shore. As the battle drew closer,
Mehmet galloped down onto the foreshore, shouting excited instructions,
threats, and encouragement to his valiantly struggling men, then urging his
horse into the shallow water in his desire to command the engagement.
Baltaoglu was close enough now to hear and ignore his sultan’s bellowed
instructions. The sun was setting. The battle had been raging for three
hours. It seemed certain that the Ottomans must win “for they took it in
turns to fight, relieving each other, fresh men taking the places of the
wounded or killed.” Sooner or later the supply of Christian missiles must
give out and their energy would falter. And then something happened to
shift the balance back again so suddenly that the watching Christians saw in
it only the hand of God. The south wind picked up. Slowly the great square
sails of the four towered carracks stirred and swelled and the ships started to
move forward again in a block, impelled by the irresistible momentum of
the wind. Gathering speed, they crashed through the surrounding wall of
frail galleys and surged toward the mouth of the Horn. Mehmet shouted
curses at his commander and ships “and tore his garments in his fury,” but
by now night was falling and it was too late to pursue the ships farther.
Beside himself with rage at the humiliation of the spectacle, Mehmet
ordered the fleet to withdraw to the Double Columns.
In the moonless dark, two Venetian galleys were dispatched from
behind the boom, sounding two or three trumpets on each galley and with
the men shouting wildly to convince their enemies that a force of “at least
twenty galleys” was putting to sea and to discourage any further pursuit.
The galleys towed the sailing ships into the harbor to the ringing of church
bells and the cheering of the citizens. Mehmet was “stunned. In silence, he
whipped up his horse and rode away.”
 10 Spirals of Blood APRIL 20–28, 1453
Warfare is deception.
A saying attributed to the Prophet

The immediate consequences of the naval engagement in the Bosphorus

were profound. A few short hours had tipped the psychological balance of
the siege sharply and unexpectedly back to the defenders. The spring sea
had provided a huge auditorium for the public humiliation of the Ottoman
fleet, watched both by the Greek population thronging the walls and the
right wing of the army with Mehmet on the shore opposite.
It was obvious to both sides that the massive new fleet, which had so
stunned the Christians when it first appeared in the Straits, could not match
the experience of Western seamanship. It had been thwarted by superior
skill and equipment, the innate limitations of war galleys – and not a little
luck. Without secure control of the sea, the struggle to subdue the city
would be hard fought, whatever the sultan’s guns might achieve at the land
walls.
Within the city, spirits were suddenly high again: “the ambitions of the
Sultan were thrown into confusion and his reputed power diminished,
because so many of his triremes couldn’t by any means capture just one
ship.” The ships not only brought much needed grain, arms, and manpower,
they had given the defenders precious hope. This small flotilla might be
merely the precursor of a larger rescue fleet. And if four ships were able to
defy the Ottoman navy, what might a dozen well-armed galleys of the
Italian republics not do to decide the final outcome? “This unhoped-for
result revived their hopes and brought encouragement, and filled them with
very favourable hopes, not only about what had happened, but also about
their expectations for the future.” In the fevered religious atmosphere of the
conflict, such events were never just the practical contest of men and
materials or the play of winds, they were clear evidence of the hand of God.
“They prayed to their prophet Muhammad in vain,” wrote the surgeon
Nicolo Barbaro, “while our Eternal God heard the prayers of us Christians,
so that we were victorious in this battle.”
Medieval catapult

Sometime about now, it seems that Constantine, buoyed by this victory

or the failure of the earlier Ottoman land attack, sensed that the moment
was right to make a peace offer. He probably proposed a face-saving
payment that would allow Mehmet to withdraw with honor, and he may
have delivered it via Halil Pasha. Siege warfare involves a complex
symbiosis between besieger and besieged, and he was fully aware that
outside the walls the Muslim camp was plunged into a corresponding mood
of crisis. For the first time since the siege began, serious doubts were
voiced. Constantinople remained obdurate – a “bone in the throat of Allah”
– like the crusader castles. The city was a psychological as much as a
military problem for the warriors of the Faith. The technological and
cultural self-confidence needed to defeat the infidel and to overturn the
deep pattern of history was suddenly fragile again and the death of the
Prophet’s standard-bearer Ayyub at the walls eight centuries before would
have been keenly in mind. “This event,” wrote the Ottoman chronicler
Tursun Bey, “caused despair and disorder in the ranks of the Muslims …
the army was split into groups.”
It was a defining moment for the self-belief of the cause. In practical
terms, the possibility of a long-drawn-out siege, with all its problems for
logistics and morale, the likelihood of disease – the scourge of medieval
besieging armies – and the chance that men might slip away, must have
loomed larger on the evening of April 20. It spelled clear personal danger
for Mehmet’s authority. An open revolt by the Janissaries became an idea
on the fringe of possibility. Mehmet never commanded the love of his
standing army as his father Murat had done. It had revolted against the
petulant young sultan twice before, and this was remembered, particularly
by Halil Pasha, the chief vizier.
These feelings were brought into sharp focus that evening when
Mehmet received a letter from Sheik Akshemsettin, his spiritual adviser and
a leading religious figure in the Ottoman camp. It presented the mood of the
army and brought a warning:
This event … has caused us great pain and low morale. Not having taken this opportunity has meant
that certain adverse developments have taken place: one … is that the infidels have rejoiced and held
a tumultuous demonstration; a second is the assertion that your noble majesty has shown little good
judgement and ability in having your orders carried out … severe punishments will be required … if
this punishment is not carried out now … the troops will not give their full support when the trenches
must be levelled and the order is given for the final attack.

The sheik also pointed out that the defeat threatened to undermine the
religious faith of the men. “I have been accused of having failed in my
prayers,” he went on, “and that my prophecies have been shown to be
unfounded … you must take care of this so that in the end we shall not be
obliged to withdraw in shame and disappointment.”
Spurred by this, Mehmet set out early next morning, April 21, with
“about ten thousand horse” and rode from his camp at Maltepe to the harbor
at the Double Columns where the fleet was anchored. Baltaoglu was
summoned ashore to answer for the naval debacle. The unfortunate admiral
had been badly wounded in one eye from a stone hurled by one of his own
men in the heat of battle; he must have presented a ghastly spectacle as he
prostrated himself before his sultan. In the colorful words of a Christian
chronicler, Mehmet “groaned from the depths of his heart and breathed
smoke from his mouth in his rage.” Furiously he demanded to know why
Baltaoglu had failed to take the ships when the sea was flat calm: “if you
could not take them, how do you hope to take the fleet which is in the
harbor at Constantinople?” The admiral replied that he had done everything
in his power to seize the Christian ships: “You know,” he pleaded, “it was
visible to all, that with the ram of my galley I never let go of the poop of the
Emperor’s ship – I fought fiercely all the time – the events were plainly
visible, that my men are dead and there are many dead on the other galleys
too.” Mehmet was so upset and angry that he ordered his admiral to be
impaled. Appalled, the council and courtiers threw themselves before
Mehmet to plead for his life, arguing that he had fought bravely to the end
and that the loss of his eye was visible proof of his efforts. Mehmet
relented. The death sentence was commuted. In front of his fleet and the
watching circle of cavalry, Baltaoglu received a hundred lashes. He was
stripped of his rank and property, which was distributed among the
Janissaries. Mehmet understood the negative and positive propaganda value
of such actions. Baltaoglu vanished into the obscurity of history and the
poisoned chalice of naval command passed back to Hamza Bey, who had
been admiral under Mehmet’s father. The lessons of this episode would not
have been wasted on either the watching soldiers and sailors or on the inner
circle of viziers and advisers. It was a chance to observe the perils of the
sultan’s displeasure firsthand.
There is another version of this episode told by the Greek chronicler
Doukas, whose tale of the siege is vivid but often implausible. In this
account Mehmet had Baltaoglu stretched on the ground and delivered the
hundred strokes himself “with a golden rod weighing five pounds, which
the tyrant had ordered to be made so that he might thrash people.” Then one
of the Janissaries, keen to gain further credit from the sultan, smashed him
on the head with a stone and gouged out his eye. The story is colorful and
almost certainly untrue, but it reflected the popular Western view of
Mehmet the Eastern tyrant, barbaric in his opulence, sadistic in his
pleasures, unquestioningly served by a slave army.
Having made an example of his admiral, Mehmet called an immediate
meeting of his inner council to discuss Constantine’s peace offer of the
preceding day. In the speed of events, initiatives were starting to overlap
each other out of any sequence. Confronted by a significant setback and the
first stirrings of dissent, the question was simply whether to continue with
the siege or to seek favorable terms.
There were two factions in the Ottoman high command that were
engaged in their own long-running struggle for survival and power under
the sultan’s volatile rule. On the one side was the chief vizier, Halil Pasha,
an ethnic Turk of the old Ottoman ruling class who had been vizier under
Murat, Mehmet’s father, and who had steered the young sultan through his
turbulent early years. He had witnessed the crisis years of the 1440s and the
Janissary revolt against Mehmet at Edirne, and he was cautious about the
chances of survival for Mehmet in the case of humiliation at the Greek
walls. During the whole of the siege Halil’s strategy was undermined by the
taunts of his opponents, who nicknamed him “the friend of the infidel,” the
lover of Greek gold.
In opposition were the new men of Ottoman power: a group of
ambitious military leaders who were largely outsiders – converted
renegades from the sultan’s ever-expanding empire. They had always
repudiated any peace policy and encouraged Mehmet’s dreams of world
conquest. They attached their fortunes to the capture of this city. Foremost
among them was the second vizier Zaganos Pasha, a Greek convert, “the
one who was most feared and had the most voice and authority,” and who
was a leading military commander. This faction had a strong backing from
religious leaders, proponents of holy war, such as the learned Islamic
scholar Ulema Ahmet Gurani, Mehmet’s formidable tutor, and Sheik
Akshemsettin, who represented the long-cherished Islamic fervor to take
the Christian city.
Halil argued that the opportunity should be taken to withdraw honorably
from the siege on favorable terms: that the failed naval encounter revealed
the difficulty of capturing the city and the possibility of a relieving
Hungarian army or Italian fleet increased as the campaign dragged on. He
voiced his conviction that the apple would one day fall into the sultan’s lap,
“as the ripe fruit falls from the tree,” but that this golden fruit was not ripe
yet. By imposing a punitive peace settlement, that day could be hastened.
He proposed the demand of a massive 70,000 ducats as a yearly tribute
from the emperor to lift the siege.
The war party strenuously opposed this line. Zaganos replied that the
campaign should be pursued with intensified vigor, that the arrival of the
Genoese ships only underlined the need for a decisive blow. It was a key
moment. The Ottoman command recognized that their fortunes had reached
a critical point, but the intensity of the debate also reflected awareness
among the leading viziers that they were arguing for their influence with the
sultan, and ultimately their own survival. Mehmet sat on his dais above the
debate while the rivals jockeyed for position, but by temperament and
inclination he was always of the war party. The council decided by a clear
majority to continue the campaign. An answer was sent back to Constantine
that peace could only result from an immediate surrender of the city. The
sultan would cede the Peloponnese to Constantine and compensate his
brothers who currently held it. It was an offer designed to be refused and it
duly was. Constantine had his own awareness of the obligations of history
and stood in the shoes of his father. When the Ottomans were at the gates in
1397 Manuel II had been heard to murmur: “Lord Jesus Christ, let it not
come to pass that the great multitude of Christian people should hear it said
that it was in the days of the Emperor Manuel that the City, with all its
sacred and venerable monuments of the Faith, was delivered to the infidel.”
In this spirit, the emperor would fight to the last. The siege went on, while
the war party, feeling the growing pressure of events, resolved to intensify
the conflict.

Three miles away the assault on the city continued regardless, propelled by
an integrated plan of attack that was secret to all but Mehmet and his
generals. A huge bombardment of the land walls, which had commenced
the day before, continued without ceasing throughout the night and into the
day of the military council. The Ottoman fire was concentrated on the wall
near the St. Romanus Gate in the Lycus valley, the section of the defenses
that both sides knew to be most vulnerable.
Under incessant gunfire, a major tower, the Bactatinian, collapsed and
several yards of outer wall fell with it. A sizeable breach had been effected,
and the defenders were suddenly exposed. “This was the start of fear of
those in the city and in the fleet,” recorded Nicolo Barbaro, “we did not
doubt that they wanted to make an all-out attack right away; everyone
generally believed that they would soon see Turkish turbans inside the city.”
What demoralized the defenders was again the speed with which the
Ottoman guns could demolish apparently redoubtable defenses when
sufficient firepower was concentrated on a single spot. “For such a big
stretch of the wall had been ruined by the bombardment that everyone
thought himself lost, considering how in a few days they had destroyed so
much of the wall.” It seemed obvious to the defenders looking out from the
gaping hole that a concerted attack at this point “with only ten thousand
men” would result in certain loss of the city. They waited for the inevitable
assault, but Mehmet and all the military command were at the Double
Columns, debating the future of the campaign, and no order was given. In
comparison to the fragmented volunteer nature of the Christian defense that
relied heavily on individual initiative, it seemed that the Ottoman troops
only responded to central directives. Nothing happened to press home the
advantage of the guns, and the defenders had time to regroup.
Under cover of darkness Giustiniani and his men set about making
running repairs to the damaged wall. “These repairs were made with barrels
filled with stones and earth, and behind them there was made a very wide
ditch with a dam at the end of it, which was covered with strips of vine and
other layers of branches drenched with water to make them solid, so that it
was as strong as the wall had been.” This stockade of wood, earth, and
stones continued to be effective, smothering the force of the giant stone
balls. Somehow these ad hoc repairs were undertaken in the face of
continuous fire from “their huge cannon and from their other cannon, and
from very many guns, countless bows and many hand guns.” Barbaro’s
account of the day closes with a final haunting image of the enemy,
swarming and alien, a glimpse of horror to the ship’s doctor: the ground in
front of the wall “could not be seen, because it was covered by the Turks,
particularly Janissaries, who are the bravest soldiers the Great Turk has, and
also many of the Sultan’s slaves, who could be recognised by their white
turbans, while the ordinary Turks wore red turbans.” Still no attack came. It
was apparent that good luck – and “our merciful Lord Jesus Christ, who is
full of compassion” – had spared the city that day.

Events on April 21 seemed suddenly to speed up and overlap each other, as

if both sides recognized a moment of significant intensity. For the defenders
it was a process of continuous reaction; without the resources to make
sorties, they could only watch from within the triangle of the ancient walls,
trust in the firmness of their fortifications, and wait, rushing to each
particular crisis, plugging gaps – and quarreling. Blown back and forth by
hope and despair, by rumors of attack and relieving armies, they worked
ceaselessly to hold the line, and they looked west for the smudge of
approaching sails.
Mehmet seems to have been spurred into a frenzy of activity by the
events of these days. The failure of his navy, the fear of relief, the
pessimism of his troops: these were the problems that occupied him on the
21st. He moved restlessly around the perimeter of the city, from the red and
gold tent to the Double Columns to his troops above Galata, analyzing the
problem in three dimensions, viewing the “golden fruit” from different
angles, turning it over in his mind. His desire for Constantinople went back
to his childhood. From his first distant views of the city as a boy to his
nocturnal ramblings through the streets of Adrianople in the winter of 1452,
the city was an obsession that had informed his intense preoccupation with
Western treatises on siege warfare, the preliminary studies of the terrain, the
detailed sketches of the walls. Mehmet was incessant in its pursuit: asking
questions, garnering resources and technical skills, interrogating spies,
storing information. The obsession was linked to secrecy, learned young in
the dangerous world of the Ottoman court, which made him keep plans
close to himself until they were ripe. On being asked once about a future
campaign, Mehmet is reputed to have refused a direct answer and replied,
“be certain that if I knew that one of the hairs of my beard had learned my
secret, I would pull it out and consign it to the flames.” His next move was
to be similarly guarded.
The problem, he reasoned, was the chain that guarded the entrance to
the Horn. It barred his navy from pressuring the city from more than one
side and allowed the defenders to concentrate their meager forces on
defending the land walls, diminishing his huge numerical advantage.
Ottoman guns had destroyed Constantine’s defensive wall across the
Isthmus at Corinth in a week, but here, although the great cannon had
certainly blasted holes in Theodosius’s ancient structure, progress had been
slower than he had hoped. Seen from the outside, the defensive system was
too complex and many layered, and the ditch too deep for quick results.
Furthermore Giustiniani had proved to be a strategist of genius. His
marshaling of limited manpower and materials had been highly effective:
earth had succeeded where stone had failed, and the line had held – just.
Closed, the Horn provided a safe anchorage for any relieving fleet and
constituted a base for naval counterattack. It also lengthened the line of
communication between the different parts of Mehmet’s army and his navy,
as troops were forced to make a long detour around the top of the Horn to
pass from the land walls to the Double Columns. The problem of the chain
had to be solved.
 No one knows for certain where Mehmet came up with the idea, or how
long he had been developing it, but on April 21 he accelerated an
extraordinary solution to the chain. If it could not be forced, he reasoned, it
must be bypassed, and this could only be done by bodily transporting his
fleet over land and launching it into the Horn beyond the defensive line.
Contemporary Christian chroniclers had their own ideas about the origin of
this strategy. Archbishop Leonard was clear: yet again it was the know-how
and advice of perfidious Europeans; Mehmet was prompted “by the
recollections of a faithless Christian. I think that the man who revealed this
trick to the Turks learned it from a Venetian strategy at Lake Garda.”
Certainly the Venetians had carried galleys from the River Adige into Lake
Garda as recently as 1439, but medieval campaigns are littered with other
precedents, and Mehmet was a keen student of military history. Saladin had
transported galleys from the Nile to the Red Sea in the twelfth century; in
1424 the Mamluks had taken galleys from Cairo to Suez. Whatever its
origin, it is certain that the scheme was already well under way before the
21st; events merely emphasized its urgency.
Mehmet had one further reason for attempting this maneuver. He felt it
was important to pressure the Genoese colony on the other side of the Horn
at Galata, whose ambiguous neutrality in the conflict was the source of
complaints by both sides. Galata traded profitably with both city and
besiegers. In the process it acted as a membrane through which materials
and intelligence passed to and fro. There were rumors that the citizens of
Galata circulated openly in the Ottoman camp by day, supplying oil to cool
the great guns and whatever else could be sold, then slipped across the Horn
at night to take their place on the walls. The boom was secured within the
walls of Galata and could not be tackled directly, as Mehmet was anxious
not to seek open warfare with the Genoese. He was aware that direct
hostilities could risk the dispatch of a powerful fleet from the mother city.
At the same time he recognized that the natural sympathies of the citizens
of Galata were with their fellow Christians; Giustiniani himself was
Genoese. The arrival of the relieving Genoese ships had also probably
tipped the balance of sympathy, as Leonard of Chios recognized: “The
people of Galata had been acting very cautiously … but now they were
anxious to provide both weapons and men, but only in secret, lest the
enemy, who was just feigning peace towards them, should find out.” The
double life of the Genoese community meant, however, that information
could pass both ways, and this was soon to have tragic consequences.
All the land behind Galata, which had originally been covered with
vineyards and rough scrub, was in Ottoman hands under the command of
Zaganos Pasha. It is probable that early in the siege a decision was taken to
construct a road from the Bosphorus at a point close to the Double Columns
up a steep valley to a ridge behind Galata and then down another valley to
the Golden Horn beyond the Genoese settlement at a place called the Valley
of the Springs, where there was a Genoese graveyard outside the walls.
Mehmet decided that this should be the route for the venture. At its greatest
height this road rose to about 200 feet above sea level and would have
presented a tough challenge for anyone attempting to haul ships overland.
However, the one thing that Mehmet never lacked was human labor. With
his usual secrecy and forethought, he had gathered the materials for this
attempt: timber for making a primitive trackway, rollers and cradles to carry
the ships, barrels of lard, teams of oxen and men. The ground was cleared
of brushwood and leveled as effectively as possible. On April 21 the work
on this project was accelerated. Teams of laborers laid the wooden track up
the valley from the Bosphorus, rollers were prepared and greased with
animal fat, cradles constructed to lift the ships from the water. To deflect
interest from these preparations, Mehmet brought a battery of guns up onto
a hill just north of the Galata settlement and ordered Zaganos to bombard
the ships defending the Horn.
It is still puzzling to understand how the Christians failed to hear of
such a substantial piece of engineering through the intelligence portal of
Galata or via Christian soldiers in the Ottoman camp. In the early days, the
Genoese probably saw the preparatory groundworks as a straightforward
road-building project. Later they were either deterred from watching too
closely by the artillery bombardment behind them, or they were guilty of
collusion in the project, as the Venetians believed. It is probable too that
Mehmet ensured that none of his Christian troops were employed in the
project. Whatever the truth, no hint reached the city of what was about to
ensue.
Early on the morning of Sunday, April 22, while this gunfire continued
and the Christians who were able made their way to church, the first cradle
was lowered into the water of the Bosphorus. A small fusta was floated into
it, then eased onto the greased wooden rollers on the trackway by means of
pulleys. The ever-present sultan was there to witness and encourage the
attempt. “And having girdled them well with ropes, he attached long cables
to the corners and assigned them to the soldiers to drag, some by hand,
others with certain winches and capstans.” The ship was pulled up the slope
by teams of oxen and men and supported on either side by further gangs of
workmen and soldiers. As it moved up the track further rollers were laid in
its path; with the huge resources of animals and manpower organized for
the attempt, the vessel inched slowly up the steep slope toward the ridge
200 feet above.
A favorable morning breeze was blowing off the sea, and in an inspired
moment Mehmet ordered a skeleton crew to take their places at the oars.
“Some raised the sails with great shouts as if they were setting sail, and the
wind caught the sails and swelled them. Others seated themselves on the
rowing benches, took the oars in their hands and moved them back and
forward as if they were actually rowing. And the commanders, running
about by the mast holders, with whistles and shouts and whips lashing those
on the benches, ordered them to row.” The ships were decked out with
colored pennants, drums were beaten, and small bands of musicians played
trumpets from the prows. It was a surreal moment of improvised carnival:
the flags fluttering, the band playing, the oars moving, the sails billowing in
the early morning breeze, the oxen straining and bellowing – a brilliant
psychological gesture in the middle of war that was to become a potent
ingredient in the Conqueror myth for the Turkish people. “It was an
extraordinary sight to behold,” recorded Kritovoulos, “and unbelievable to
relate apart from to those who saw it with their own eyes, the ships being
carried over the dry land as if sailing on the sea, with their crews and sails
and all their equipment.” From the plateau nearby Zaganos Pasha continued
to bombard the harbor below and two miles farther off the great cannons
pummeled the land walls at the St. Romanus Gate.
From the ridge the trial ship made its ponderous descent down into the
Valley of the Springs. With meticulous attention to detail, Mehmet had
moved a second battery of guns down to the shoreline to prevent any attack
on the boats as they were launched. Well before noon this first ship splashed
its way into the still waters of the Horn with its crew ready to repel any
surprise attack, to be followed in rapid succession by others. In the course
of the day about seventy boats were lowered one by one into the water at
the Valley of the Springs. These boats were fustae – smaller fast biremes
and triremes that were “of fifteen banks of oars up to twenty and even
twenty-two banks” and probably up to about seventy feet in length. The
larger Ottoman galleys remained in the outer harbor at the Double Columns.
All the fine details of this operation – the timing, the route, the
technology employed – remain deeply mysterious. In practice it is highly
unlikely that it could have been completed in twenty-four hours. The
ergonomics involved – hauling seventy ships a minimum of one and a
quarter miles up an eight-degree slope and then managing a controlled
descent, even with the aid of large numbers of men and animals and the use
of winches – suggest a far longer time span. It is possible that the larger
ships had been disassembled and rebuilt close to the Horn shore well before
April 22, and that transportation of others had also been under way for
some time. It is typical of Mehmet’s secretiveness and deep planning that
truth will never be known, but all the chroniclers are in agreement that
suddenly, on the morning of April 22, the ships rolled one by one into the
Galata basin. The whole operation was a strategic and psychological
masterstroke, brilliantly conceived and executed. Even later Greek
chroniclers gave it begrudging praise. “It was a marvellous achievement
and a superb stratagem of naval tactics,” recorded Melissenos. It was to
have appalling consequences for the defenders.
 Galata (Pera) and the Golden Horn: the Double Columns are at the top right, the Valley of the
Springs is below the windmill on the left

Because of its protected position within the boom and the immense pressure
being applied at the land wall, the sea wall along the Horn was barely
guarded at all. There would have been few soldiers about to see the first
ship breast the brow of the opposing hill and begin its descent into the
water. When they did, panic spread quickly. People ran down the steep
streets and watched in horror from the ramparts as one after another the
Ottoman fleet slipped into the Horn. It was an extraordinary strategic and
psychological riposte to the triumph of the fight in the Bosphorus.
Constantine immediately recognized the implications for his hard-
pressed troops: “now that the wall along the Horn was opened up to
warfare, they were compelled to guard it and were forced to strip other
defended sectors and to send men there. It was an obvious danger to take
front-rank soldiers from the rest of the walls, while those who were left
were too few to defend it adequately.” The Venetians, as commanders of
naval operations, were also deeply disturbed. The Ottoman fleet was less
than a mile away in a closed strait only a few hundred yards wide; the Horn,
which had been a sanctuary against attack, was now transformed into a
claustrophobic cockpit where there was no room to breathe.
When those in our fleet saw the fustae, they were undoubtedly very frightened, because they were
certain that one night they would attack our fleet, together with their fleet which was at the Columns.
Our fleet was inside the chain, the Turkish fleet was both inside and outside the chain, and from this
description it can be grasped how great the danger was. And we were also very concerned about fire,
that they might come to burn the ships lying at the chain, and we were perforce compelled to stand to
arms at sea, night and day, with great fear of the Turks.

It was obvious to the defenders that an attempt to destroy the inner fleet was
essential and urgent. The following day a council of war gathered in the
Venetian church of St. Mary, called by the Venetian bailey and the emperor
with the express aim “to burn the enemy fleet.” Only twelve men were
present, and they met in secret. Apart from Constantine, the majority were
the Venetian commanders and sea captains. There was just one outsider to
affairs the Venetians considered their own: Giovanni Giustiniani the
Genoese, “a man reliable in all matters,” whose opinion commanded
universal respect. A long and heated debate followed in which rival ideas
were ardently promoted. Some wanted to make a full-scale attack in broad
daylight with the whole fleet, involving the cooperation of the Genoese
ships. This was rejected on the grounds that negotiations with Galata would
be complex and speed was of the essence. Others wanted to deploy a land
force to destroy the guns protecting the enemy fleet and then burn the ships;
this was considered too risky given the small numbers of soldiers available.
Lastly Giacomo Coco, the master of a galley that had come from Trebizond,
“a man of action, not words,” spoke strongly in favor of a third option:
mount a small naval expedition at night to attempt to catch and burn the
Turkish fleet by surprise, prepare it in strict secrecy without consulting the
Genoese, and execute it without delay – time was everything. He offered to
lead the attempt himself. This strategy was put to the vote and won the day.
On April 24 Coco set to work to implement this plan. He chose two
sturdy high-sided merchant ships and packed wadded sacks of wool and
cotton over the sides to protect them against stone cannon-balls from
Ottoman guns. Two large galleys were to accompany the merchantmen and
repel any counterattacks, while the actual damage was to be inflicted by a
pair of light, fast fustae manned by seventy-two oarsmen each. These were
filled with Greek fire and other combustible materials to burn the enemy
fleet. Each ship was to be accompanied by a smaller boat with further
materials. The plan was simple: the “armored” sailing vessels would protect
the faster boats from gunfire until they were close up to the enemy, then
these would dash out from the protective screen and attempt to fire the
close-packed Ottoman ships. The vessels were to assemble one hour after
sunset and the attack would set off at midnight. Everything was prepared;
the commanders gathered on the galley of Aluvixe Diedo, the captain of the
harbor, for a final briefing when the plan was unexpectedly stalled. The
Genoese in the city had somehow got wind of it and wanted a role in the
attack. They pressed hard for a delay to prepare their ships. Reluctantly the
Venetians consented. The attack was postponed.
Four days passed while the Genoese readied their ships. Bombardment
of the land walls continued unabated. The Venetians kicked their heels.
“From the twenty-fourth to the twenty-eighth of this month we waited,”
recorded Barbaro. “On the twenty-eighth of April, in the name of our
Master Jesus Christ, it was decided to make an attempt to burn the fleet of
the perfidious Turks.” The attack fleet had been slightly modified to
accommodate the touchy sensibilities of the Genoese: the Venetians and the
Genoese provided one padded merchantman each; there were two Venetian
galleys, commanded by Gabriel Trevisano and Zacaria Grioni, three of the
faster fustae with the combustible material led by Coco and a number of
smaller boats with further supplies of pitch, brushwood, and gunpowder.
Two hours before dawn on April 28 the attack force pulled silently out
from under the lea of Galata’s sea walls on the northeast side of the Horn
and around the curve of the darkened shore toward the Valley of the
Springs, a distance of less than a mile. The merchantmen, with Giustiniani
aboard the Genoese vessel, led the way. The attack ships following in their
lea. Nothing moved on the calm water. The only sign of life was a light
flaring briefly from the top of the Genoese Galata Tower. No sounds could
be heard as they pulled toward the Ottoman fleet.
The larger sailing ships could only move slowly under oars compared to
the swift many-oared fustae they were designed to protect, and whether it
was the silence and suspense of the slow approach, a pent-up frustration at
the delay of the attack, or a desire “to win honour in the world,” is not clear,
but Giacomo Coco suddenly abandoned the carefully worked-out plan. On
his own initiative he pulled his vessel ahead of the convoy and began to row
at full speed at the anchored fleet to launch the attack. For a moment there
was silence. Then out of the darkness a volley of cannon fire opened up at
the unprotected vessel. A first shot fell near but missed. A second hit the
fusta amidships and went straight through it. “And this fusta could not have
stayed afloat for as long as it took to say ten Our Fathers,” recorded
Barbaro. In a flash the armored soldiers and the rowers were pitched into
the night sea and vanished.
In the darkness the vessels following were unable to see what had
happened and pressed forward. More guns opened up at close range. “There
was so much smoke from the cannon and from the handguns that one could
not see anything, and there were furious shouts from one side or the other.”
As the ships moved up, Trevisano’s larger galley came into the line of fire
and was immediately hit by two cannon-balls that passed straight through
the hull. Water started to pour into the vessel, but two wounded men lying
below decks acted with great presence of mind to prevent it sinking.
Plugging the holes with a store of cloaks, they managed to stanch the inrush
of water. The crippled galley, though half submerged, somehow stayed
afloat and was rowed back to safety with great difficulty. The other ships
tried to press home the attack, but the intensity of the barrage of rocks,
cannonballs, and other missiles, and the sight of the damaged galley,
induced them to withdraw.
Dawn was starting to break, but in the confusion the two large merchant
ships remained anchored in a defensive position according to the plan,
unaware of the retreat of the remaining force. Seeing these ships
unexpectedly isolated, the Ottoman fleet put out from its anchorage to
surround and take them. “A terrible and ferocious battle took place … it
seemed truly to be like hell itself; there were bullets and arrows without
number, and frequent cannon shots and gunfire.” The Muslim sailors
shouted out the name of Allah as their seventy smaller ships swarmed
forward to grapple with the enemy, but the two padded transports with their
higher sides and skilled crews were able to hold them at bay. Fighting at
close quarters continued fiercely for an hour and a half without either side
being able to gain an advantage, until eventually they disengaged and
returned to their anchorages. The Ottomans had lost one fusta, but it was
clear which side had won the day. “Throughout the Turkish camp there
were great celebrations because they had sent the fusta of master Giacomo
Coco to the bottom,” recalled Barbaro, “and we were weeping with fear,
lest the Turks should snatch victory against us with their fleet.” The Italians
counted their losses: one fusta, sunk with her crew and more men besides –
some 90 skilled sailors and soldiers in all – one galley seriously damaged,
the notion of Italian naval supremacy undermined. The roll call of the
individual dead was long, and the names well known to their comrades:
“Giacomo Coco, master; Antonio de Corfu, partner; Andrea Steco, mate;
Zuan Marangon, crossbowman; Troilo de Grezi, crossbowman …” and so it
went on. “All these went down with the fusta and were all drowned, may
God have mercy on them.”
As the morning of April 29 wore on, however, the nature of the loss was
to assume a more ghastly shape. It transpired that not all the missing men
had drowned. Some forty had swum free of their sinking craft, and in the
darkness and the confusion of battle they made for the enemy shore and
were captured. Mehmet now ordered them to be impaled in full view of the
city as a punishment and a warning. In horror the survivors watched the
preparations from the walls. What they would have seen has been
graphically recorded by Jacopo de Campi, a Genoese merchant who spent
twenty-five years trading in the Ottoman Empire at this time:
The Grand Turk [makes] the man he wishes to punish lie down on the ground; a sharp long pole is
placed in the rectum; with a big mallet held in both hands the executioner strikes it with all his might,
so that the pole, known as a palo, enters the human body, and according to its path, the unfortunate
lingers on or dies at once; then he raises the pole and plants it in the ground; thus the unfortunate is
left in extremis; he does not live long.

So “the stakes were planted, and they were left to die in full view of the
guards on the walls.”
European writers of the time made great play of the barbarity of this
method of execution and took it to be particularly Turkish. Impalement,
especially as a means of demoralizing besieged cities, was a widely
practiced shock tactic that the Ottomans had learned in the Christian
Balkans. They themselves later suffered one of the most infamous atrocities
of history in this manner: reportedly 25,000 of them died on the stakes of
Vlad Dracul on the Danubian plains in 1461. Even Mehmet would be
appalled and haunted by the accounts brought back by eyewitnesses of
“countless stakes planted in the ground, laden not with fruit but with
corpses” and in the center of this arrangement on a taller stake to mark his
status, the body of his onetime admiral Hamza Bey, still wearing his red and
purple robes of office.
On the afternoon of April 28 the bodies of the Italian sailors staked in
full view of the walls had their desired effect: “the lamentation in the city
for these young men was incalculable,” reported Melissenos, but grief
swiftly turned to fury and in an attempt to assuage their loss and their
frustration at the failure of the attack they responded with an atrocity of
their own. Since the start of the siege the city had been holding about 260
Ottoman prisoners. The following day, presumably on the orders of
Constantine, the defenders retaliated in kind. “Our men were enraged, and
savagely slaughtered the Turks they were holding prisoner on the walls, in
full view of their comrades.” One by one they were brought up to the
ramparts and hung “in circles” in front of the watching Ottoman army. “In
this way,” lamented Archbishop Leonard, “by a combination of impiety and
cruelty, the war became more brutal.”
The dangling prisoners and the staked sailors mocked each other over
the front line, but in the aftermath of this cycle of violence it was clear that
the initiative had shifted back to the besieging force. The inner Ottoman
fleet still floated, and it was obvious to the defenders that crucial control of
the Horn had been lost. The bungled night attack had severely tipped the
scales against the city. As they reflected on this, reasons for failure were
sought and blame was attributed, particularly among the Italians
themselves. It was clear that the delay in Coco’s attack had proved fatal.
Somehow the enemy had got to know of their plans and were lying in wait:
Mehmet had moved more guns up to the inner harbor ready for the raiding
party, the light from the Galata Tower had been a signal from someone
within the Genoese colony. The recriminations between the Italian factions
were about to develop a logic of their own.
 11 Terrible Engines APRIL 25–MAY 28, 1453
There is a need for machines for conducting a siege: different types and forms of tortoises …
portable wooden towers … different forms of ladders … different tools for digging through different
types of walls … machines for mounting walls without ladders.
Tenth-century manual on siege craft

“Alas, most blessed Father, what a terrible disaster, that Neptune’s fury
should drown them in one blow!” Recriminations for the failure of the night
attack were bitter and immediate. The Venetians had lost eighty or ninety of
their close companions in the disaster and they knew whom they held
responsible: “this betrayal was committed by the cursed Genoese of Pera,
rebels against the Christian faith,” declared Nicolo Barbaro, “to show
themselves friendly to the Turkish Sultan.” The Venetians claimed that
someone from Galata had gone to the sultan’s camp with news of the plan.
They named names: it was the Podesta himself who had sent men to the
sultan, or it was a man called Faiuzo. The Genoese replied that the
Venetians had been entirely responsible for the debacle; Coco was “so
greedy for honour and glory” that he had ignored instructions and brought
disaster on the whole expedition. Furthermore they accused the Venetian
sailors of secretly loading their ships and making ready to escape from the
city.
A furious row broke out, “each side accusing the other of intending to
escape.” All the deeper enmities between the Italians bubbled to the surface.
The Venetians declared that they had unloaded their ships again at the
command of the emperor and suggested that the Genoese should likewise
“put the rudders and sails from your ships in a safe place in
Constantinople.” The Genoese retorted that they had no intention of
abandoning the city; unlike the Venetians, they had wives, families, and
property in Galata “which we are preparing to defend to the last drop of our
blood” and refused to put “our noble city, an ornament to Genoa, into your
power.” The deep ambiguity of the position of the Genoese at Galata laid
them open to charges of deception and treachery from every direction. They
traded with both sides yet their natural sympathies lay with their fellow
Christians, and they had compromised their overt neutrality by allowing the
chain to be fixed within their walls.
A siege tower attacks a castle

It is probable that Constantine had to intervene personally in the quarrel

among the suspicious Italians, but the Horn itself remained a zone of
unresolved tension. Haunted by the fear of night attacks or a pincer
movement between the two arms of the Ottoman fleet, the one inside the
Horn at the Springs and the other outside at the Columns, it was impossible
for the Christian fleet to relax. Day and night they stood to arms, straining
their senses for the sound of approaching fire ships. At the Springs the
Ottoman guns remained primed against a second assault, but their ships did
not move. The Venetians reorganized themselves after the loss of Coco. A
new commander, Dolfin Dolfin, was appointed to his galley and
consideration was given to other strategies for destroying the Ottoman ships
in the Horn. Evidently another ship-borne assault was considered too risky
after the failure of April 28 so the decision was taken to use long-range
means to discomfort the enemy.
On May 3 two fairly large cannon were placed by one of the water gates
onto the Horn directly opposite the Ottoman fleet at a distance of about 700
yards across the water and proceeded to bombard the ships. Initial results
were promising. Some of the fustae were sunk and “many of their men were
being killed by our bombardment,” according to Barbaro, but the Ottomans
took swift measures to counter this threat. They moved their ships back out
of range and replied with three large cannon of their own “and caused
considerable damage.” The two sets of guns blasted away at each other day
and night for ten days across the strait, but neither could knock the other
out, “because our cannon were behind the walls, and theirs were protected
by good embankments, and the bombardment was carried out across a
distance of half a mile.” In this way the contest petered away into a
stalemate, but the pressure in the Horn remained, and on May 5 Mehmet
responded with an artillery initiative of his own.
His restless mind had evidently been considering for some time how to
bombard the ships at the boom, given that the walls of Galata lay within the
line of fire. The solution was to create a cannon with a more looping
trajectory that could fire from behind the Genoese town. He accordingly put
his gun founders to work devising a primitive mortar, “that could fire the
stone very high, so that when it came down it would hit the ships right in
the middle and sink them.” The new cannon had duly been made and was
now ready. From a hill behind Galata it opened fire on the ships at the
boom. The trajectory was complicated by the walls of the town within the
line of fire, but this was probably a positive advantage to Mehmet: it also
allowed him to put psychological pressure on the suspect Genoese. As the
first shots from the mortar hurtled over their roofs, the townspeople must
have felt the Ottoman noose tightening on their enclave. The third shot of
the day “came from the top of the hill with a crash” and hit not an enemy
vessel but the deck of a neutral Genoese merchant ship “of three hundred
botte, which was loaded with silk, wax and other merchandise worth twelve
thousand ducats, and immediately it went straight to the bottom, so that
neither the masthead nor the hull of the ship were visible, and a number of
men on the ship were drowned.” At once all the vessels guarding the boom
moved into the lee of Galata’s city walls. The bombardment went on, the
range was shortened slightly, and balls started to hit the walls and houses of
the town itself. Men on the galleys and ships continued to be killed by the
stone bullets, “some shots killing four men,” but the walls afforded
sufficient protection to prevent any more ships being sunk. For the first time
the Genoese found themselves under direct bombardment, and although
only one person was killed, “a woman of excellent reputation, who was
standing in the middle of a group of thirty people,” the declaration of intent
was clear.
 A deputation from the city made its way to the sultan’s camp to
complain about this attack. The vizier protested with a straight face that
they thought the ship belonged to the enemy and blandly assured them that
“whatever they were owed they would be repaid” when the city was finally
captured. “With this act of aggression did the Turks repay the friendship
which the people of Galata had shown them,” Doukas proclaimed
sarcastically, referring to the intelligence that had undone Coco’s attack.
Meanwhile stone balls continued to loop down over the Horn in an arced
trajectory. By May 14, according to Barbaro, the Ottomans had fired “two
hundred and twelve stone balls, and they all weighed at least two hundred
pounds each.” The Christian fleet remained pinned down and useless. Well
before that date it was clear that the Christians had surrendered effective
control of the Horn, and the pressing need to provide more men and
materials on the land walls further deepened the divisions among the
sailors. With the pressure easing, Mehmet ordered a pontoon bridge to be
constructed across the Horn just above the city walls to shorten his lines of
communications and to allow men and guns to be moved about at will.

At the land walls Mehmet also set about tightening the screw. His tactics
became attritional and increasingly psychological. Now that the defenders
had to be spread even more thinly, he decided to wear them down with
incessant gunfire. In late April he moved some of the big guns to the central
section of wall near the St. Romanus Gate, “because in that place the wall
was lower and weaker,” though attention was still also being directed to the
single wall in the palace area. Day and night the guns blasted away;
occasional skirmishes were mounted at irregular moments to test the
resolve of the defense, then suspended for days at a time to lull the
defenders into a false sense of security.
Toward the end of April a substantial bombardment brought down about
thirty feet from the top of the wall. After dark, Giustiniani’s men set to once
again, walling up the breach with an earth bank, but the following morning
the cannon renewed their attack. However, toward midday the chamber of
one of the big guns cracked, probably because of flaws in the barrel,
although the Russian Nestor-Iskander claimed that it had been hit by one of
the defenders’ own cannon. Infuriated by this setback, Mehmet called for an
impromptu attack. A charge was made at the wall that took the defenders by
surprise. A huge firefight ensued. Bells were rung in the city, and people
rushed to the ramparts. With the “clatter and flashing of weapons, it seemed
to all that the city had been uprooted from its foundation.” The charging
Ottoman troops were mown down and trampled underfoot by those coming
up behind in their frenzy to reach the walls. To the Russian Nestor-Iskander
it was a ghoulish prospect: “as if on the steppes, the Turks walked over the
broken human corpses crammed to the top and fought on, for their dead
resembled a bridge or a stairway to the city.” With huge difficulty the attack
was eventually repulsed, although it took until nightfall. Corpses were left
piled in the ditches; “from near the breach to the valleys they were filled
with blood.” Exhausted by the effort, soldiers and townspeople retired to
sleep, leaving the wounded groaning outside the walls. The following day
the monks again started their lugubrious task of burying the Christian dead
and counting the number of their fallen enemy. Constantine, now strained
by the attritional fighting, was visibly upset by the casualties.
In effect exhaustion, hunger, and despair were beginning to take their
toll on the defenders. By early May food supplies were running short; it was
now more difficult to trade with the Genoese at Galata and dangerous to
row out into the Horn to fish. During quiet spells soldiers at the wall took to
deserting their posts in search of food for their families. The Ottomans
became aware of this and made surprise raids to drag down the barrels of
earth on the ramparts with hooked sticks; they could even openly approach
the walls and retrieve cannon-balls with nets. Recriminations mounted. The
Genoese archbishop, Leonard, accused the Greeks who had left their posts
of being afraid. They replied, “What is the defence to me, if my family’s in
need?” Others, he considered, “were full of hatred for the Latins.” There
were complaints of hoarding, cowardice, profiteering, and obstruction. Rifts
started to open up across the fault lines of nationality, language, and creed.
Giustiniani and Notaras competed for military resources. Leonard railed
against “what certain people did – drinkers of human blood – who hoarded
food or raised its price.” Under the stress of the siege, the fragile Christian
coalition was falling apart. Leonard blamed Constantine for failing to
control the situation: “the Emperor lacked severity, and those who did not
obey were neither punished with words or the sword.” These rifts probably
made their way back to Mehmet outside the wall. “The forces defending the
city fell into disunity” recorded the Ottoman chronicler Tursun Bey of these
days.
To ensure that the walls were not neglected in the search for food,
Constantine ordered that supplies should be evenly distributed among the
dependants of the soldiers. So serious was the situation that with the advice
of his ministers he began to requisition church plate and had it melted down
for coin to pay the men so that whatever food was available might be
purchased. It was probably a controversial move, unlikely to win the favor
of the pious Orthodox who saw the sufferings of the city as a consequence
of sin and error.

Deliberations among the commanders intensified. The presence of the

enemy fleet in the Horn had greatly confused the defense, and they were
forced to reallocate their troops and commands accordingly. The sea was
watched from the walls twenty-four hours a day, but nothing stirred on the
western horizon. Probably on May 3 a major council was called, involving
the commanders, civic dignitaries, and churchmen, to discuss the situation.
The guns were still pummeling the walls, morale was weakening, and there
was a feeling that all-out assault was imminent. In an atmosphere charged
with foreboding, a move was made to persuade Constantine to leave the city
for the Peloponnese, where he could regroup, gather new forces, and strike
again. Giustiniani offered his galleys for the emperor’s escape. The
chroniclers give an emotional account of Constantine’s response. He “fell
silent for a long time and shed tears. He spoke to them as follows: ‘I praise
and thank your counsel and all of you, as all of this is in my interest; it can
only be so. But how can I do this and leave the clergy, the churches of God,
the empire and all of the people? What will the world think of me, I pray,
tell me? No, my lords, no: I will die here with you.’ Falling, he bowed to
them and cried in grief. The patriarch and all of the people present started to
weep in silence.”
Recovering from this moment, Constantine made a practical suggestion
that the Venetians should send out a ship at once to search the eastern
Aegean for signs of a rescue fleet. Twelve men volunteered for the
hazardous duty of running the Ottoman blockade, and a brigantine was
accordingly prepared for the task. Toward midnight on May 3 the crew,
dressed as Turks, stepped aboard the small boat, which was towed to the
boom. Sporting the Ottoman flag, it unfurled its sail and slipped unnoticed
through the enemy patrol and headed west down the Marmara under cover
of darkness.

Mehmet continued to bombard the walls despite technical difficulties with

the big guns. On May 6 he decided that the time was right for a knockout
blow: “he ordered all of the army to march once more on the city and to
make war for all day.” News from within the city probably convinced him
that morale was collapsing; other reports may have warned him of the
slowly gathering momentum of an Italian relief force. He sensed that the
weakness of the central section of wall was now at a critical point. He
decided to attempt another major attack.
The big guns opened up on May 6, supported by smaller cannon in the
now familiar pattern of firing, accompanied by “cries and the banging of
castanets to frighten the people of the city.” Soon another portion of wall
fell in. The defenders waited for nightfall to make their repairs, but on this
occasion the guns continued firing in the dark. It became impossible to
repair the gap. The following morning the cannon again plugged away at
the base of the wall and brought down a further substantial section. All day
the Ottomans kept firing. At about seven o’clock at night with the
customary din, a massive assault was launched at the breach. Away in the
harbor the Christian sailors heard the wild cries and stood to arms, fearing a
matching attack by the Ottoman fleet. Thousands of men crossed the ditch
and ran for the breach, but numbers were not an advantage in the limited
space, and they trampled one another in their attempt to force their way in.
Giustiniani rushed to meet the intruders, and a desperate hand-to-hand
struggle took place in the gap.
In the first wave, a Janissary called Murat led the assault, slashing
fiercely at Giustiniani, who was only saved from death by a Greek jumping
down from the wall and cutting off his assailant’s legs with an axe. A
second wave was led by one Omar Bey, the standard bearer of the European
army – and was met by a substantial contingent of Greeks commanded by
their officer Rhangabes. In the slashing, hacking confusion, the two leaders
squared up to each other in single combat in front of their men. Omar
“bared his sword, he attacked him and with fury did they slash at each
other. Rhangabes stepped on a rock, grasped his swords with two hands,
struck him on the shoulder, and cut him into two, for he had great strength
in his arms.” Infuriated at the death of their commander, the Ottoman troops
encircled Rhangabes and cut him down. Like a scene from the Iliad, the two
sides surged forward to try to seize the body. The Greeks were desperate to
gain control of the corpse and piled out of the gates, “but they were unable
and suffered many losses.” The Ottomans cut the mutilated body to pieces
and drove the Greek soldiers back into the city. For three hours the battle
raged on, but the defenders successfully held the line. As the fighting died
down, the cannon started to open up again to prevent the breach being
filled, and the Ottomans launched a second diversionary raid, trying to set
fire to the gate near the palace. This was again defeated. In the darkness
Giustiniani and the exhausted defenders worked to rebuild the makeshift
defenses. Because of the firing at the wall, they were forced to build their
protective barrier of earth and timber slightly inside its original line. The
wall was holding – but only just. And inside the city “there was great
mourning and dread among the Greeks over Rhangabes, because he was a
great warrior, was courageous, and was beloved of the Emperor.”

For the defenders the continuous cycles of bombardment, attack, and repair
began to blur. Like diaries of trench warfare, the chroniclers’ accounts
become repetitive and monotonous. “On the eleventh of May,” records
Barbaro, “on this day nothing happened either at land or at sea except a
considerable bombardment of the walls from the landward side, and nothing
else worth mentioning happened … on the thirteenth of May there came
some Turks to the walls, skirmishing, but nothing significant happened
during the whole day and night, except for continuous bombardment of the
unfortunate walls.” Nestor-Iskander starts to lose track of time; events jump
out of sequence, converge, and repeat. Both soldiers and civilians were
growing weary of fighting, repairing, burying corpses, and counting the
enemy dead. The Ottomans, with their scrupulous concern for the hygiene
of their camp, carried their casualties away and burned the bodies daily, but
the ditches were still choked with rotting corpses. The slaughter risked
contaminating water supplies: “the blood remained in the rivers and
putrefied in the streams, giving off a great stench.” Within the city the
people turned increasingly to the churches and the miracle-working power
of their icons, preoccupied by sin and the theological explanation for
events. “Thus one could see throughout the entire city all the people and the
women who came in miraculous procession to the churches of God with
tears, praising and giving thanks to God and to the most pure Mother of
God.” In the Ottoman camp the hours of the day were marked out by the
call to prayer; dervishes went among the troops enjoining the faithful to
hold fast and remember the prophecies of the Hadith: “in the jihad against
Constantinople, one third of Muslims will allow themselves to be defeated,
which Allah cannot forgive; one third will be killed in battle, making them
wondrous martyrs; and one third will be victorious.”
As losses continued to mount, Constantine and his commanders hunted
anxiously for resources to fill the gaps, but the difficulty of getting all the
defenders to cooperate continued to frustrate their best efforts. The grand
duke Lucas Notaras quarreled with Giustiniani, while the Venetians largely
operated as an independent force. The only supply of untapped manpower
and weapons remained on the galleys, and an appeal was made to the
Venetian community accordingly. On May 8 the Venetian Council of the
Twelve met and voted to unload the arms stored on the three Venetian great
galleys, to transfer the men to the walls, and then sink the galleys in the
Arsenal. It was a desperate measure designed to ensure the full-hearted
involvement of the sailors in the fate of the city, but it provoked another
furious backlash. As the unloading was about to begin, the crews leaped to
bar the gangways with drawn swords, declaring “let us see who will take
the cargoes from these galleys! … we know that once we have unloaded
these galleys and sunk them in the Arsenal, at once the Greeks will keep us
in their city by plain force as their own slaves, while we are now free either
to go or to stay.” Fearing the destruction of their one means of safety, the
captains and crews sealed their ships and sat tight. All day bombardment of
the land walls continued with unbridled ferocity. The urgency of the
situation forced the council to meet again the following day and amend its
plans. This time the captain of the two long galleys, Gabriel Trevisano,
agreed to disarm his ships and take his 400 men to join the defense at the St.
Romanus Gate. It took four days to persuade the men to cooperate and to
move the equipment. By the time they arrived on May 13, it was almost too
late.
Although Mehmet had concentrated his fire on the area of the St. Romanus
Gate, some guns continued to blast away at a spot near the palace where the
Theodosian wall formed its awkward junction with the single wall. By May
12 the guns had demolished a section of outer wall and Mehmet decided to
make a concentrated night attack on this spot. Toward midnight a huge
force advanced on the breach. The defenders were taken by surprise and
forced back from the wall by a force commanded by Mustapha, the
standard-bearer of the Anatolian army. Further reinforcements rushed from
other sections of the wall, but the Ottomans continued to push them back
and began to mount scaling ladders against the wall. Terror broke out in the
narrow streets around the palace. The townspeople ran fleeing from the wall
and many “believed that night that the city was lost.”
At this moment, according to Nestor-Iskander, a grim council of war
was taking place three miles away in the porch of St. Sophia. It had become
unavoidable to confront the gravity of the situation. The defenders were
being relentlessly thinned out day after day: “if it continues on, all of us will
perish and they will take the city.” Confronted with this reality, Constantine
was laying a series of blunt options before his commanders: they could
either sally out of the city at night and try to defeat the Ottomans in a
surprise attack or they could sit tight and await the inevitable, hoping for
rescue by the Hungarians or the Italians. Lucas Notaras was suggesting that
they should continue to hold out, while others were again begging
Constantine to leave the city, when word arrived that “the Turks were
already ascending the wall and overpowering the townspeople.”
Constantine galloped toward the palace. In the darkness he met citizens
and soldiers fleeing from the breach. In vain he tried to turn them back, but
the situation was deteriorating by the minute. Ottoman cavalry had started
to penetrate the city, and the fighting was now taking place inside the walls.
The arrival of Constantine and his bodyguard managed to rally the Greek
soldiers: “the Emperor arrived, cried out to his own men, and made them
stronger.” With the help of Giustiniani he forced the intruders back, trapped
them in the maze of narrow streets, and divided their forces in two.
Cornered, the Ottomans counterattacked fiercely, trying to get at the
emperor. Unscathed and excited by the chase, Constantine drove some of
them back as far as the breach – and would have galloped after them “but
the nobles of the imperial suite and his German guards stopped him and
prevailed on him to ride back.” The Ottoman troops who could not escape
were massacred in the dark lanes. Next morning the townspeople dragged
the corpses up to the walls and hurled them into the ditch for their comrades
to collect. The city had survived, but each attack was lengthening the odds
of survival.

This was to be Mehmet’s last major assault on the palace section of wall.
Despite its failure he must have felt that success was within his grasp. He
seems now to have decided to concentrate all his firepower on the weakest
stretch of all – the St. Romanus Gate. On May 14, when he learned that the
Christians had disarmed some of their galleys and withdrawn the majority
of their fleet into a small harbor back from the boom, he concluded that his
ships in the Horn were relatively safe from attack. He then moved his guns
from Galata Hill around to the land walls. At first he stationed them to
bombard the wall near the palace; when this proved ineffectual he moved
them again to St. Romanus. Increasingly the guns were concentrated at one
spot rather than being spread out along a broad front. The bombardments
became ever more furious: “day and night these cannon did not stop firing
at our poor walls, battering large portions of wall to the ground, and we in
the city worked day and night to effect good repairs where the walls were
smashed, with barrels and brushwood and earth and whatever else was
necessary to do this.” It was here that the fresh men from the long galleys
under Trevisano were stationed with “good cannon and good guns and a
large number of crossbows and other equipment.”
At the same time Mehmet ensured that the ships defending the boom
were kept under constant pressure. On May 16 at the twenty-second hour
some brigantines were seen to detach themselves from the main Ottoman
fleet out in the straits and head at full speed for the boom. The watching
sailors assumed them to be Christian conscripts escaping from the fleet
“and we Christians who were at the chain waited them with great pleasure.”
As they drew near, however, they loosed shots at the defenders. At once the
Italians launched their own brigantines to see them off, and the intruders
turned to escape. The Christian ships nearly caught them before “they
hurriedly started rowing and escaped back to their fleet.” The following day
the Ottomans tested the boom again with five fast fustae. They were seen
off with a hail of “more than seventy shots.”
 A third and final assault on the boom was mounted before daybreak on
May 21, this time by the whole fleet. They came rowing hard toward the
chain “with a great sounding of their tambourines and castanets in an
attempt to frighten us,” then stopped, eyeing up the strength of their
opponents. The ships at the boom were armed and ready and a major sea
battle seemed about to unfold when suddenly the alarm was heard from
within the city, signaling a general attack. At this, all the ships in the Horn
rushed to action stations, and the Ottoman fleet appeared to have second
thoughts. It turned about and sailed back to the Double Columns, so that
“two hours after sunrise there was complete calm on both sides, as if no
attack by sea had taken place.” It was the last attempt on the boom. In all
likelihood the morale in the Ottoman fleet, largely manned by Christian
rowers, was now too low to mount a serious challenge to the Christian
ships, but these maneuvers ensured that the defenders could never relax.
Elsewhere the Muslims were ominously busy. On May 19 Ottoman
engineers finished the construction of a pontoon bridge ready to swing
across the Horn just beyond the walls. It was another extraordinary feat of
improvisation. The pontoons comprised a thousand large barrels, doubtless
obtained from the wine-drinking Christians at Galata, tied together in pairs
lengthways and planked on top to provide a carriageway wide enough for
five soldiers to walk abreast and solid enough to support a cart. The aim
was to shorten communications round the top of the Horn between the two
wings of his army. Barbaro suggests that Mehmet was preparing the
pontoon bridge in readiness for a general attack when he might want to
move his men quickly, but that it was only floated into its final position
across the Horn at the end of the siege, for “if the bridge had been stretched
across the Horn before the all-out attack, a single shot from a cannon would
have broken it.” All these preparations could be seen from the city walls.
They provided the defenders with an ominous sense of the huge resources
of manpower and materials that Mehmet could bring to the siege, but it was
engineering work that they could not yet see that was soon to throw the
Christians into deeper panic.

By the middle of May Mehmet had stretched the defenses of the city to the
limit, but they had still not cracked. He had employed the resources of his
army and navy to the full, in assault, bombardment, and blockade, three of
the key techniques of medieval siege warfare. There remained one classic
strategy as yet largely untried – mining.
Within the Ottoman vassal states in Serbia lay Novo Brdo, the most
important city in the interior of the Balkans, famed throughout Europe for
the wealth of its silver mines. The Slav troops conscripted for the campaign
included a band of skilled miners from the city, probably Saxon immigrants,
“masters in the art of digging and cutting away mountains, to whose tools
marble was as wax and the black mountains as piles of dust.” They had
made an early attempt at mining under the walls in the central section, but
this had been abandoned because the ground was unsuitable. In mid-May,
as other methods failed and the siege dragged on into its second month,
another attempt was started, this time near the single wall of the palace.
Mining, although laborious, was one of the most successful techniques for
bringing down walls, and had been profitably employed by Muslim armies
for hundreds of years. By the end of the twelfth century Saladin’s
successors had learned to capture the great crusader castles within six
weeks through a combination of bombardment and mining.
Sometime in mid-May the Saxon silver miners, hidden by palisades and
bunkers, started to dig the 250 yards to the wall from behind the Ottoman
trenches. It was skilled, exhausting work and nightmarishly difficult. Lit by
smoking torches, the miners excavated narrow subterranean tunnels,
propping them with timber supports as they went. Attempts to undermine
the walls in earlier Ottoman sieges had proved unsuccessful, and it was the
received wisdom of old men in the city that mining would inevitably fail
because the ground beneath the walls was mostly solid rock. In the dead of
night on May 16 the defenders were aghast to discover the falsity of this
notion. By chance soldiers on the ramparts heard the clink of pickaxes and
the sound of muffled voices coming from the ground inside the wall. The
mine had evidently passed under the ramparts and was intended to provide
a secret point of entry into the city. Notaras and Constantine were quickly
notified. A panicky conference was called and a search was made
throughout the city for men with mining experience to confront this new
threat. The man chosen to organize the defense against attack from
underground was something of a curiosity: “John Grant, a German, a
skillful soldier, highly trained in military matters,” had come to the siege in
the company of Giustiniani. He was in fact a Scotsman who had apparently
worked in Germany. It is impossible to guess at the sequence of events that
had brought him to Constantinople. He was evidently a highly skilled
professional soldier, siege specialist, and engineer, and for a brief moment
he occupied a central role in one of the strangest sub-plots in the story of
the struggle.
Grant evidently knew his business. The position of the enemy mine was
located by the sound of the work. A countermine was dug with speed and
stealth. The defenders had the advantage of surprise. Bursting into the
enemy tunnel in the dark, they fired the pit props and collapsed the tunnel
on the miners, leaving them to suffocate in the dark. The danger posed by
this mine banished any complacency within the city. Henceforth, full
precautions were taken to watch for mining activity. Grant must have
instituted the standard practices of the time. Bowls or buckets of water
would have been placed at regular intervals on the ground by the wall and
observed for telltale ripples on the surface that would indicate subterranean
vibrations. The greater skill was to locate the direction of the mine and to
intercept it quickly and stealthily. Over the following days a grim
underground struggle unfolded with its own skills and disciplines that
echoed the contest for the wall and the boom in the daylight world. For a
few days after May 16, Christian sappers found no sign of movement. On
the 21st another mine was detected. It had again passed under the
foundations with the intention of letting troops into the city. Grant’s men
intercepted the tunnel but failed to surprise the Ottomans, who withdrew,
burning the props behind them so that it collapsed.
Thereafter it became a game of cat and mouse fought out in the dark
under horrific conditions. The following day “at the hour of Compline” the
defenders discovered a tunnel into the city near the Calegaria Gate, which
they intercepted. They burned the miners alive with Greek fire. A few hours
later telltale vibrations indicated yet another mine nearby, but this one
proved harder to intercept. However, the pit props collapsed of their own
accord and killed all the miners inside.
The Saxon miners were indefatigable. Not a day went by without
underground warfare. Each time, Giacomo Tetaldi recalled, “the Christians
dug counter-mines, and listened, and located them … they suffocated the
Turks in their mines with smoke, or sometimes with foul and evil-smelling
odours. In some places they drowned them with a flood of water, and often
found themselves fighting hand to hand.”
While the tunneling continued, Mehmet’s engineers contrived another
remarkable and totally unexpected initiative in the world above. At
daybreak on the morning of May 19, the watchers on the wall near the
Charisian Gate, stirring themselves for another day, looked out over the
distant sea of enemy tents – and were staggered by what they saw. Ten
paces in front of them and positioned on the lip of the ditch was an
enormous tower, “overtopping the walls of the barbicans,” that had
somehow appeared from nowhere overnight. The defenders were amazed
and mystified by how the Ottomans had managed to erect this structure so
rapidly, which had been wheeled forward from the enemy lines in the dark
and now overtopped the ramparts. It was built on a framework of stout
beams covered with camel skins and a double layer of hurdles to protect the
men inside. Its lower half had been filled with earth and embanked with
earth on the outside “so that shots from cannon or handguns could not harm
it.” Each story inside was connected by ladders that could also be used to
bridge the gap between the tower and the wall. Overnight a huge body of
men had also constructed a covered causeway from it back to the Ottoman
lines “half a mile long … and over it two layers of hurdles and on top of
them camel skins, by means of which they could go from the tower to the
camp under cover, in such a way that they could not be harmed by bullets or
crossbow bolts or by stones from small cannon.” Armed men rushed to the
wall to view the incredible sight. The siege tower was almost a throwback
to the era of classical warfare, though it seemed to Archbishop Leonard to
be a device “such as the Romans could scarcely have constructed.” It had
been designed specifically to fill in the troublesome ditch in front of the
wall. Inside the tower, teams of men were excavating earth and hurling it
out through small openings in the protective screen into the ditch in front.
They kept at it all day while from the higher stories archers shot a covering
fire of arrows into the city, “it seemed, from sheer high spirits.”
It was a signature project for Mehmet – conceived in secret on a grand
scale and executed, like the transportation of the ships, with extraordinary
speed. Its psychological impact was profound. The resourcefulness and the
resources of the besieging army must have struck the defenders like a
recurring nightmare. Constantine and his commanders hurried to the
battlements to confront yet another emergency, “and when they saw it they
were all struck down with fear like dead men, and they were continuously
concerned that this tower might cause them to lose the city because it
overtopped the barbicans.” The threat from the tower was palpable. It was
closing up the ditch in front of their eyes, and the covering fire from its
archers made it difficult to mount any response. By nightfall the Ottomans
had made remarkable progress. They had filled the ditch with logs, dried
branches, and earth. The siege tower, pushed from within, moved farther
forward and closer to the wall. The panicky defenders decided that
immediate action was imperative – another day under the shadow of the
overhanging tower could prove fatal. After dark, packed barrels of
gunpowder were prepared behind the walls and rolled off the ramparts
toward the tower, with fuses sputtering. There was a series of huge
explosions: “suddenly the earth roared like great thunder and lifted up the
siege turrets and the men to the clouds, like a mighty storm.” The tower
cracked and exploded: “people and logs fell from high.” The defenders
hurled barrels of burning pitch down on the wounded groaning below.
Advancing out from the walls they massacred any further survivors and
burned the bodies along with other siege equipment that had been drawn up
nearby: “long battering rams and wheeled ladders, and waggons with
protective turrets on them.” Mehmet observed this failure from a distance.
Furious, he withdrew his men. Similar towers which had been advanced at
other points along the wall were also withdrawn or burned by the defenders.
The siege towers were evidently too vulnerable to fire, and the experiment
was not repeated.
Underground the tunnel war intensified. On May 23 the defenders
detected and entered yet another mine. As they advanced down the narrow
shaft by the flickering light of flares, they found themselves suddenly face-
to-face with the enemy. Hurling Greek fire, they brought down the roof,
burying the miners, but managed to capture two officers and bring them
back to the surface alive. The Greeks tortured these men until they revealed
the location of all the other workings; “and when they had confessed, their
heads were cut off, and their bodies were thrown from the walls on the side
of the city where the Turkish camp was; and the Turks, when they saw their
men thrown from the walls, became enraged and felt great bitterness
towards the Greeks and us Italians.”
 The following day the silver miners changed their tactics. Instead of
passing straight under the walls to create passageways into the city, they
turned their tunnel sideways on reaching the wall to run directly under it for
a distance of ten paces. The tunnel was propped on timbers and prepared for
firing with the aim of collapsing a section of wall. The work was only just
discovered in time; the intruders were repulsed and the wall was bricked up
again underneath. It caused great disquiet in the city. On May 25 one last
attempt was made to repeat this operation. The miners again managed to
prop a long section of wall ready for firing before being intercepted and
repulsed. In the eyes of the defenders it was the most dangerous of any of
the tunnels to be found, and its discovery signaled the end of the tunnel war.
The Saxon miners had worked ceaselessly for ten days; they had
constructed fourteen tunnels, but Grant had destroyed them all. Mehmet
acknowledged the failure of both towers and mines – and kept the guns
firing.

Away to the west of Constantinople, far from the sound of firing and the
night attacks, another small but significant drama was being played out. In
one of the island harbors of the eastern Aegean a sailing ship was rocking at
anchor. It was the Venetian brigantine that had slipped away from the city.
During mid-May it swept the archipelago, looking for signs of a rescue
fleet. The crew found nothing. They had received no positive reports from
passing vessels. They now knew that there were no ships. In fact the
Venetian fleet was off the coast of Greece cautiously seeking information
about Ottoman naval intentions, while the galleys that the pope had ordered
from Venice were still under construction. The crew fully understood the
implications of their situation. On deck a heated debate was in progress
about what to do next. One sailor made a strong case for sailing away from
the city and back to “a Christian land, because I know very clearly that by
this time the Turks will have taken Constantinople.” His companions turned
to him and replied that the emperor had entrusted them with this task, and
that it was their bounden duty to complete it: “and so we want to return to
Constantinople, if it is in the hands of the Turks or the Christians, if it is to
death or to life, let us go on our way.” The democratic decision was taken to
return, whatever the consequences.
 The brigantine swept back up the Dardanelles on the south wind,
reassumed its Turkish disguise, and approached the city shortly before
daybreak on May 23. This time the Ottoman fleet was not deceived. They
had been patroling attentively, fearing the arrival of Venetian galleys and
took the small sailing boat for their outrider. They rowed forward to
intercept, but the brigantine outstripped them and the boom opened to let it
back in. That day the crew went to make their report to the emperor that
they had found no fleet. Constantine thanked them for returning to the city
and “began to weep bitterly for grief.” The final realization that
Christendom would send no ships snuffed out any hopes of rescue; “and
seeing this the Emperor decided to put himself in the hands of our most
merciful Lord Jesus Christ and of his Mother Madonna Saint Mary, and of
Saint Constantine, Defender of his City, that they might guard it.” It was the
forty-eighth day of the siege.
 12 Omens and Portents MAY 24–26 1453
We see auguries in the replies and salutations of men. We note the cries of domestic birds, the flight
of crows and we draw omens from them. We take note of dreams and believe that they foretell the
future … it is these sins and others like them that make us worthy of the punishments with which
God visits us.
Joseph Bryennios, fourteenth-century Byzantine writer

Prophecy, apocalypse, sin: as the siege entered the final weeks of May,
deepening religious dread gripped the people of the city. A belief in portents
had always been a feature of the life of Byzantium. Constantinople itself
had been founded as the result of a mystical sign – the vision of a cross that
had appeared to Constantine the Great before the crucial battle at the
Milvian Bridge 1240 years earlier – and omens were eagerly sought and
interpreted. With the inexorable decline of the empire, these became
increasingly linked to a profound pessimism. There was a widely held
belief that the Byzantine Empire was to be the last empire on earth, whose
final century had started around 1394. People remembered the ancient
prophetic books from the time of the earlier Arab sieges; their gnomic,
oracular verses were widely recited: “misfortune to you, city of seven hills,
when the twentieth letter is proclaimed on your ramparts. Then the fall will
be near and the destruction of your sovereigns.” The Turks, in their turn,
were seen as an apocalyptic people signifying the last judgment, a scourge
sent by God as a punishment for Christian sin.
Monograms inscribed on the walls

In this climate people unceasingly scrutinized signs that might foretell

the end of empire – or of the world itself: epidemics, natural phenomena,
angelic apparitions. The city itself, old beyond the comprehension of its
inhabitants, had become enshrouded in legend, ancient prophecy, and
supernatural meanings. Its 1,000-year-old monuments, whose original
purpose had been lost, were said to be magical cryptograms in which the
future might be read: the sculpted frieze on the base of the statue in the
Forum of the Bull contained an encoded prophecy of the city’s end, and the
great equestrian statue of Justinian pointing east no longer expressed
confident dominion over the Persians. It foretold the direction from which
the final destroyers of the city would come.
Against this background, presentiments of the last judgment gained an
incremental force as the siege wore on. The unseasonable weather and the
terror of unceasing artillery bombardment convinced the Orthodox faithful
that the end was drawing nigh in explosions and black smoke. The
Antichrist, in the shape of Mehmet, was at the gate. Prophetic dreams and
portents were widely circulated: how a child had seen the angel who
guarded the city walls abandon his post; how oysters had been gathered that
dripped blood; how a great serpent was drawing near, devastating the land;
how the earth tremors and hailstorms that struck the city made it clear “that
universal ruin was approaching.” Everything pointed to a belief that time
was nearly completed. In the monastery of St. George there was an oracular
document, divided into squares, showing the succession of emperors, one
emperor to each square: “in time the squares were all filled, and they say
that only one last square was still empty” – the square to be occupied by
Constantine XI. Byzantine notions that time was circular and symmetrical
were further confirmed by a second imperial prophecy: that the city would
be both founded and lost by an emperor Constantine whose mother was
called Helen. Both Constantine I and Constantine XI had mothers of that
name.
In this fevered climate, the morale of the civilian population seemed to
be disintegrating. Continuous services of intercession were held throughout
the city. Day and night an endless cycle of prayer arose from the churches,
with the exception of St. Sophia, which remained empty and unvisited.
Nestor-Iskander witnessed “all of the people assembled in the holy churches
of God, weeping, sobbing, raising their arms to heaven, and petitioning the
grace of God.” To the Orthodox, prayer was a work as essential to the
survival of the city as the nightly toil of carrying stones and branches to
repair the stockade. It supported the force field of divine protection that
ringed the city. The more hopeful remembered a set of counterprophecies:
that the city was personally shielded by Mary, Mother of God, and could
never be taken because it contained the relics of the True Cross; and that
even if the enemy succeeded in entering the city, they could only proceed as
far as the column of Constantine the Great before an angel would descend
from heaven with a sword and put them to flight.
Despite this, apocalyptic anxiety had been fueled by the disheartening
news from the Venetian brig on May 23 and it reached a crescendo on the
night of the full moon. This was probably the next day, May 24, though
dates are uncertain. The moon held a haunting place in the city’s psyche.
Rising over the copper dome of St. Sophia, shimmering on the calm waters
of the Horn and over the Bosphorus, it had been the symbol of Byzantium
since ancient times. Like a gold coin dug from the Asian hills night after
night, its ebb and flow expressed the antiquity of the city and the endlessly
repeated cycles of time through which it had lived – fluctuating, timeless,
and ominous. Earth’s final millennium was considered to be ruled by the
moon, when “life will be short, fortune unstable.” By late May particular
fear focused on a certain belief that the city could never be taken on a
waxing moon; after the 24th the moon would start to wane again and the
future would be uncertain. The prospect of this date filled the populace with
dread. The whole prophetic history of the city seemed to be drawing to a
point.
It was with apprehension that the people waited for twilight on May 24.
After another day of heavy bombardment, that evening suddenly gave way
to silence. By all accounts it was a beautiful spring night, a time when
Constantinople was at its most magical, the last light still glimmering in the
west, the distant sound of water lapping the sea walls. “The air was clear
and unclouded,” remembered Barbaro, “pure as crystal.” However, as the
moon rose at the first hour after sunset the watchers were met by an
extraordinary sight. Where there should have been a complete circle of
gold, they could see a moon “only three days old, with little of it visible.”
For four hours it remained sickly and minimal, then agonizingly, it “grew
little by little to its full circle, and at the sixth hour of the night, it formed
the complete circle.” The partial eclipse struck the defenders with the force
of prophecy. Was not the crescent moon the symbol of the Ottomans, visible
on standards fluttering over Mehmet’s camp? According to Barbara, “the
Emperor was greatly afraid of this sign, and all of his lords … but the Turks
held a great celebration in their camp at the sign, because it seemed now
that victory was theirs.” For Constantine, struggling to maintain the morale
of the populace, it was a heavy blow.

Seal showing the Hodegetria

The next day a decision was taken, perhaps at the instigation of

Constantine, to lift the spirits of the people by making another direct appeal
to the Virgin. Huge belief was placed in the supernatural powers of the
Mother of God. Her most holy icon, the Hodegetria, “the one who shows
the way,” was a talisman credited with miraculous powers. It was believed
to have been painted by St. Luke the Evangelist, and had an ancient and
honorable role in successful defenses of the city. It had been processed
along the ramparts during the Avar siege of 626. Again in 718 the
Hodegetria was credited with saving Constantinople from the Arabs.
Accordingly a huge crowd gathered on the morning of May 25 at the icon’s
shrine, the church of St. Saviour in Chora near the city walls, to seek
protection from the Virgin. The Hodegetria, mounted on a wooden pallet,
was lifted onto the shoulders of a team of men drawn from the confraternity
of the icon, and a penitent procession set off down the steep, narrow streets
in traditional order: in front a cross-bearer; behind, the black robed priests
swinging their censers, then the laity, men, women, and children probably
walking barefoot. Cantors led the people in holy song. The haunting
quartertones of the hymns, the lamentations of the people, the clouds of
incense, and the traditional prayers to the protecting Virgin – all rose in the
morning air. Over and over the citizens repeated their powerful cry for
psychic protection: “Do thou save thy city, as thou knowest and willest. We
put thee forward as our arms, our rampart, our shield, our general: do thou
fight for thy people.” The exact route for these processions was said to be
dictated by a force emanating from the icon itself, like the tug of a divining
rod.
In this charged atmosphere of fear and devotion, what followed was
utterly devastating. The icon suddenly and inexplicably slipped from the
hands of the bearers “without any reason or visible force and fell on the
ground.” Horror-stricken, people rushed forward with wild shouts to restore
the Virgin to her stand, but the icon seemed to have become fastened to the
ground as if weighted with lead. It was impossible to lift. For a considerable
time, the priests and bearers struggled, with shouts and prayers, to wrestle
the miraculous image from the mud. Eventually it was raised again, but
everyone was struck with fear at this ill-omened event. And worse was soon
to follow. The shakily reformed procession had hardly gone farther when it
was hit by a violent storm. Thunder and lightning cracked and spat across
the noon sky; torrential rain and stinging hail lashed the bedraggled
procession so violently that people “were unable either to stand up against it
or move forward.” The icon came to an unsteady halt. Torrents of
floodwater surged down the narrow street with ominous force, threatening
to sweep children away in their path: “many following were in danger of
being carried away and drowned by the force and terrible power of the
water if some of the men had not quickly grabbed them and with difficulty
hauled them out of the rushing torrent.” The procession had to be
abandoned. The crowd dispersed, taking with them a clear interpretation of
their plight. The Virgin had refused their prayers; the storm “certainly
foretold the imminent destruction of everything and that, like the torrential,
violent water, it would carry off and destroy everything.”
 The God-protected city

The next morning they awoke to discover the city blanketed in thick
fog. There was evidently no wind; the air was still, and the fog clung to the
city all day. Everything was muffled, silent, invisible. The eerie atmosphere
tightened the mood of hysteria. It was as if the weather itself were
undermining the will of the defenders. There could only be one possible
interpretation for such unseasonable fog. It indicated the “departure of God
and his leaving the city, forsaking and turning away from it completely. For
God hides himself in cloud and so appears and again disappears.” Toward
evening the atmosphere seemed to grow even thicker and a “great darkness
began to gather over the city.” And something even stranger was witnessed.
Initially the sentries on the walls observed Constantinople to be illuminated
by lights as if the enemy were burning the city. Alarmed, people ran to see
what was happening and cried aloud when they looked up at the dome of St.
Sophia. A strange light was flickering on the roof. The excitable Nestor-
Iskander described what he saw: “at the top of the window, a large flame of
fire issuing forth; it encircled the entire neck of the church for a long time.
The flame gathered into one; its flame altered, and there was an
indescribable light. At once it took to the sky. Those who had seen it were
benumbed; they began to wail and cry out in Greek: ‘Lord have mercy! The
light itself has gone up to heaven.’” It seemed clear to the faithful that God
had abandoned Constantinople. In the Ottoman camp the unnaturally heavy
atmosphere and the unearthly light had a similar effect on the troops. There
was uncertainty and panic at these apparitions. Within his tent, Mehmet had
been unable to sleep. When he saw the glow over the city he was initially
troubled and sent for his mullahs to interpret the portents. They came and
duly proclaimed the omens favorable to the Muslim cause: “This is a great
sign: The city is doomed.”
The following day, probably May 26, a deputation of priests and
ministers went to Constantine to express their forebodings. The mysterious
light was duly described, and they tried to persuade the emperor to seek a
safer place from which to mount effective resistance to Mehmet: “Emperor:
weigh all of what has been said about this city. God granted the light in the
time of Emperor Justinian for the preservation of the great holy church and
this city. But in this night, it departed for heaven. This signifies that God’s
grace and generosity have gone from us: God wishes to hand over our city
to the enemy … we beseech you: Leave the city so that we will not all
perish!” From a mixture of emotion and sheer exhaustion, Constantine
collapsed to the ground in a dead faint and remained unconscious for a long
time. When he came around, his response was unchanged: to leave the city
would be to invite immortal ridicule on his name. He would remain and die
with his subjects if need be. He furthermore ordered them not to spread
words of discomfort among the people: “do not allow them to fall into
despair and weaken their effort in battle.”
Others responded differently. On the night of May 26, a Venetian sea
captain, one Nicholas Giustiniani – unrelated to Giovanni Giustiniani, the
hero of the siege – slipped the chain and sailed off under the wing of night.
A few smaller boats put out from the small harbors along the Marmara sea
walls, dodged the naval blockade, and made for the ports of the Greek-
speaking Aegean. Some of the richer citizens sought refuge on the Italian
ships within the Horn, judging them to offer the best chance of escape in the
event of a final catastrophe. Others began to look for safe bolt-holes within
the city. Few had any illusions about what defeat might bring.

Within the mystical framework of the medieval world, the astrological

portents and unseasonable weather that destroyed the city’s morale were
clear signs of the will of God. In fact the most likely explanation for these
terrifying phenomena lay faraway in the Pacific Ocean and rivaled even the
most lurid vision of Armageddon. Sometime around the start of 1453 the
volcanic island of Kuwae, 1,200 miles east of Australia, literally blew itself
up. Eight cubic miles of molten rock were blasted into the stratosphere with
a force two million times that of the Hiroshima bomb. It was the Krakatoa
of the Middle Ages, an event that dimmed the world’s weather. Volcanic
dust was propelled across the earth on global winds, lowering temperatures
and blighting harvests from China to Sweden. South of the Yangtze River,
an area with a climate as mild as Florida, it snowed continuously for forty
days. Contemporary tree-ring records from England show years of stunted
growth. The sulfur-rich particles from Kuwae could well have been
responsible for the unseasonably cool and unstable mixture of rain, hail,
fog, and snow that blighted the city throughout the spring. Suspended in the
atmosphere they would also have created lurid sunsets and strange optical
effects. It could have been volcanic particles, alone or in conjunction with
the effect of St. Elmo’s fire – the glow from the discharges of atmospheric
electricity – that bathed the copper dome of the cathedral in ominous
ribbons of fire on May 26, and conjured for the defenders these visions of
oblivion. (Lurid light effects after the Krakatoa eruption in 1883 similarly
alarmed people in New York, but living in a more scientific age, they
tended to assume huge fires were raging and sent for the fire brigade.)

The febrile atmosphere of foreboding was not confined to the city. By the
last week of May the Ottoman camp was also suffering a severe crisis of
morale. A muffled discontent fluttered among the Islamic banners. It was
now the fifth month of the Arabian lunar year; for seven weeks they had
assaulted the city by land and sea. They had endured wretched spring
weather and had suffered terrible casualties at the walls. Unknown numbers
of trampled dead had been carried away from the choked ditches; day after
day the smoke of funeral pyres rose over the plain. And yet as they looked
up from the sea of ordered tents, the walls still stood; and where they had
been demolished by the great guns, the long earth rampart surmounted by
barrels had risen in their place as the taunt of a stubborn enemy. The
double-headed eagle of the emperor still fluttered over the ramparts while
the lion of St. Mark over the imperial palace served as the reminder of the
presence of Western aid, and the fear that reinforcements might be on their
way. No armored host could sustain a lengthy siege as effectively as the
Ottomans. They understood the essential rules of camp life better than any
Western army – the rapid burning of corpses, the protection of water
sources, and the sanitary disposal of excrement were essential disciplines in
Ottoman warfare – but gradually the mathematics of the siege were stacking
against them. It has been estimated that in the Middle Ages a besieging
army of 25,000 men, a third the size of that at Constantinople, must
transport 9,000 gallons of water and 30 tons of fodder a day to provision
itself. In a 60-day siege such an army would need to remove one million
gallons of human and animal urine and 4,000 tons of solid biological waste.
Soon the summer heat would add to the Muslims’ material discomforts and
the threat of disease. The clock was ticking on Ottoman resolve.
In reality, after seven weeks of warfare, an immense weariness was
affecting both sides. There was recognition that a final outcome could not
long be postponed. Nerves were strained to the breaking point. In this
climate the struggle for Constantinople had become a personal contest
between Mehmet and Constantine for the morale of their men. While
Constantine watched confidence disintegrate inside the city, an identical
affliction mysteriously struck the rank and file of the Ottoman army. The
exact sequence and dating of events remains uncertain. The arrival of the
Venetian brigantine on May 23, bringing news that that there was no
relieving fleet, was perhaps perceived by the Ottomans as the outrider of
that fleet. The next day word spread quickly among the tents that a
powerful fleet was approaching the Dardanelles while a Hungarian crusader
army under John Hunyadi, “the redoubtable white knight,” had already
crossed the Danube and was marching on Edirne. The most likely
explanation is that Constantine had allowed this message to seep out in a
last attempt to undermine Ottoman morale. It was immediately successful.
Uncertainty and alarm rippled across the plain. The men remembered, in the
words of the chronicler, that “many kings and sultans had aspired … and
had assembled and equipped large armies, but no one had reached the foot
of the fortress. They had withdrawn in pain, wounded and disillusioned.” A
mood of despondency gripped the camp, and if Leonard of Chios is to be
believed, “the Turks began to shout against their Sultan.” For the second
time doubt and a sense of danger gripped the Ottoman high command and
the old divisions over the conduct of the siege started to resurface.
For Mehmet it was the moment of crisis. Failure to take the city might
prove fatal to his reputation, but time and the patience of his army were
running out. He needed to regain the confidence of his men and to act
decisively. The night of the eclipse provided a lucky moment to bolster
flagging morale. The religious zeal of the mullahs and dervishes who had
come to the siege ensured that a favorable interpretation of the lunar eclipse
was spread throughout the camp, but the decision to continue with the siege
remained uncertain. With a characteristic mixture of shrewdness and
cunning, he decided to make one more attempt to persuade Constantine to
surrender peacefully.
Probably around May 25 he sent an emissary to the city, Ismail, a
renegade Greek nobleman, to confront the Byzantines with their probable
fate. He appealed to the hopelessness of their situation: “Men of Greece,
your fate is indeed balanced on a razor’s edge. Why then do you not send an
ambassador to discuss peace with the Sultan? If you will entrust this matter
to me, I shall arrange for him to offer you terms. Otherwise, your city will
be enslaved, your wives and your children will be sent into slavery, and you
yourselves will utterly perish.” Cautiously they decided to investigate the
proposition but resolved to hedge their bets by sending a man “not of high
rank,” rather than risk the life of one of the leaders of the city. This
unfortunate individual was brought to the red and gold tent to prostrate
himself before the sultan. Mehmet tersely offered two choices: the city
could either offer a huge annual tribute of 100,000 bezants, or the whole
population could abandon the city, “taking their possessions with them, and
go wherever each one of them wished.” The offer was relayed to the
emperor and his council. Paying the tribute was clearly beyond the means
of the poverty-stricken city, and the notion of sailing away and abandoning
Constantinople remained inconceivable to Constantine. His reply was to the
effect that he would surrender all that he had, with the exception of the city.
Mehmet retorted that the only choices left were surrender of the city, death
by the sword, or conversion to Islam. Perhaps underlying this, there was a
feeling in the city that Mehmet’s offer had not been sincere, that he had sent
Ismail “as a means of testing the state of mind of the Greeks … to find out
what the Greeks thought of their situation, and how secure their position
was.” For Mehmet, however, voluntary surrender was still the preferred
option. It would preserve the fabric of a city that he intended for his capital;
under the laws of Islam, he would be compelled to allow his troops three
days of pillage if it had to be taken by force.
No one knows how close the city came to a voluntary surrender. It has
been suggested that the Genoese, whose colony at Galata was also
indirectly threatened, exerted pressure on the emperor to refuse the
surrender offer, but it seems unlikely that Constantine, whose approach
remained remarkably consistent, ever seriously considered handing over
Constantinople. For both sides it was probably too late for negotiated
surrender. There was too much bitterness. For fifty days they had taunted
and slaughtered one another across the walls and executed prisoners in full
view of their compatriots. It was a case of either lifting the siege or
conquering the city. Doukas probably caught the true tenor of Constantine’s
reply: “impose as large an annual tribute as you can, then agree to a peace
treaty and withdraw, for you don’t know if you will gain victory or be
deceived. It is not in my power, nor in that of any citizen, to hand over the
city to you. It is our universal resolve to die rather than have our lives
spared.”
If Constantine had released the rumor of approaching Western armies
into the Ottoman camp, it was a double-edged weapon. Outside the walls
there was uncertainty about what to do, but the threat of relief accelerated
decisive action. The categoric reply from Constantine refocused debate in
the Ottoman camp. Probably on the next day, May 26, Mehmet called a
council of war to resolve the matter one way or the other – either to lift the
siege or proceed to an all-out assault. The argument that followed was a
reprise of the earlier crisis meeting after the naval defeat on April 21. Once
again the old Turkish vizier, Halil Pasha, rose to speak. He was cautious,
fearful of the consequences of the young sultan’s rashness, and the risk of
provoking Christendom into a united response. He had witnessed the
vicissitudes of fortune under Mehmet’s father and knew the dangers of an
uneasy army. He spoke with passion for peace: “your power, which is
already very great, you can increase more by peace than by war. For the
outcome of war is uncertain – more often you see adversity rather than
prosperity accompany it.” He raised the specter of an advancing Hungarian
army and an Italian fleet and urged Mehmet to demand heavy penalties
from the Greeks and lift the siege. Again Zaganos Pasha, the Greek convert,
argued for war, pointing out the huge discrepancy in forces, the daily
erosion of the defenders’ strength, and their near total exhaustion. He
scorned the notion that help would come from the West and showed a good
knowledge of the realities of Italian politics: “The Genoese are split into
factions, the Venetians are under attack from the Duke of Milan – neither
would give any help at all.” He appealed to Mehmet’s desire for glory and
demanded “the chance of making one short sharp general assault, and if we
fail, we shall afterwards do whatever you think best.” Zaganos was again
supported by other generals, such as Turahan Bey, the commander of the
European army, and by a strong religious faction, led by Sheik
Akshemsettin and Ulema Ahmet Gurani.
The debate was heated. It was the decisive moment in a power struggle
between two factions at the Ottoman court that had been raging for ten
years. The outcome was to be hugely influential for the future of the
Ottoman state, but both sides also knew that they were arguing for their
lives – a failed policy would lead inexorably to the hangman’s noose or the
strangler’s bowstring. In the event Mehmet was persuaded by the appeal to
military glory to blot out the possibility of failure or military revolt; it is
possible that he dispatched Zaganos to tour the camp and report back on the
mood of the army before finally deciding. If so, the answer was naturally
unequivocal – Zaganos dutifully “discovered” that the army was full of
enthusiasm for the final attack. Mehmet decided that the moment for
hesitation was past: “decide the day of battle, Zaganos. Prepare the army,
surround Galata so that it can’t help the enemy and make all these
preparations quickly.”
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 May 26
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 fervor 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 under way. 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 nonstop hail of
stone shot. Gaping holes started to appear in the defenses. “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, toward 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 labored 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.”
 13 “Remember the Date” MAY 27–28, 1453
These tribulations are for God’s sake. The sword of Islam is in our hands. If we had not chosen to
endure these tribulations, we would not be worthy to be called gazis. We would be ashamed to stand
in God’s presence on the day of Judgement.
Mehmet II

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.
Inscription on the land walls: “The Fortune of Constantine, our God-protected Sovereign, triumphs”

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 Sunday morning, May 27, 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 honor 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.
He then laid out the tactics for the battle. He believed, quite rightly, that
the defenders were exhausted by constant bombardment and skirmishing.
The time had come to bring the full advantage of numbers into play. The
troops would attack in relays. When one division was exhausted, a second
would replace it. They would simply hurl wave after wave of fresh troops at
the wall until the weary defenders cracked. It would take as long as it took
and there would be no let-up: “once we have started fighting, warfare will
be unceasing, without sleeping or eating, drinking or resting, without any
letup, with us pressing on them until we have overpowered them in the
struggle.” They would attack the city from all points simultaneously in a
coordinated onslaught, so that it was impossible for the defenders to move
troops to relieve particular pressure points. Despite the rhetoric, limitless
attack was impossible: the practical time frame for a full-scale assault
would be finite, compressed into a few hours. A stout resistance would
inflict murderous slaughter on the rushing troops; if they failed to
overwhelm the defenders quickly, withdrawal would be inevitable.
Precise orders were given to each commander. The fleet at the Double
Columns was to encircle the city and tie down the defenders at the sea
walls. The ships inside the Horn were to assist in floating the pontoon
across the Horn. Zaganos Pasha would then march his troops across from
the Valley of the Springs and attack the end of the land wall. Next, the
troops of Karaja Pasha would confront the wall by the Royal Palace, and in
the center Mehmet would station himself with Halil and the Janissaries for
what many considered to be the crucial theater of operations – the shattered
wall and the stockade in the Lycus valley. On his right Ishak Pasha and
Mahmut Pasha would attempt to storm the walls down toward the Sea of
Marmara. Throughout he laid particular emphasis on ensuring the discipline
of the troops. They must obey commands to the letter: “to be silent when
they must advance without noise, and when they must shout to utter the
most bloodcurdling yells.” He reiterated how much hung on the success of
the attack for the future of the Ottoman people, and promised personally to
oversee it. With these words he dismissed the officers back to their troops.
Later he rode in person through the camp, accompanied by his Janissary
bodyguard in their distinctive white headdresses, and his heralds who made
the public announcement of the coming attack. The message cried among
the sea of tents was designed to ignite the enthusiasm of the men. There
would be the traditional rewards for storming a city: “you know how many
governorships are at my disposal in Asia and in Europe. Of these I will give
the finest to the first to pass the stockade. And I shall pay him the honours
which he deserves, and I shall requite him with a position of wealth, and
make him happy among the men of our generation.” All major Ottoman
battles were preceded by the promise of a graduated series of stated honors
designed to spur the men on. There was a matching set of punishments:
“but if I see any man lurking in the tents and not fighting at the wall, he will
not be able to escape a lingering death.” It was one of the psychological
ploys of Ottoman conquest that it bound men into an effective reward
system that linked honor and profit to the recognition of exceptional effort.
It was implemented by the presence on the battlefield of the sultan’s
messengers, the chavushes, a body of men who reported directly to the
sultan. Their single account of an act of bravery could lead to instant
promotion. The men knew that great acts could be rewarded.
Mehmet went further. In accordance with the dictates of Islamic law, it
was decreed that since the city had not surrendered, it would be given to the
soldiers for three days of plunder. He swore by God, “by the four thousand
prophets, by Muhammad, by the soul of his father and his children and by
the sword he strapped on, that he would give them everything to sack, all
the people, men and women, and everything in the city, both treasure and
property, and that he would not break his promise.”
 The prospect of the Red Apple, rich in plunder and marvels, was a
direct appeal to the very soul of the nomadic raider, an archetype of the
horseman’s longing for the wealth of cities. After seven weeks of suffering
in the spring rain, it must have struck the men with the force of hunger. To a
large extent the city they imagined did not exist. The Constantinople
conjured by Mehmet had been ransacked by Christian crusaders two and a
half centuries earlier. Its fabulous treasures, its gold ornaments, its jewel-
encrusted relics, had largely gone in the catastrophe of 1204 – melted down
by Norman knights or shipped off to Venice with the bronze horses. What
was left in May 1453 was an impoverished, shrunken shadow of its former
self, whose main wealth was now its people. “Once the city of wisdom,
now a city of ruins,” Gennadios had said of the dying Byzantium. A few
rich men may have had hoards of gold hidden in their houses and the
churches still had precious objects, but the city no longer possessed the
treasure troves of Aladdin that the Ottoman troops longingly imagined as
they stared up at the walls.

City of ruins: the crumbling Hippodrome and empty spaces of the city

Nevertheless the proclamation whipped the listening army into a fever

of excitement. Their great shouts were carried to the exhausted defenders
watching from the walls. “O, if you had heard their voices raised to
heaven,” recorded Leonard, “you would indeed have been paralysed.” The
looting of the city was probably a promise that Mehmet had not wanted to
make, but it had become the necessary lever for fully winning over the
grumbling troops. A negotiated surrender would have prevented a level of
destruction that he was hoping to avoid. The Red Apple was not for
Mehmet just a chest of war booty to be plundered; it was to be the center of
his empire, and he was keen to preserve it intact. With this in mind a stern
caveat was attached to the promise: the buildings and walls of the city were
to remain the property of the sultan alone; under no circumstances were
they to be damaged or destroyed once the city had been entered. The
capture of Istanbul was not to be a second sacking of Baghdad, the most
fabulous city of the Middle Ages, committed to the flames by the Mongols
in 1258.
The attack was fixed for the day after next – Tuesday, May 29. In order
to work the soldiers to a pitch of religious zeal and to quash any negative
thoughts, it was announced that the following day, Monday, May 28, was to
be given over to atonement. The men were to fast during daylight hours, to
carry out their ritual ablutions, to say their prayers five times, and to ask
God’s aid in capturing the city. The customary candle illuminations were to
continue for the next two nights. The mystery and awe that the
illuminations, combined with prayers and music, worked on both the men
and their enemies were powerful psychological tools, employed to full
effect outside the walls of Constantinople.
In the meantime the work in the Ottoman camp went on with renewed
enthusiasm. Vast quantities of earth and brushwood were collected ready to
fill up the ditch, scaling ladders were made, stockpiles of arrows were
collected, wheeled protective screens drawn up. As night fell the city was
again ringed by a brilliant circle of fire; the rhythmic chanting of the names
of God rose steadily from the camp to the steady beating of drums, the clash
of cymbals, and the skirl of the zorna. According to Barbaro the shouting
could be heard across the Bosphorus on the coast of Anatolia, “and all us
Christians were in the greatest terror.” Within the city it had been the feast
day of All Saints, but there was no comfort in the churches, only penitence
and continual prayers of intercession.
At the day’s end Giustiniani and his men again set about repairing the
damage to the outer wall, but in the brilliantly illuminated darkness the
cannonfire continued unabated. The defenders were horribly conspicuous,
and it was now, according to Nestor-Iskander, that Giustiniani’s personal
luck started to run out. As he directed operations, a fragment of stone shot,
probably a ricochet, struck the Genoese commander, piercing his steel
breastplate and lodging in his chest. He fell to the ground and was carried
home to bed.
It is difficult to overestimate the importance of Giustiniani to the
Byzantine cause. From the moment that he had stepped dramatically onto
the quayside in January 1453 with 700 skilled fighters in shining armor,
Giustiniani had been an iconic figure in the defense of the city. He had
come voluntarily and at his own expense, “for the advantage of the
Christian faith and for the honour of the world.” Technically skillful,
personally brave, and utterly tireless in his defense of the land walls, he
alone had been able to command the loyalty of both the Greeks and
Venetians – to the extent that they were forced to make an exception to their
general hatred of the Genoese. The construction of the stockade was a
brilliant piece of improvisation whose effectiveness chipped away at the
morale of the Ottoman troops. The unreliable testimony of his fellow
countryman, Leonard of Chios, suggests that Mehmet was moved to
exasperated admiration of his principal opponent and tried to bribe him with
a large sum of money. Giustiniani was not to be bought. Despair seems to
have gripped the defenders at the felling of their inspirational leader. Wall
repairs were abandoned in disarray. When Constantine was told, “right
away his resolution vanished and he melted away into thought.”
At midnight the shouting again suddenly died down and the fires were
extinguished. Silence and darkness fell abruptly over the tents and banners,
the guns, horses, and ships, the calm waters of the Horn, and the shattered
walls. The doctors who watched over the wounded Giustiniani “treated him
all night long and laboured in sustaining him.” The people of the city
enjoyed little rest.

Mehmet spent Monday, May 28, making final arrangements for the attack.
He was up at dawn giving orders to his gunners to prepare and aim their
guns on the wrecked parts of the wall, so that they might target the
vulnerable defenders when the order was given later in the day. The leaders
of the cavalry and infantry divisions of his guard were summoned to receive
their orders and were organized into divisions. Throughout the camp the
order was given, to the sound of trumpets, that all the officer corps should
stand to their posts under pain of death, in readiness for tomorrow’s attack.
When the guns did open up, “it was a thing not of this world,”
according to Barbaro, “and this they did because it was the day for ending
the bombardment.” Despite the intensity of the cannonflre there were no
attacks. The only other visible activity was the steady collection of
thousands of long ladders, which were brought up close to the walls, and a
huge number of wooden hurdles, which would provide protection for the
advancing men as they struggled to climb the stockade. Cavalry horses
were brought in from pasture. It was a late spring day and the sun was
shining. Within the Ottoman camp the men went about their preparations:
fasting and prayer, sharpening blades, checking fastenings on shields and
armor, resting. A mood of introspection stilled the troops as they steadied
themselves for the final assault. The religious quietness and discipline of
the army unnerved the watchers on the walls. Some hoped that the lack of
activity was a preparation for withdrawal; others were more realistic.
Mehmet had worked hard on the morale of his men, tuning their
responses over several days through cycles of fervor and reflection that
were designed to build morale and distract from internal doubt. The mullahs
and dervishes played a key role in creating the right mentality. Thousands
of wandering holy men had come to the siege from the towns and villages
of upland Anatolia, bringing with them a fervent religious expectation. In
their dusty robes they moved about the camp, their eyes alight with
excitement. They recited relevant verses from the Koran and the Hadith and
told tales of martyrdom and prophecy. The men were reminded that they
were following in the footsteps of the companions of the Prophet killed at
the first Arab siege of Constantinople. Their names were passed from
mouth to mouth: Hazret Hafiz, Ebu Seybet ul-Ensari, Hamd ul-Ensari, and
above all Ayyub, whom the Turks called Eyüp. The holy men reminded
their listeners, in hushed tones, that to them fell the honor of fulfilling the
word of the Prophet himself:
The Prophet said to his disciples: “Have you heard of a city with land on one side and sea on the
other two sides?” They replied: “Yes, O Messenger of God.” He spoke: “The last hour [of Judgment]
will not dawn before it is taken by 70,000 sons of Isaac. When they reach it, they will not do battle
with arms and catapults but with the words ‘There is no God but Allah, and Allah is great.’ Then the
first sea wall will collapse, and the second time the second sea wall, and the third time the wall on the
land side will collapse, and, rejoicing, they will enter in.”

The words attributed to the Prophet may have been spurious, but the
sentiment was real. To the army fell the prospect of completing a messianic
cycle of history, a persistent dream of the Islamic peoples since the birth of
Islam itself, and of winning immortal fame. And for those killed in battle
blessed martyrdom and the prospect of paradise lay ahead: “Gardens
watered by running streams, where they shall dwell forever; spouses of
perfect chastity: and grace from God.”
It was a heady mixture, but there were those in the camp, including
Sheik Akshemsettin himself, who were extremely realistic about the
authentic motivation of some of the troops. “You well know,” he had
written to Mehmet earlier in the siege, “that most of the soldiers have in any
case been converted by force. The number of those who are ready to
sacrifice their lives for the love of God is extremely small. On the other
hand, if they glimpse the possibility of winning booty they will run towards
certain death.” For them too, there was encouragement in the Koran: “God
has promised you rich booty, and has given you this with all promptness.
He has stayed your enemies’ hands, so that He may make your victory a
sign to true believers and guide you along a straight path.”
Mehmet embarked on a final restless tour of inspection. With a large
troop of cavalry he rode to the Double Columns to give Hamza instructions
for the naval assault. The fleet was to sail around the city, bringing the ships
within firing range to engage the defenders in continuous battle. If possible,
some of the vessels should be run aground and an attempt made to scale the
sea walls, although the chances of success in the fast currents of the
Marmara were not considered great. The fleet in the Horn was given similar
orders. On the way back he also stopped outside the chief gate of Galata
and ordered the chief magistrates of the town to present themselves to him.
They were sternly warned to ensure that no help was given to the city on the
following day.
In the afternoon he was again on horseback, making a tour of inspection
of the whole army, riding the four miles from sea to sea, encouraging the
men, addressing the individual officers by name, stirring them up for battle.
The message of “carrot and stick” was reiterated: both great rewards were
at hand and terrible punishments for those who failed to obey. They were
ordered under pain of death to follow the orders of their officers to the
letter. Mehmet probably addressed his sternest words to the impressed and
reluctant Christian troops under Zaganos Pasha. Satisfied with these
preparations, he returned to his tent to rest.

Within the city a set of matching preparations was under way. Somehow,
against the worst fears of Constantine and the doctors, Giustiniani had
survived the night. Disturbed and obsessed by the state of the outer wall, he
demanded to be carried up to the ramparts to oversee the work again. The
defenders set about the business of plugging the gaps once again and made
good progress until they were spotted by the Ottoman gunners. At once a
torrent of fire forced them to stop. Later it seems that Giustiniani was well
enough to take active command of the defenses of the crucial central area
once more.
Elsewhere preparations for the final defense were hampered by friction
between the various national and religious factions. The deep-rooted
rivalries and conflicting priorities of the different interest groups, the
difficulty of providing sufficient food, the exhaustion of continuous work,
and the shock of bombardment – after fifty-three days of siege, nerves were
stretched to the breaking point and disagreements flared into open conflict.
As they prepared for the coming attack, Giustiniani and Lucas Notaras
nearly came to blows over the deployment of their few precious cannon.
Giustiniani demanded that Notaras should hand over the cannon under his
control for the defense at the land walls. Notaras refused, believing that
they might be required to defend the sea walls. A furious row took place.
Giustiniani threatened to run Notaras through with his sword.
A further quarrel broke out about provisioning the land walls. The
shattered battlements needed to be topped by effective defensive structures
to provide protection against enemy missiles. The Venetians set about
making mantlets – wooden hurdles – in the carpenters’ workshops of their
quarter, the Plateia, down by the Horn. Seven cartloads of mantlets were
collected in the square. The Venetian bailey ordered the Greeks to take them
the two miles up to the walls. The Greeks refused unless they were paid.
The Venetians accused them of greed; the Greeks, who had hungry families
to feed and were resentful of the arrogance of the Italians, needed time or
money to get food before the end of the day. The dispute rumbled on so
long that the mantlets were not delivered until after nightfall, by which time
it was too late to use them.
These flaring antagonisms had a deep history. Religious schism, the
sacking of Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade, the commercial rivalry of
the Genoese and the Venetians – all contributed to the accusations of greed,
treachery, idleness, and arrogance that were hurled back and forward in the
tense final days. But beneath this surface of discord and despair, there is
evidence that all sides generally did their best for the common defense on
May 28. Constantine himself spent the day organizing, imploring, rallying
the citizens, and the assorted defenders – Greek, Venetian, Genoese,
Turkish, and Spanish – to work together for the cause. Women and children
toiled throughout the day, lugging stones up to the walls to hurl down on the
enemy. The Venetian bailey put out a heartfelt plea “that all who called
themselves Venetians should go to the land walls, firstly out of love for
God, then for the good of the city and for the honour of all Christendom and
that they should all stand to their posts and be willing to die there with a
good heart.” In the harbor the boom was checked and all the ships stood to
in battle order. Across the water, the people of Galata watched the
preparations for a final struggle with growing concern. It seems likely that
the Podesta also put out a last, clandestine appeal to the men of the town to
cross the Horn in secret and join the defense. He realized that the fate of the
Genoese enclave was now dependent on Constantinople’s survival.
In contrast to the silence of the Ottoman camp, Constantinople was
animated by noise. All day church bells were rung and drums and wooden
gongs beaten to rally the people to make final preparations. The endless
cycle of prayers, services, and cries of intercession had intensified after the
terrible omens of the previous days. They reached a mighty crescendo on
the morning of May 28. The religious fervor within the city matched that on
the plain outside. Early in the morning a great procession of priests, men,
women, and children formed outside St. Sophia. All the most holy icons of
the city were brought out from their shrines and chapels. As well as the
Hodegetria, whose previous procession had proved so ill-omened, they
carried forth the bones of the saints, the gilded and jeweled crosses
containing fragments of the True Cross itself, and an array of other icons.
The bishops and priests in their brocade vestments led the way. The laity
walked behind, penitent and barefoot, weeping and beating their chests,
asking absolution for sins and joining in the singing of the psalms. The
procession went throughout the city and along the full length of the land
walls. At each important position, the priests read the ancient prayers that
God would protect the walls and give victory to His faithful people. The
bishops raised their crosiers and blessed the defenders, sprinkling them with
holy water from bunches of dried basil. For many it was a day of fasting
also, broken only at sunset. It was the ultimate method of raising the
defenders’ morale.
The emperor probably joined the procession himself, and when it was
over he called together the leading nobles and commanders from all the
factions within the city to make a last appeal for unity and courage. His
speech was the mirror image of Mehmet’s. It was witnessed by Archbishop
Leonard and recorded in his own way. Constantine addressed each group in
turn, appealing to their own interests and beliefs. First he spoke to his own
people, the Greek residents of the city. He praised them for their stout
defense of their home for the past fifty-three days and entreated them not to
be afraid of the wild shouts of the untrained mob of “evil Turks”: their
strength lay “in God’s protection” but also in their superior armor. He
reminded them of how Mehmet had started the war by breaking a treaty,
building a fortress on the Bosphorus, “pretending peace.” In an appeal to
home, religion, and the future of Greece, he reminded them that Mehmet
intended to capture “the city of Constantine the Great, your homeland, the
support of Christian fugitives and the protection of all the Greeks, and to
profane the sacred temples of God by turning them into stables for his
horses.”
Turning first to the Genoese, then the Venetians, he praised them for
their courage and commitment to the city: “you have decorated this city
with great and noble men as if it were your own. Now raise your lofty souls
for this struggle.” Finally he addressed all the fighting men as a body,
begged them to be utterly obedient to orders, and concluded with an appeal
for earthly or heavenly glory almost identical to that of Mehmet: “know that
today is your day of glory, on which, if you shed even one drop of blood
you will prepare for yourself a martyr’s crown and immortal glory.” These
sentiments had their desired effect on the audience. All present were
encouraged by Constantine’s words and swore to stand firm in the face of
the coming onslaught, that “with God’s help we may hope to gain the
victory.” It seems that they all resolved to put aside their personal
grievances and problems and to join together for the common cause. Then
they departed to take up their posts.
In reality Constantine and Giustiniani knew how thinly their forces were
now stretched. After seven weeks of attritional fighting it is likely that the
original 8,000 men had dwindled to about 4,000, to guard a total perimeter
of twelve miles. Mehmet was probably right when he had told his men that
in places there were “only two or three men defending each tower, and the
same number again on the ramparts between the towers.” The length of the
Golden Horn, some three miles, which might be subject to attack by the
Ottoman ships at the Springs and by troops advancing over the pontoon
bridge, was guarded by a detachment of 500 skilled crossbowmen and
archers. Beyond the chain, right around the seawalls, another five miles,
only a single skilled archer, crossbowman, or gunner was assigned to each
tower, backed up by an untrained band of citizens and monks. Particular
parts of the sea walls were allotted to different groups – Cretan sailors held
some towers, a small band of Catalans another. The Ottoman pretender
Orhan, the sultan’s uncle, held a stretch of wall overlooking the Marmara.
His band was certain to fight to the death if it came to a final struggle. For
them, surrender would not be an option. In general, however, it was
reckoned that the sea wall was well protected by the Marmara currents and
that all the men who could possibly be spared must be sent to the central
section of the land wall. It was obvious to everyone that the most concerted
assault must come in the Lycus valley, between the Romanus and the
Charisian gates, where the guns had destroyed sections of the outer wall.
The last day was given to making all possible repairs to the stockade and to
assigning troops to its defense. Giustiniani was in charge of the central
section with 400 Italians and the bulk of the Byzantine troops – some 2,000
men in all. Constantine also set up his headquarters in this section to ensure
full support.

By midafternoon the defenders could see the troops gathering beyond their
walls. It was a fine afternoon. The sun was sinking in the west. Out on the
plain the Ottoman army started to deploy into regimental formations,
turning and wheeling, drawing up its battle standards, filling the horizon
from coast to coast. In the vanguard, men continued to work to fill in the
ditches, the cannon were advanced as close as possible, and the inexorable
accumulation of scaling equipment continued unchecked. Within the Horn
the eighty ships of the Ottoman fleet that had been transported overland
prepared to float the pontoon bridge up close to the land walls; and beyond
the chain, the larger fleet under Hamza Pasha encircled the city, sailing past
the point of the Acropolis and around the Marmara shore. Each ship was
loaded with soldiers, stone-throwing equipment, and long ladders as high as
the walls themselves. The men on the ramparts settled down to wait, for
there was still time to spare.
Late in the afternoon the people of the city, seeking religious solace,
converged for the first time in five months on the mother church of St.
Sophia. The dark church, which had been so conspicuously boycotted by
the Orthodox faithful, was filled with people, anxious, penitent, and fervent,
and for the first time since the summer of 1064, in the ultimate moment of
need, it seems that Catholic and Orthodox worshipped together in the city,
and the 400-year-old schism and the bitterness of the Crusades were put
aside in a final service of intercession. The huge space of Justinian’s 1,000-
year-old church glittered with the mysterious light of candles and
reverberated with the rising and falling notes of the liturgy. Constantine
took part in the service. He occupied the imperial chair at the right side of
the altar and partook of the sacraments with great fervor, and “fell to the
ground, and begged God’s loving kindness and forgiveness for their
transgressions.” Then he took leave of the clergy and the people, bowed in
all directions – and left the church. “Immediately,” according to the fervent
Nestor-Iskander, “all clerics and people present cried out; the women and
children wailed and moaned; their voices, I believe, reached to heaven.” All
the commanders returned to their posts. Some of the civilian population
remained in the church to take part in an all-night vigil. Others went to hide.
People let themselves down into the echoing darkness of the great
underground cisterns, to float in small boats among the columns. Above
ground, Justinian still rode on his bronze horse, pointing defiantly to the
east.

As evening fell, the Ottomans went to break their fast in a shared meal and
to prepare themselves for the night. The prebattle meal was a further
opportunity to build group solidarity and a sense of sacrifice among the
soldiers gathered around the communal cooking pots. Fires and candles
were lit, if anything larger than on the previous two nights. Again the criers
swept through, accompanied by pipes and horns, reinforcing the twin
messages of prosperous life and joyful death; “Children of Muhammad, be
of good heart, for tomorrow we shall have so many Christians in our hands
that we will sell them, two slaves for a ducat, and will have such riches that
we will all be of gold, and from the beards of the Greeks we will make
leads for our dogs, and their families will be our slaves. So be of good heart
and be ready to die cheerfully for the love of our Muhammad.” A mood of
fervent joy passed through the camp as the excited prayers of the soldiers
slowly rose to a crescendo like the breaking of a mighty wave. The lights
and the rhythmical cries froze the blood of the waiting Christians. A
massive bombardment opened up in the dark, so heavy “that to us it seemed
to be a very inferno.” And at midnight silence and darkness fell on the
Ottoman camp. The men went in good order to their posts “with all their
weapons and a great mountain of arrows.” Pumped up by the adrenaline of
the coming battle, dreaming of martyrdom and gold, they waited in total
silence for the final signal to attack.
There was nothing left to be done. Both sides understood the climactic
significance of the coming day. Both had made their spiritual preparations.
According to Barbaro, who of course gave the final say in the outcome to
the Christian god, “and when each side had prayed to his god for victory,
they to theirs and we to ours, our Father in Heaven decided with his Mother
who should be successful in this battle that would be so fierce, which would
be concluded next day.” According to Sad-ud-din, the Ottoman troops,
“from dusk till dawn, intent on battle … united the greatest of meritorious
works … passing the night in prayer.”

There is an afterword to this day. One of the chronicles of George

Sphrantzes sees Constantine riding through the dark streets of the city on
his Arab mare and returning late at night to the Blachernae Palace. He
called his servants and household to him and begged them for forgiveness,
and thus absolved, according to Sphrantzes, “the Emperor mounted his
horse and we left the palace and began to make the circuit of the walls in
order to rouse the sentries to keep watch alertly and not lapse into sleep.”
Having checked that all was well, and that the gates were securely locked,
at first cockcrow they climbed the tower at the Caligaria Gate, which
commanded a wide view over the plain and the Golden Horn, to witness the
enemy preparations in the dark. They could hear the wheeled siege towers
creaking invisibly toward the ramparts, long ladders being dragged over the
pounded ground, and the activity of many soldiers filling in the ditches
beneath the shattered walls. To the south, on the glimmering Bosphorus and
the Marmara the outlines of the larger galleys could be discerned as distant,
ghostly shapes moving into position beyond the bulking dome of St.
Sophia, while within the Horn the smaller fustae worked to float the
pontoon bridge over the straits and to maneuver close to the walls. It is a
haunting, introspective moment and an enduring image of the long-
suffering Constantine – the noble emperor and his faithful friend standing
on the outer tower listening to the ominous preparations for the final attack,
the world dark and still before the moment of final destiny. For fifty-three
days their tiny force had confounded the might of the Ottoman army; they
had faced down the heaviest bombardment in the Middle Ages from the
largest cannon ever built – an estimated 5,000 shots and 55,000 pounds of
gunpowder; they had resisted three full-scale assaults and dozens of
skirmishes, killed unknown thousands of Ottoman soldiers, destroyed
underground mines and siege towers, fought sea battles, conducted sorties
and peace negotiations, and worked ceaselessly to erode the enemy’s
morale – and they had come closer to success than they probably knew.
This scene is accurate in geographical and factual detail; the guards on
the highest ramparts of the city could hear the Ottoman troops maneuvering
in the darkness below the walls and would have commanded a wide view
over both land and sea, but we have no idea if Constantine and Sphrantzes
were actually there. The account is possibly an invention, concocted a
hundred years later by a priest with a reputation for forgery. What we do
know is that at some point on May 28, Constantine and his minister parted,
and that Sphrantzes had a presentiment of this day and its meaning. The two
men were lifelong friends. Sphrantzes had served his master with a
faithfulness conspicuously absent among those who surrounded the
emperor in the quarrelsome final years of the Byzantine Empire. Twenty-
three years earlier, he had saved Constantine’s life at the siege of Patras. He
had been wounded and captured for his pains, and had languished in leg
irons in a verminous dungeon for a month before being released. He had
undertaken endless diplomatic missions for his master over a thirty-year
period, including a fruitless three-year embassy around the Black Sea in
search of a wife for the emperor. In return Constantine made Sphrantzes
governor of Patras, had been the best man at his wedding, and the godfather
of his children. Sphrantzes had more at stake than many during the siege: he
had his family with him in the city. Whenever the two men parted on May
28 it must have been with foreboding on Sphrantzes’s part. Two years
earlier to the day he had had a premonition while away from
Constantinople: “On the same night of May 28 [1451] I had a dream: it
seemed to me that I was back in the City; as I made a motion to prostrate
myself and kiss the Emperor’s feet, he stopped me, raised me, and kissed
my eyes. Then I woke up and told those sleeping by me: ‘I just had this
dream. Remember the date.’”
 14 The Locked Gates 1:30 A.M., MAY 29, 1453
There is no certainty of victory in war, even when the equipment and numerical strength that cause
victory exist. Victory and superiority in war come from luck and chance.
Ibn Khaldun, fourteenth-century Arab historian

By nightfall on Monday, May 28, the great guns had been firing at the land
walls for forty-seven days. Over time Mehmet had come to concentrate his
batteries in three places: to the north between the Blachernae Palace and the
Charisian Gate, in the central section around the Lycus River, and to the
south toward the Marmara at the Third Military Gate. Severe damage had
been inflicted at all these points, so that when he addressed his commanders
before the battle he could claim, with convenient exaggeration, that “the
moat has all been filled up and the land wall at three points has been so
broken down that not only heavy and light infantry like yourselves, but
even the horses and heavily armed cavalry can easily penetrate it.” In fact it
had been clear to both sides for some time that a concerted attack would be
focused on only one spot, the middle section, the Mesoteichion, the shallow
valley between the gates of St. Romanus and Charisias. This was the
Achilles’ heel of the defensive system, and it was here that Mehmet had
expended his greatest firepower.

Ottoman military band: designed to terrify and inspire

By the eve of the total assault, there were nine substantial holes in the
outer wall, some about thirty yards long and mostly in the valley, which had
been replaced piecemeal by Giustiniani’s stockade. It was a ramshackle
structure that patched up the defenses whenever a stretch of wall gave way.
Bulks of timber lashed together provided its basic framework, along with
hard core from the fallen wall augmented by any other materials readily to
hand: brushwood, branches, bundles of reeds, and loose stones, all filled in
with earth, which had the advantage of absorbing the shock of the
cannonballs more effectively than any stone structure. In time it was
evidently nearly as high as the original wall, and wide enough to provide a
good fighting platform. The defenders were protected from enemy fire by
barrels and wicker containers full of earth that served as battlements, and
whose removal was always the initial objective of Ottoman attacks. Since
April 21 the maintenance of the stockade had been the city’s highest
priority. Both soldiers and civilians worked unceasingly to mend and extend
it. Men, women, and children, monks and nuns had all contributed, lugging
stones, timber, cartloads of earth, branches, and vine cuttings up to the front
line in an exhausting and apparently unceasing cycle of destruction and
repair. They had worked under cannonfire and attack, by day and by night,
rain and sun, to plug gaps wherever they appeared. The stockade
represented the collective energy of the population, and under Giustiniani’s
direction it had repaid their efforts, repulsing every attempt on the city and
demoralizing the enemy.
It was behind this stockade that the pick of the available fighting troops
took up their positions late on the sunny afternoon of May 28. According to
Doukas, here were “three thousand Latins and Romans” – the remainder of
the 700 crack Italian troops who had come with Giustiniani, sailors from the
Venetian galleys, plus the bulk of the Byzantine troops. In all probability
the figure was nearer 2,000. They were well armored and helmeted in chain
mail and plate, and equipped with a variety of weapons: crossbows, rifles,
small cannon, long bows, swords, and maces – all the equipment for
mowing down their attackers at a distance and fighting them hand to hand
at the barricades. In addition a large number of rocks had been brought up
to the front line by civilians, as well as inflammatory materials – barrels of
Greek fire and pitchers of tar. The troops entered the enclosure through the
gates in the inner wall and spread out down the length of the stockade to fill
the Mesoteichion for 1,000 yards. The enclosure was only twenty yards
deep, backed by the higher inner wall and a scooped-out ditch at its foot
where earth had been removed to fortify the stockade. There was just room
for horsemen to gallop up and down the line behind the men pressed to the
stockade. In the whole stretch there were only four entry points through the
inner walls: two posterns by the gates of St. Romanus and Charisias to left
and right on the brow of the hills, the forbidding Fifth Military Gate that led
only into the enclosure halfway up the northern slope, and another postern
at an unidentified point that had been created by Giustiniani to make entry
into the city more convenient. It was obvious to everyone that the battle
would be won or lost at the stockade; there could be no retreat from this
station. A decision was therefore taken that the posterns back into the city
should be locked behind the defenders once they had entered the enclosure
and the keys entrusted to their commanders. They would do or die with
their backs to the inner wall and their leaders with them. As night fell they
settled down to wait. A heavy shower of rain fell in the dark, but the
Ottoman troops continued to advance siege equipment outside. Later on
Giustiniani entered the enclosure, then Constantine and his inner retinue of
nobles: the Spaniard Don Francisco of Toledo, his cousin Theophilus
Palaiologos, and his faithful military companion John Dalmata. They
waited on the stockade and the wall for the first signs of an attack. Though
perhaps few would have shared the optimism of the Podesta of Galata who
declared that “victory was assured,” they were not without confidence in
their ability to weather one final storm.

The Ottoman troops were readied for battle in the small hours of the
morning. In the darkness of his tent, Mehmet performed the ritual ablutions
and prayers, and entreated God for the city’s fall. In all likelihood his
personal preparations would have included the donning of a talismanic
shirt, richly embroidered with verses from the Koran and the names of God,
as a magical protection against bad luck. Turbanned and caftanned, with a
sword strapped to his waist, and accompanied by his key commanders, he
set out on horseback to direct the attack.
The preparations for a simultaneous assault by land and sea had been
carefully made and closely followed. The ships in the Horn and Marmara
were in position; troops were massed to make assaults at key locations
along the land walls, with the focus being on the Lycus valley. Mehmet
decided to commit large numbers of men to the stockade and to deploy his
regiments in ascending order of usefulness and skill. He ordered that the
first attack should be made by irregulars – the azaps and foreign auxiliaries
– unskilled troops recruited for booty or impressed for the campaign under
the laws of vassalage. A large number of these seem to have been
“Christians, kept in his camp by force,” according to Barbaro, “Greeks,
Latins, Germans, Hungarians – people from all the Christian realms”
according to Leonard – an ill-assorted mix of races and creeds armed in a
variety of ways; some with bows, slings, or muskets, but the majority
simply with scimitars and shields. It was in no sense a disciplined fighting
force, but Mehmet’s aim was to use expendable infidels to wear down the
enemy before committing more valuable troops to the killing zone. These
men were brought up from the north end of the wall, equipped with scaling
ladders, and readied to attack along the whole front of the Mesoteichion and
the stockade in particular. Thousands of them waited in the darkness for the
moment to go.
At one-thirty in the morning horns, drums, and cymbals signaled the
attack. The cannon opened up, and from all directions, from both land and
sea, Ottoman forces moved forward. The irregulars were under strict orders
to advance at a steady pace and in silence. Within range, they unleashed a
volley of fire “with arrows from the archers, slingshot from the slingers and
iron and lead balls from the cannon and arquebuses.” At a second
command, they ran forward across the filled ditch, yelling and hurling
themselves at the walls “with javelins and pikes and spears.” The defenders
were well prepared. As the irregulars attempted to scale the walls, the
Christians pushed their ladders away and hurled fire and hot oil down on
those scrambling at the foot of the stockade. The darkness and confusion
were lit only by pale handheld flares and the sound of “violent yelling and
blasphemies and curses.” Giustiniani marshaled his men, and the presence
of the emperor lent encouragement to the defense. Advantage lay with the
defenders, who “threw big stones down on them from the battlements” and
shot arrows and bullets into their close-packed ranks, “so that few escaped
alive.” Those coming up behind started to waver and turn back. However,
Mehmet had determined to press his irregular troops to the limit. In the rear
he stationed a line of chavushes – Mehmet’s military police – as enforcers,
armed with clubs and whips to turn them back; and behind them a line of
Janissaries with scimitars to cut down any who broke through this cordon
and ran for it. Horrible cries rose from the wretched men caught between
the hail of missiles in front and the systematic pressure from behind, “so
that they had a choice of dying on one side or the other.” They turned again
to assault the stockade, struggling with furious desperation to raise their
ladders against the steady bombardment from above – and were decimated.
Despite heavy losses these expendable men served their purpose. For two
hours they wore away at the energy of the enemy on the stockade until
Mehmet permitted the remnant to withdraw from the slaughter and limp
back behind the lines.
There was a moment of pause. It was three-thirty in the morning, still
dark, the plain lit by flares. On the stockade the men drew breath; there was
time to reorganize and make running repairs. Elsewhere up and down the
line, the irregulars’ attack had been pressed less vigorously; the strength of
the intact walls made progress difficult. It was more a diversionary tactic to
ensure that men were tied down along the whole sector and could not be
moved to refresh those under pressure in the Mesoteichion. The forces were
stretched so thinly that the troops kept in reserve on the central ridge near
the church of the Holy Apostles, a mile away, had been whittled down to a
force of 300. Staring out over the plain, the men at the wall vainly hoped
that the enemy might withdraw for the night, but it was not to be.
The moment had come to escalate the conflict. Mehmet rode over to the
Anatolian troops on his right flank stationed just beyond the St. Romanus
Gate. These men were heavy infantry, well equipped with chain armor,
experienced, disciplined – and fired by a strong Muslim zeal for the cause.
He addressed them in the colloquial, paternal tones a twenty-one-year-old
sultan could rightly adopt with his tribe: “Advance, my friends and
children! Now is the moment to prove yourselves worthy men!” They
advanced down the edge of the valley, wheeled to face the stockade, and
pressed forward in a tightly packed mass, calling out the name of Allah
“with shouts and yells.” They came on, said Nicolo Barbaro, “like lions
unchained against the walls.” The purposeful advance threw the defenders
into alarm. Throughout the city, church bells clanged, summoning every
man back to his post. Many of the population came running up to the walls
to help. Others redoubled their cycle of prayer in the churches. Three miles
away, outside St. Sophia, the clergy offered their own support; “When they
heard the bells, they took the divine icons, went out before the church,
stood, prayed, and blessed with crosses the entire city; in tears did they
recite: ‘Bring us to life again, Lord God, and help us lest we perish in the
end.’”
The Anatolians crossed the ditch at a run, moving forward in a tightly
packed mass of compressed steel. They were riddled by fire from
crossbows and cannon that “killed an incredible number of Turks.” Still
they came on, shielding themselves from the hail of rocks and missiles,
trying to force themselves up onto the stockade. “We hurled deadly missiles
down on them,” said Archbishop Leonard, “and fired crossbows into their
massed ranks.” By sheer force of numbers the Anatolians managed to prop
ladders against the stockade. These were hurled down again, and the
attackers were crushed by rocks and burned by hot pitch. For a short while
the Ottomans drew back, but quickly pressed forward again. Behind the
stockade the defenders were amazed and appalled by the spirit of their foe,
who seemed motivated by a force beyond the limits of the human. There
was evidently no need for extra motivation; this group were “all brave
men,” recorded Barbaro, “they continued to raise their shouts to the skies
and they unfurled their standards all the more eagerly. O you would have
marvelled at these beasts! Their army was being destroyed, but with
limitless bravery they kept trying to get to the fosse.” The Anatolians were
hindered by their numbers and their own dead as successive waves surged
forward. Men trampled and scrabbled over each other in a human pyramid
as they tried to reach the top of the stockade. Some managed to get there,
slashing and hacking wildly at their opponents. Hand-to-hand fighting
developed on the earth platform, man pressed against man. With limited
space to move, it was as much physical pressure as armed combat that
determined whether the Anatolians forced their enemy backward or were
hurled down onto the scrabbling, shouting, cursing pile of dead and dying
men, discarded weapons, helmets, turbans, and shields.
 The situation shifted from moment to moment. “Sometimes the heavy
infantry clambered over the walls and stockades, pressing their way
forcefully forward without wavering. At other times they were violently
repulsed and driven back.” Mehmet himself galloped forward, urging them
on with shouts and cries, sometimes throwing fresh waves of men into the
narrow gap as those in front wavered and died. He ordered the match to be
put to the big cannon. Volleys of stone shot sprayed the walls, peppering the
defenders and felling the Anatolians from behind. Everything was dark and
confused in the predawn of the summer morning, the extraordinary noise of
the battle so deafening “that the very air seemed to split apart” with the
visceral thump of the kettledrums, the braying of pipes, the crash of
cymbals, the clang of church bells, the thock of arrows whipping through
the night air, the amplified subterranean roar of the Ottoman cannon
vibrating the ground, the flat crack of handguns. Swords clattered harshly
against shields, more softly as blades severed windpipes, arrowheads
puckered into chests, lead bullets shattered ribs, rocks crushed skulls – and
behind these sounds the more terrible hubbub of human voices: prayers and
battle cries, shouts of encouragement, curses, howls, sobs, and the softer
moan of those approaching death. Smoke and dust drifted across the front
line. Islamic banners were held hopefully aloft in the dark. Bearded faces,
helmets, and armor were lit by smoking handheld flares; for brief seconds
the gun crews became a frozen tableau backlit by the vivid flash of the
cannon; smaller tongues of flame from the handguns sparked sharply in the
darkness; buckets of Greek fire arced downward over the walls like golden
rain.
An hour before dawn one of the big cannon landed a direct hit on the
stockade and smashed a hole. Clouds of dust and cannon smoke obscured
the front line, but the Anatolians, quickest to react, pressed forward into the
breach. Before the defense could react, 300 had swept inside. For the first
time the Ottomans had penetrated the enclosure. Chaos reigned inside. The
defenders desperately regrouped and faced the Anatolians in the narrow
space between the two walls. The gap was evidently not large enough to
permit a larger flood of men to surge in, and the attackers soon found
themselves surrounded and cornered. Systematically the Greeks and Italians
hacked them to pieces. None survived. Cheered by this local victory the
defenders drove the Anatolians back from the stockade. Discouraged, the
Ottoman troops faltered for the first time and were pulled back. It was half
past five. The defenders had been fighting, unrested, for four hours.

By this stage of the morning, little substantive progress had been made
elsewhere by Ottoman troops. Within the Horn, Zaganos Pasha had
succeeded in getting the pontoon bridge in position overnight and moving a
good number of troops onto the shore near the end of the land walls. At the
same time he brought the light galleys up close so that archers and
musketeers could rake the walls with fire. He advanced ladders and wooden
towers to these walls and tried to get his infantry to storm the ramparts. The
attempt failed. Halil’s seaborne landing on the Marmara had been equally
unsuccessful. The currents made steadying the ships difficult, and the
dominant position of the sea walls, which looked straight over the water,
provided no foreshore on which to establish a bridgehead. Although the
ramparts were very lightly manned and in part were entrusted solely to
monks, the intruders were easily repulsed or captured and beheaded. South
of the Mesoteichion, Ishak Pasha maintained some pressure on the
defenders, but his best Anatolian troops had been diverted to tackle the
stockade. A more serious attempt was made by Karaja Pasha’s men in the
area of the Blachernae Palace – one of the places Mehmet had targeted for
easy access into the city. It was “where the city’s defenses were tottering”
because of the state of the wall, but the defense was managed by the three
Genoese Bocchiardi brothers, who were skillful professional soldiers.
According to Archbishop Leonard, “they were frightened by nothing –
neither the walls collapsing under fire nor the explosions of the cannon …
day and night they showed the greatest vigilance with their crossbows and
terrible guns.” At times they made sallies from the Circus Gate postern to
disrupt enemy activity. Karaja’s men could make no progress. The lion of
St. Mark still fluttered over the dark palace.

The failure of the irregulars and the Anatolian divisions after four hours of
fierce fighting seems to have enraged Mehmet. More than that: it made him
anxious. He had only one body of fresh troops left – his own palace
regiments, the 5,000 crack professional troops of his own bodyguard: “men
who were very well-armed, bold and courageous, who were far more
experienced and brave than the others. These were the army’s crack troops:
heavy infantry, archers and lancers, and with them the brigade called the
Janissaries.” He decided to commit them to the battle at once before the
defenders had time to regroup. Everything depended on this maneuver; if
they failed to break the line within another few hours, the momentum would
be lost, the exhausted troops would have to be withdrawn, and the siege
effectively lifted.
Within the enclosure there was no time to pause. Casualties had been
heavier during the second wave of attacks, and the tiredness of the men
increased accordingly. However, the spirit of resistance remained firm;
according to Kritovoulos they were deterred by nothing: “neither hunger
pressing on them, nor the lack of sleep, nor unremitting and continuous
fighting, nor wounds and slaughter, nor the death of their relatives in front
of their eyes, nor any other frightful spectacle could make them give in or
weaken their eagerness and sense of purpose.” In fact they had no option
but to stand and fight; they could not be replaced – there were no other
troops – but the Italians were fighting under the command of Giustiniani,
and the Greeks in the presence of their emperor, figures as motivating as the
sultan was to the Ottoman army.
Mehmet knew he must strike again before the attack faltered. Now, if
ever, his paid soldiers needed to earn their keep. Riding forward on his
horse, he urged his troops to prove themselves as heroes. Clear orders were
issued, and Mehmet himself personally led the men at a steady pace to the
edge of the ditch. It was still an hour to sunrise, but the stars were fading
and “the blackness of night was drawing towards dawn.” They stopped at
the ditch. There he ordered “the bowmen, slingers and rifle men to stand at
a distance and shoot to the right at those defending the stockade and
battered outer wall.” A firestorm swept toward the walls: “there were so
many culverins and arrows being fired, that it was impossible to see the
sky.” The defenders were forced to duck beneath the stockade under “the
rain of arrows and other projectiles falling like snowflakes.” At another
signal the infantry advanced “with a loud and terrifying war cry” “not like
Turks but like lions.” They pressed toward the stockade propelled on a huge
wall of sound, the ultimate psychological battle weapon of Ottoman armies,
so loud that it could be heard on the Asian shore, five miles from their
camp. The sound of drums and pipes, the shouts and exhortations of their
officers, the thunderous roll of the cannon, and the piercing cries of the men
themselves calculated both to liberate their own adrenaline and to shatter
the nerve of the enemy – all had their desired effect. “With their great
shouting they took away our courage and spread fear throughout the city,”
recorded Barbaro. The attack was simultaneous along the whole four-mile
front of the land wall, like the crash of a breaking wave. Again the church
bells rang in warning and the non-combatants hastened to their prayers.
The heavy infantry and Janissaries were “eager and fresh for battle.”
They were fighting in the presence of their sultan both for honor and for the
prize of being first onto the ramparts. They advanced on the stockade
without any wavering or hesitancy, “like men intent on entering the city”
who knew their business. They ripped down the barrels and wooden turrets
with hooked sticks, tore at the framework of the stockade, propped ladders
against the rampart, and raising their shields over their heads, attempted to
force their way up beneath a withering bombardment of rocks and missiles.
Their officers stood behind, yelling instructions, and the sultan himself
wheeled back and forth on his horse shouting and encouraging.
From the opposite side the weary Greeks and Italians joined battle.
Giustiniani and his men, and Constantine, accompanied by “all his nobles
and his principal knights and his bravest men,” pressed forward to the
barricades with “javelins, pikes, long spears and other fighting weapons.”
The first wave of palace troops “fell, struck by stones, so that many died,”
but others stepped up to replace them. There was no wavering. It was soon
a hand-to-hand, face-to-face struggle for control of the rampart with each
side fighting with total belief – for honor, God, and great rewards on one
side, for God and survival on the other. In the pressed close-up combat it
was the terrible sound of shouting voices that filled the air – “taunts, those
stabbing with their spears, others being stabbed at, killers and being killed,
those doing all kinds of terrible things in anger and fury.” Behind, the
cannon fired their huge shot and smoke drifted across the battlefield,
alternately concealing and revealing the combatants to one another. “It
seemed,” said Barbaro, “like something from another world.”
For an hour the fighting continued, with the palace regiments making
little headway. The defenders never stepped back. “We repelled them
vigorously,” reported Leonard, “but many of our men were now wounded
and pulled back from fighting. However, Giustiniani our commander still
stood firm and the other captains remained in their fighting positions.”
There came a moment, imperceptibly at first, when those inside the
stockade felt the pressure from the Ottomans ease a fraction. It was the
pivotal moment, the instant when a battle turns. Constantine noticed it and
urged the defenders on. According to Leonard he called out to his men:
“brave soldiers, the enemy’s army is weakening, the crown of victory is
ours. God is on our side – keep fighting!” The Ottomans faltered. The
weary defenders found new strength.
And then two strange moments of fortune swung the battle away from
them. Half a mile up the line toward the Blachernae Palace, the Bocchiardi
brothers had been successful in repulsing the troops of Karaja Pasha,
occasionally making sorties from the Circus Gate, the postern hidden in an
angle of the walls. This gate was now to live up to ancient prophecy.
Returning from a raid, one of the Italian soldiers failed to close the postern
behind him. In the growing light, some of Karaja’s men spotted the open
door and burst in. Fifty managed to get access via a flight of stairs up to the
wall and to surprise the soldiers on top. Some were cut down, others
preferred to jump to their deaths. Exactly what happened next is unclear; it
appears that the intruders were successfully isolated and surrounded before
too much further damage could be done, but they managed to tear down the
flag of St. Mark and the emperor’s standard from some towers and replace
them with Ottoman standards.
Down the line at the stockade Constantine and Giustiniani were
unaware of these developments. They were confidently holding the line,
when bad luck dealt a more serious blow. Giustiniani was wounded. To
some it was the God of the Christians or the Muslims answering or refusing
prayers who created this moment. To bookish Greeks it was a moment
straight from Homer: a sudden reversal in battle, caused, according to
Kritovoulos, by “wicked and merciless fortune,” the instant when a serene
and merciless goddess, surveying the battle with Olympian detachment,
decides to tilt the outcome – and swipes the hero to the dust and turns his
heart to jelly.
There is no clear agreement on what happened, but everyone knew its
significance: it caused immediate consternation among his Genoese troops.
In the light of subsequent events, the accounts become fragmentary and
quarrelsome: Giustiniani, “dressed in the armour of Achilles,” falls to the
ground in a dozen ways. He is hit on the right leg by an arrow; he is struck
in the chest by a crossbow bolt; he is stabbed from below in the belly while
struggling on the ramparts; a lead shot passes through the back of his arm
and penetrates his breastplate; he is struck in the shoulder by a culverin; he
is hit from behind by one of his own side by accident – or on purpose. The
most probable versions suggest that his upper body armor was punctured by
lead shot, a small hole concealing grave internal damage.
Giustiniani had been fighting continuously since the start of the siege
and was undoubtedly exhausted beyond endurance. He had been wounded
the day before, and this second wound seems to have broken his spirit.
Unable to stand and more seriously injured than any bystander could see, he
ordered his men to carry him back to his ship to seek medical attention.
They went to the emperor to ask for the key to one of the gates. Constantine
was appalled by the danger presented by the withdrawal of his principal
commander and begged Giustiniani and his officers to stay until the danger
was over, but they would not. Giustiniani entrusted command of the troops
to two officers and promised to return after attending to his wound.
Reluctantly Constantine handed over the key. The gate was opened and his
bodyguard carried him away down to his galley at the Horn. It was a
catastrophic decision. The temptation of the open gate was too much for the
other Genoese; seeing their commander departing, they streamed through
the gate after him.
Desperately Constantine and his entourage attempted to stem the tide.
They forbade any of the Greeks to follow the Italians out of the enclosure,
and ordered them to close ranks and step up to fill the empty spaces in the
front line. Mehmet seems to have perceived that the defense was
slackening, and rallied his troops for another assault. “Friends, we have the
city!” he called out. “With just a little more effort the city is taken!”
A group of Janissaries under the command of one of Mehmet’s favorite
officers, Cafer Bey, ran forward shouting “Allahu Akbar – God is great.”
With the cry of the sultan ringing in their ears – “Go on my falcons, march
on my lions!” – and remembering the promised reward for raising the flag
on the walls, they surged toward the stockade. At the front, carrying the
Ottoman flag, was a giant of a man, Hasan of Ulubat, accompanied by
thirty companions. Covering his head with his shield, he managed to storm
the rampart, throwing back the wavering defenders, and establishing
himself on top. For a short while he was able to maintain his position, flag
in hand, inspiring the onrush of the Janissary corps. It was a defining and
thrilling image of Ottoman courage – the Janissary giant finally planting the
flag of Islam on the walls of the Christian city – and destined to pass into
the nation-making mythology. Before long, however, the defenders
regrouped and retaliated with a barrage of rocks, arrows, and spears. They
threw back some of the thirty and then cornered Hasan, finally battering
him to his knees and hacking him to pieces – but all around more and more
Janissaries were able to establish themselves on the ramparts and to
penetrate gaps in the stockade. Like a flood breaching coastal defenses,
thousands of men started to pour into the enclosure, remorselessly pushing
back the defenders by weight of numbers. In a short time they were
hemmed in toward the inner wall, in front of which a ditch had been
excavated to provide earth for the stockade. Some were pushed into it and
were trapped. Unable to clamber out, they were massacred.
Ottoman troops were pouring into the enclosure along a broadening
front; many were killed by the defenders bombarding them from the
stockade, but the flood was now unstoppable; according to Barbaro there
were 30,000 inside within fifteen minutes, uttering “such cries that it
seemed to be hell itself.” At the same time the flags planted by the few
enemy intruders on towers near the Circus Gate were spotted and the cry
went up “the city is taken!” Blind panic seized the defenders. They turned
and ran, seeking a way to escape the locked enclosure back into the city. At
the same time, Mehmet’s men were starting to climb the inner wall as well
and were firing down on them from above.
There was only one possible exit route – the small postern through
which Giustiniani had been carried away. All the other gates were locked. A
struggling mass of men converged on the gateway, trampling one another in
their attempts to get out, “so that they made a great mound of living men by
the gate which prevented anyone from having passage.” Some fell
underfoot and were crushed to death; others were slaughtered by the
Ottoman heavy infantry now sweeping down the stockade in orderly
formation. The mound of bodies grew and choked off any further chance of
escape. All the surviving defenders in the stockade perished in the
slaughter. By each of the other gateways – the Charisian, the Fifth Military
Gate – lay a similar pile of corpses, the men who had fled there unable to
get out of the locked enclosure. And somewhere in this choking, panicking,
struggling melee, Constantine was glimpsed for the last time, surrounded by
his most faithful retinue – Theophilus Palaiologos, John Dalmata, Don
Francisco of Toledo – his last moments reported by unreliable witnesses
who were almost certainly not present, struggling, resisting defiantly,
falling, crushed underfoot, until he vanished from history into the afterlife
of legend.
A posse of Janissaries clambered over the dead bodies and forced open
the Fifth Military Gate. Making their way up the inside of the city walls,
some turned left toward the Charisian gate and opened it from the inside;
others going right opened the gate of St. Romanus. From tower after tower
Ottoman flags fluttered in the wind. “Then all the rest of the army burst
violently into the city … and the Sultan stood before the mighty walls,
where the great standard was and the horsetail banners, and watched the
events.” It was dawn. The sun was rising. Ottoman soldiers moved among
the fallen, beheading the dead and dying. Large birds of prey circled
overhead. The defense had collapsed in less than five hours.
 15 A Handful of Dust 6 A.M., MAY 29, 1453
Tell me please how and when the end of this world will be? And how will men know that the end is
close, at the doors? By what signs will the end be indicated? And whither will pass this city, the New
Jerusalem? What will happen to the holy temples standing here, to the venerated icons, the relics of
the Saints, and the books? Please inform me.
Epiphanios, tenth-century Orthodox monk, to St. Andrew the Fool for Christ

As the Ottoman troops poured into the city and their flags were seen flying
from the towers, panic spread through the civilian population. The cry “the
city is lost!” rang through the streets. People started to run. The Bocchiardi
brothers at the walls near the Circus Gate saw soldiers fleeing past their
position. They mounted their horses and drove at the enemy, temporarily
forcing them back. However, they too soon realized the hopelessness of the
situation. Ottoman troops on the ramparts hurled missiles down on them,
and Paolo was wounded on the head. They realized that they were in
imminent danger of being surrounded. Paolo was captured and killed, but
his brothers fought their way out and back down to the Horn with their men.
At the harbor, the wounded Giustiniani learned that the defense had
crumbled, and “ordered his trumpeters to sound the signal to recall his
men.” For others it was too late. The Venetian bailey, Minotto, and many of
the leading Venetians and the sailors who had come from the galleys to
fight were surrounded and captured at the Palace of Blachernae, while
farther up the land wall toward the sea of Marmara, where the defense had
remained firm, the soldiers now found themselves attacked from the rear.
Many were killed; others, including the commanders Philippo Contarini and
Demetrios Cantacuzenos surrendered and were captured.

“Verily they will conquer Constantinople. Truly their commander will be an excellent one. Truly that
army will be an excellent one!”: a saying attributed to the Prophet

Within the city, confusion spread with extraordinary speed. The collapse
at the front line was so dramatic and unexpected that many were taken by
surprise. While some of those who had escaped from the land walls were
fleeing toward the Horn in the hope of getting on board the ships, others
were running toward the front line. Alerted by the sound of battle, some of
the civilians were making their way up to the walls to offer help to the
troops when they met the first marauding bands of Ottoman soldiers
pressing into the city, who “attacked them with great anger and fury” and
cut them down. It was a mixture of fear and hatred that sparked the initial
slaughter in the city. Suddenly finding themselves in the maze of narrow
streets, the Ottoman soldiers were confused and apprehensive. They
expected to meet a large and determined army; it was impossible to believe
that the 2,000 routed in the stockade comprised the total military resources
of the city. At the same time weeks of suffering and the taunts hurled over
the battlements by the Greeks had marked the conflict with a bitterness that
made them savage. Now the city would pay for failing to accept negotiated
surrender. They killed initially “to create universal terror”; for a short while
“everyone they found they dispatched at the point of a scimitar, women and
men, old and young, of any condition.” This ruthlessness was probably
intensified by pockets of spirited resistance from the populace who “threw
bricks and paving stones at them from above … and threw fire upon them.”
The streets became slippery with blood.
The flags of the sultan fluttering from the high towers on the land walls
spread the word quickly down the Ottoman line. Along the Golden Horn the
Ottoman fleet redoubled its attacks, and as defenders slipped away, the
sailors forced open the sea gates one after another. Soon the Plateia Gate,
close to the Venetian quarter, was opened, and detachments of men started
to penetrate the heart of the city. Farther around the coast, the word reached
Hamza Bey and the Marmara fleet. Eager to join in the opportunity for
plunder, the sailors brought their ships back into shore and threw ladders up
against the walls.
For a short while, indiscriminate slaughter continued to rage: “the whole
city was filled with men killing or being killed, fleeing or pursuing,”
according to Chalcocondylas. In the panic everyone now consulted his own
best interests. While the Italians made for the Horn and the safety of the
ships, the Greeks fled home to protect their wives and children. Some were
captured on the way; others got home to find “their wives and children
abducted and their possessions plundered.” Yet others, on reaching home,
“were themselves bound and fettered with their closest friends and wives.”
Many who reached home before the intruders, realizing the likely outcome
of surrender, decided to die in defense of their families. People hid
themselves away in cellars and cisterns or wandered about the city in dazed
confusion waiting to be captured or killed. A pathetic scene took place at
the church of Theodosia down near the Golden Horn. It was the saint’s feast
day, kept with adoration and zeal down hundreds of years of worship to a
faithfully preserved ritual. The facade was adorned with early summer
roses. Within, the customary all-night vigil had taken place at the saint’s
sepulcher, the lighted candles glimmering in the short summer night. In the
early morning, a procession of men and women were wending their way
toward the church, blindly trusting in the miraculous power of prayer. They
were carrying the customary gifts, “beautifully embellished and adorned
candles and incense,” when they were intercepted by soldiers and carried
off; the whole congregation was taken prisoner; the church, which was rich
with the offerings of worshipers, was stripped. Theodosia’s bones were
thrown to the dogs. Elsewhere women awoke in their beds to the sight of
intruders bursting through the door.
As the morning wore on and the Ottomans realized the truth – that there
no longer was any organized resistance – the principles of slaughter became
more discriminating. The Ottoman soldiers acted, according to Sad-ud-din,
in accordance with the precept, “slaughter their aged and capture their
youth.” The emphasis shifted to taking live prisoners as booty. The hunt
began for valuable slaves – young women, beautiful children – with the
irregular troops of many “nations, customs and languages,” including
Christians, being in the forefront, “plundering, destroying, robbing,
murdering, insulting, seizing and enslaving men, women, children, old and
young, priests and monks – people of every age and rank.” The accounts of
the atrocities were largely written by Christians, more coyly by Ottoman
chroniclers, but there is no doubt that the morning unfolded in scenes of
terror. They have left a series of vivid snapshots, sights “terrible and pitiful
and beyond all tragedies,” according to Kritovoulos, the generally pro-
Ottoman Greek writer. Women were “dragged violently from their bed
chambers.” Children were snatched from their parents; old men and women
who were unable to flee their houses were “slaughtered mercilessly,” along
with “the weak-minded, the old, the lepers and the infirm.” “The newborn
babies were hurled into the squares.” Women and boys were raped, then ill-
assorted groups of captives were tied together by their captors; “dragging
them out savagely, driving them, tearing at them, manhandling them,
herding them off disgracefully and shamefully into the crossroads, insulting
them and doing terrible things.” Those who survived, particularly the
“young and modest women, nobly born and wealthy, who were used to
staying in their homes,” were traumatized beyond life itself. Rather than
undergo this fate, some of the girls and married women preferred to throw
themselves into wells. Among the pillagers fights broke out over the most
beautiful girls, which were sometimes fought to the death.
Churches and monasteries were particularly sought out. Those near the
land walls – the military church of St. George by the Charisian Gate, the
Church of St. John the Baptist at Petra and the Chora Monastery – were
quickly plundered. The miracle-working icon of the Hodegetria was hacked
into four pieces and divided among the soldiers for its valuable frame.
Crosses were smashed from the roofs of the churches; the tombs of saints
were cracked open and searched for treasures; their contents were torn to
pieces and thrown into the streets. The church treasures – chalices, goblets,
and “holy artifacts and precious and sumptuous robes embroidered with
much gold and glittering with precious stones and pearls” – were carted
away and melted down. The altars were torn down and the “walls of
churches and sanctuaries were ransacked … looking for gold.” “The
consecrated images of God’s saints” witnessed scenes of rape, according to
Leonard. Entering the convents, nuns were “led to the fleet and ravished”;
the monks were killed in their cells or “hauled out of the churches where
they had sought sanctuary, and driven away with insults and dishonour.”
The tombs of the emperors were smashed open with iron bars in search of
hidden gold. These “and ten thousand other terrible things were done,”
Kritovoulos mournfully recorded. In a few hours a thousand years of
Christian Constantinople largely disappeared.
In front of this tidal wave, those who could, panicked and ran. Many
headed for St. Sophia guided by instinct and superstition. They remembered
the old prophecy that the enemy would penetrate the city as far as the
Column of Constantine, near the great church, when an avenging angel
would descend, sword in hand, and inspire the defenders to drive them out
of the city “and from the West and from Anatolia itself to the place called
the Red Apple tree on the borders of Persia.” Inside the church, a large
congregation of clergy and laity, men, women, and children gathered for the
service of matins and to put their faith in God. The massive bronze doors of
the church were swung shut and barred. It was eight in the morning.

The doors of St. Sophia

Elsewhere, some of the outlying areas of the city were able to negotiate
wholesale surrender. By the middle of the fifteenth century the population
of Constantinople was so shrunk within its outer walls that some parts of
the city were separate villages, protected by their own walls and palisades.
Some of these – Studion on the Marmara and the fishing village of Petrion
near the Horn – voluntarily opened their gates on condition that their houses
would be spared the general ransack. The headman in each case was
conducted to the sultan to make formal surrender of his village, and
Mehmet probably detailed a detachment of military police to protect the
houses. Such acts of surrender could be held to secure immunity under
Islamic laws of war, and a number of churches and monasteries survived
intact as a result. Elsewhere, heroic or desperate pockets of resistance
continued. Down on the Horn, a group of Cretan sailors barricaded
themselves into three towers and refused to surrender. All morning they
resisted Ottoman attempts to dislodge them. Many on the sea walls farthest
from the land wall also battled on, often ignorant of the true situation until
they suddenly found the enemy in their rear. Some threw themselves from
the battlements, others surrendered to the enemy unconditionally. Prince
Orhan, the pretender to the Ottoman throne, and his small band of Turks
had no such options. They fought on, as did the Catalans stationed farther
along the sea wall near the Bucoleon Palace.
In the midst of this unfolding destruction, the Ottoman sailors made a
fateful decision. When they saw the army within the walls, and fearing that
they would miss the chance to plunder, they drove their ships up onto the
shore and abandoned them “to search for gold, jewels and other riches.” So
keen were the sailors to get ashore down on the Horn that they ignored the
Italians fleeing over the walls the other way. It was to be a rare stroke of
luck.
The search for booty became obsessive. The Jewish quarter down by the
Horn was an early target for plundering, due to its traditional trade in gems,
and Italian merchants similarly were eagerly sought out. As the day wore on
booty collection became more organized. The first troop to enter a house
raised a flag outside to indicate that it had already been stripped; other
parties automatically moved on to look elsewhere: “and so they put their
flags everywhere, even on monasteries and churches.” The men worked in
teams, carting off the prisoners and plunder back to the camp or the ships,
then returning for more. No corner was left untouched: “churches, old
vaults and tombs, cloisters, underground chambers and hidden places and
crannies and caves and holes. And they searched in all the hidden corners,
and if there was anyone or anything hidden there, they dragged it into the
light.” Some even engaged in secondary activity, stealing the unguarded
booty deposited back in the camp.
Meanwhile the struggle for survival went on. During the course of the
morning hundreds of individual fates were decided by luck. Cardinal
Isidore, the archbishop of Kiev, with the help of his servants, managed to
swap his sumptuous episcopal robes for those of a soldier lying dead in the
street. Ottoman troops soon came across the corpse dressed in the bishop’s
robes, cut off the head, and carried it in triumph through the streets. The
elderly Isidore was himself quickly captured but, unrecognized, seemed too
wretched to be worth the bother of dragging off into slavery. For a small
sum of money he bought his freedom from his captors on the spot and
managed to get aboard one of the Italian ships in the harbor. Prince Orhan
was less fortunate. Dressed as a soldier and with a fluent command of
Greek, he sought to make good his escape from the sea walls but was
recognized and pursued. Seeing that his situation was hopeless he hurled
himself off the battlements. The severed head was taken to Mehmet, who
had been anxious to know his fate. Other leading notables were captured
alive – Lucas Notaras and his family were taken, probably in their palace,
George Sphrantzes and his family likewise. The monk Gennadios, who had
led the antiunionist cause, was captured in his cell. The Catalans fought on
until they were all killed or captured, but the Cretans in their towers beside
the Golden Horn proved impossible to dislodge. Eventually someone
reported their resistance to Mehmet. In a characteristically quixotic gesture,
he offered them a truce and the chance to sail away in their ships. After
some hesitation they accepted the offer and departed, free men.
For many, the Horn seemed to offer the best chance of escape. During
the early morning, hundreds of soldiers and civilians streamed down the
narrow lanes, hoping to clamber aboard the Italian ships in the harbor. The
scene at the sea gates was one of confusion and panic. In headlong flight
many hurled themselves into crowded rowing boats that capsized and sank,
drowning their occupants. The sense of tragedy was magnified by a
decision taken by some of the gatekeepers. Seeing their Greek compatriots
fleeing to the shore and remembering the prophecy that the enemy could be
turned back at the statue of Constantine, they decided that the defenders
could be persuaded to turn and drive the enemy out if their exit was barred.
Accordingly they threw the keys away from the top of the wall and
prevented further escape. As any means of reaching the Italian galleys
offshore disappeared, the scene on the foreshore became increasingly pitiful
– “men, women, monks and nuns crying pitifully, beating their breasts,
imploring the ships to come in and rescue them” – but the situation aboard
the galleys was also panic-stricken and the captains were torn on how best
to proceed. By the time the Florentine merchant Giacomo Tetaldi reached
the shore, two hours after the collapse of the front line, there was nothing
for it but to swim or await “the fury of the Turks.” Preferring to risk death
by drowning, he stripped off his clothes and struck out for the ships and was
hauled aboard. He was just in time. Looking back, he saw about forty more
soldiers, seized by the Ottomans in the very act of removing their armor to
follow him. “May God help them,” he wrote. Some of the distraught figures
lining the shore were rescued from across the water by the Podesta of
Galata and persuaded to accept the comparative safety of the Genoese
colony: “not without great danger, I brought back into the town those at the
palisade; you never saw such a terrible thing.”
On board the Italian ships there was paralyzing indecision. They had
heard the defiant clanging of the church bells die away in the early
morning, the sound of screaming floating across the water as the Ottoman
sailors brought their ships ashore and stormed the walls of the Horn. The
Venetians had seen too the pitiful spectacle of the population imploring the
captains to bring their craft into shore or drowning in their attempts to reach
them, but it was too dangerous to risk approaching the shore; apart from the
obvious danger of being captured by the enemy, a sudden stampede by
desperate people at the water’s edge could easily risk the safety of a vessel.
In addition a large part of the Italian galley crews had been sent to man the
walls, and ships were alarmingly short-crewed. Yet the behavior of the
Ottoman fleet, which had abandoned its vessels to take part in the plunder,
was a massive stroke of good luck and presented, doubtless only for a short
time, the possibility of escape. It was imperative that the galley fleet acted
decisively before Ottoman naval discipline was restored.
The mood of uncertainty was mirrored in Galata. When it was obvious
that the city had been taken the people panicked. “I always knew that if
Constantinople was lost, this place was also lost,” recorded Angelo
Lomellino, the podesta, afterward. The question was how to react.
Mehmet’s attitude to the Genoese, whom he considered to be guilty of
collaboration in the defense of the city, was uncertain. The majority of its
able-bodied men were indeed fighting across the water, including the
podesta’s own nephew. There were only 600 men left in the town. Many
were tempted to quit Galata at once. A large number of people boarded a
Genoese ship to make their escape, abandoning their homes and
possessions; another boat, largely carrying women, was captured by
Ottoman ships, but Lomellino decided to set an example and sit tight. He
reckoned that if he himself abandoned the city, sack would be inevitable.
In the midst of these deliberations the captain of the Venetian fleet,
Aluvixe Diedo, accompanied by his armorer and the surgeon Nicolo
Barbaro, put ashore to consult with the podesta on what to do: should the
Genoese and Venetian ships jointly confront the Ottomans, openly declaring
a state of war between the Italian Republics and the sultan, or should they
make good their escape? Lomellino begged them to wait while he sent an
ambassador to Mehmet, but for the Venetian captains time was pressing.
They had delayed as long as possible to collect those survivors who could
swim away from the stricken city, and they dared wait no longer, given the
difficulty of preparing their ships for sea. Diedo and his companions in
Galata could see the galleys getting ready to depart in the bay below them
and were hurrying back through the streets to rejoin their ships, when they
discovered, to their horror, that Lomellino had barred the gates to prevent a
mass exodus. “We were in a terrible situation,” Barbaro recalled, “we were
shut in their town, the galleys suddenly began to raise their sails, spreading
them and drawing in their oars, ready to leave without their captain.” They
could see their ships preparing to sail away, and it was certain that Mehmet
would not deal kindly with the captain of the enemy fleet. Desperately they
implored the podesta to let them go. Finally he permitted the gates to be
opened. Just in time they made it to the foreshore and were taken back on
board. The galleys slowly kedged their way up to the chain, which still
barred the mouth of the bay. Two men leaped down into the water with axes
and hacked away at one of the wooden floating sections of the boom until it
gave way. One by one the ships hauled themselves out into the Bosphorus
while Ottoman commanders watched from the shore in impotent fury. The
flotilla of ships rounded the point of Galata and formed up in the now
empty Ottoman harbor at the Double Columns. There they waited in the
hope of taking their shipmates and other survivors on board, but by midday
it was clear that all had been killed or captured and they could wait no
longer. For a second time fate smiled on Christian ships. The south wind,
which had propelled the Genoese ships up the straits so helpfully in late
April, was now blowing a powerful twelve knots from the north. Without
this stroke of luck, Barbaro acknowledged, “all of us would have been
captured.”
 And so, “at midday with the help of the Lord God, Master Aluvixe
Diedo, the captain of the Tana fleet, set sail on his galley,” and with him a
small flotilla of ships and galleys from Venice and Crete. One of the great
galleys from Trebizond, which had lost 164 of its crew, had great difficulty
hoisting its sails, but there was no one to oppose them, and they surged
down the Marmara, past the corpses of Christians and Muslims floating out
to sea, “like melons along a canal,” and away toward the Dardanelles with a
mixture of relief at their good fortune and regret for the memory of their
lost shipmates, “some of whom had been drowned, some dead in the
bombardment or killed in the battle in other ways,” including Trevisano
himself. They carried 400 survivors rescued in the final chaotic hours, as
well as a surprising number of Byzantine nobles who had already boarded
before the city fell. Seven ships from Genoa also got away, among them the
galley carrying the wounded Giustiniani. Even as they did so Hamza Bey
managed to regroup the Ottoman fleet, which swept around into the mouth
of the Horn and captured fifteen ships, belonging to the emperor, Ancona,
and the Genoese, which were still lying there, some too overcrowded with
refugees to sail. Other pitiful groups of figures stood on the foreshore,
wailing and beseeching the departing galleys. Ottoman marines simply
rounded them up and herded them onto their own vessels.

It was three miles from the land walls to the heart of the city. By dawn
determined bands of Janissaries were already forcing their way down the
central thoroughfare from the St. Romanus Gate, intent on St. Sophia.
Alongside the legend of the Red Apple there was a belief, widely circulated
in the Ottoman camp, that the crypt of St. Sophia, so visible on the distant
skyline during the weeks of fruitless siege, contained an enormous treasure
of gold, silver, and precious stones. The Janissaries clattered through the
destitute squares and deserted highways – past the Forum of the Ox and the
Forum of Theodosius and down the Mese, the Middle Way that led into the
heart of the city. Others came through the Charisian Gate farther north past
the Church of the Holy Apostles, which remained unsacked: it seems that
Mehmet had placed a guard on the church to limit the wholesale devastation
of the city’s monuments. There was little resistance. When they reached the
Forum of Constantine where the founder of the city gazed down from his
imperial column, no angel turned them back with a fiery sword. At the same
time sailors from the Horn and Marmara fleets were storming through the
bazaars and churches at the tip of the peninsula. By seven in the morning
both groups had reached the center of the city and poured into the forum of
the Augusteum. Here stood the greatest remaining trophies of Byzantium’s
imperial splendor – Justinian still riding toward the rising sun, the Milion,
the milepost from which all distances in the empire were measured; beyond
it on one side lay the Hippodrome and some of Constantine the Great’s
original plunder – ornaments that linked the city to an even more ancient
past: the strange triple-headed brass serpent column from the temple of
Apollo at Delphi, a commemorative token for a Greek victory against the
Persians at the battle of Plataea in 479 BC, and even older, the Egyptian
column of the pharaoh Tutmose III. The perfectly preserved hieroglyphs on
its polished granite surface were already three thousand years old when
Ottoman troops looked up at them for the first time. On the other side stood
St. Sophia itself, the Great Church, rising “to the very heavens.”
Inside, the service of matins had begun and the nine massive brass
fronted wooden doors, surmounted by their protective crosses, were barred
shut. The huge congregation prayed for a miracle to save them from the
enemy at the gate. The women had taken their usual places in the gallery,
the men downstairs. The priests were at the altar conducting the service.
Some people hid themselves in the farthest recesses of the great structure,
climbing up into the service passages and onto the roof. When the
Janissaries surged into the inner courtyard and found the doors barred, they
started to batter down the central one, the imperial gate, reserved for the
entrance of the emperor and his entourage. Under repeated axe blows, the
four-inch-thick door shuddered and crashed open and the Ottoman troops
poured into the great building. Above them the mosaic figure of Christ in
blue and gold watched impassively, his right hand raised in blessing, and in
his left a book inscribed with the words “Peace be with you, I am the light
of the world.”
If there is any precise moment when Byzantium could be said to have
died, it is now with the final blow of an axe. St. Sophia had witnessed many
of the great dramas of the imperial city. A church had stood on the site for
1,100 years; the great church of Justinian for 900. The mighty building
reflected and had lived the turbulent spiritual and secular life of the city.
Every emperor, with the ominous exception of the last, had been crowned
here, many of the defining dramas of the empire had been played out under
the great dome “suspended by heaven by a golden chain.” Blood had been
spilled on its marble floors before; riots had taken place; patriarchs and
emperors had taken sanctuary from mobs and plotters, or been dragged
from it by force. Three times the dome had collapsed in earthquakes. Its
imposing doorways had seen the papal legates march in with their Bull of
Excommunication. Vikings had carved graffiti on its walls; barbarian
Frankish crusaders had pillaged it mercilessly. It was here that the whole
population of Russia had been converted to Christianity as a result of the
unearthly beauty of the Orthodox liturgy, here too that the great religious
controversies had been played out and ordinary people had worn the floors
smooth with their feet and their prayers. The history of the church of the
Holy Wisdom was the reflection of Byzantium – sacred and profane,
mystical and sensuous, beautiful and cruel, irrational, divine, and human,
and after 1,123 years and 27 days it was nearly over.
A wail of fear arose from the cowering population as the soldiers burst
in. Cries were raised to God but it made no difference; they were “trapped
as in a net.” There was little bloodshed. A few who resisted and perhaps
some of the old and infirm were slaughtered, but the majority surrendered
“like sheep.” The Ottoman troops had come for plunder and profit. They
ignored the screaming of men, women, and children as each soldier
struggled to secure his own prize. Young women were almost torn apart in
the race to secure the most valuable slaves. Nuns and noble women, young
and old, masters and servants, were bound together and dragged out of the
church. The women were secured with their own veils, while the men were
tied up with rope. Working in teams each man would lead his captives to “a
certain spot, and placing them in safekeeping, returned to take a second and
even a third prize.” Within an hour the whole congregation had been bound
up. “The infinite chains of captives,” recorded Doukas, “who like herds of
cattle and flocks of sheep poured out of the temple and the temple sanctuary
made an extraordinary spectacle!” A terrible noise of lamentation filled the
morning air.
The soldiers then turned their attention to the fabric of the church. They
hacked the icons to pieces, stripping away the valuable metal frames and
seized “in an instant the precious and holy relics which were kept safe in
the sanctuary, the vessels of gold and silver and other valuable materials.”
Then rapidly all the other fixtures and fittings followed, things that the
Muslims considered both idolatrous affronts to God and rightful booty for
soldiers – the chains, candelabra, and lamps, the iconostasis, the altar and
its coverings, the church furniture, the emperor’s chair – in a short time
everything was either seized and carried off or destroyed in situ, leaving the
great church “ransacked and desolate,” according to Doukas. The great
church reverted to a shell. This defining moment of loss for the Greeks gave
rise to a legend so typical of their enduring belief in the power of miracles
and their yearning for the holy city. At the moment that the soldiers
approached the altar, the priests took the holy vessels and approached the
sanctuary and – the story goes – the wall opened to admit them, and closed
again behind them; and there they will remain safe until an Orthodox
emperor restores St. Sophia to a church. The basis for this story may lie in
the possibility that some of the priests were able to get away through one of
the old passages that connected the church to the patriarch’s residence
behind, and so escape. And there was one other small, grim consolation.
The Ottomans smashed open the tomb of the hated Venetian doge, Enrico
Dandolo, who had wrought a similar devastation on the city 250 years
earlier. They found no treasure, but they hurled his bones into the street for
the dogs to gnaw.

All morning Mehmet remained in his camp outside the walls, awaiting
reports of the city’s capitulation and its sack. He received a steady stream of
news and frightened deputations of citizens. Ambassadors came from the
podesta of Galata with gifts, seeking assurance that the pact of neutrality
should remain in place, but he made no categoric reply. Soldiers brought the
head of Orhan, but it was the face of Constantine that Mehmet was most
anxious to look on. The fate of the emperor and the verification of his death
remain confused and apocryphal. For a long time there was no definitive
report of his end, and it seems that Mehmet may have ordered a search of
the battlefield for his body. Later in the day some Janissaries, possibly
Serbs, brought a head to the sultan; according to Doukas, the grand duke
Lucas Notaras was present at this scene and confirmed the identity of his
master. The head – or a head – was then fixed on the column of Justinian
opposite St. Sophia as a proof to the Greeks that their emperor was dead.
Later the skin was peeled off, the head stuffed with straw and was
progressed with elaborate ceremony around the principal courts of the
Muslim world as an emblem of power and conquest.
How – or even, according to some, if – he died is uncertain. No reliable
eyewitness was present at the scene and the truth splinters and fragments
into partisan and apocryphal accounts. The Ottoman chroniclers unite in
presenting a disparaging but quite specific account, many versions of which
were written long after the event and seem to draw on one another: “the
blind-hearted emperor” tried to flee when it was obvious that the battle was
lost. He was making his way down to the steep streets to the Horn or the
Marmara with his retinue to look for a ship when he ran into a band of
azaps and Janissaries bent on plunder. “A desperate battle ensued. The
Emperor’s horse slipped as he was attacking a wounded azap, whereupon
the azap pulled himself together, and cut off the Emperor’s head. When
they saw this, the rest of the enemy troops lost hope and azaps managed to
kill or capture most of them. A great quantity of money and precious stones
in the possession of the Emperor’s retinue were also seized.”
The Greek accounts see him generally charging into the fray at the wall
with his faithful band of nobles as the front line collapses. In the version of
Chalcocondylas, “the Emperor turned to Cantacuzenos and the few that
were with them, and said, ‘Let us then go forward, men, against these
barbarians.’ Cantacuzenos, a brave man, was killed, and the Emperor
Constantine himself was forced back and was relentlessly pursued, struck
on the shoulder and then killed.” There are many variants of this story that
end in a mound of bodies at the St. Romanus Gate or near one of the locked
posterns; all of them provided the Greek people with enduring legends
about the emperor. “The Emperor of Constantinople was killed,” recorded
Giacomo Tetaldi with unvarnished simplicity. “Some say his head was cut
off, others that he died in the crowd pressed against the gate. Both stories
could very well be true.” “He was killed and his head was presented to the
Lord of the Turks on a lance,” wrote Benvenuto, the consul of Ancona in
the city. The fact that there was no clear identification of the body suggests
that Constantine may well have stripped off his imperial regalia at the final
onslaught and died like a common soldier. Many of the corpses were
decapitated, and it would subsequently have been difficult to distinguish the
fallen. Apocryphal stories abounded, some that he had escaped by ship, but
these may be discounted, others that Mehmet gave his body to the Greeks
for burial in one of several locations in the city, but no sure site can be
identified. The uncertainty of his ending would become the focus for a
growing body of Greek legend, a sense of yearning for lost glory, reflected
in songs and lamentations:
Weep Christians of the East and the West, weep and cry over this great destruction. On Tuesday the
29th day of May in the year 1453, the sons of Hagar took the town of Constantinople … And when
Constantine Dragases … heard the news … he seized his lance, strapped on his sword, he mounted
his mare, his mare with white feet and struck the Turks, the impious dogs. He killed ten pashas and
sixty Janissaries, but his sword broke and his lance broke and he remained alone, alone without any
help … and a Turk struck him on the head and poor Constantine fell from his mare; and he lay
stretched out on the earth in the dust and the blood. They cut off his head and fixed it on the end of a
lance, and they buried his body under a laurel tree.

The “unfortunate emperor” was forty-nine years old when he died.

Whatever the circumstances of his death, it seems clear that he tried to the
very end to keep the flame of Byzantium alight. “The ruler of Istanbul was
brave and asked for no quarter,” declared the chronicler Oruch, in a rare
note of begrudging respect from the Ottomans. He had been a redoubtable
opponent.

Later in the day, when the chaos had died down and some semblance of
order had been restored, Mehmet made his own triumphant entry into
Constantinople. He passed through the Gate of Charisius – that was to
become in Turkish, the Edirne Gate – on horseback, accompanied on foot
by his viziers, beylerbeys, the ulema, and commanders and by his crack
troops, his bodyguards, and foot soldiers, in a show of pageantry that has
been amplified by legend. The green banners of Islam and the red banners
of the sultan were unfurled as the cavalcade jingled through the archway.
After portraits of Kemal Ataturk, it is probably the single most famous
image in Turkish history, endlessly memorialized in poems and pictures. In
nineteenth-century prints the bearded Mehmet sits upright on his proudly
stepping horse, his face turned to one side. He is flanked by sturdy
mustachioed Janissaries carrying matchlocks, spears, and battle axes and
imams whose white beards symbolize the wisdom of Islam, and behind the
waving banners a thicket of clustered spears stretches deep to the horizon.
To the left a black warrior, muscled like a bodybuilder, stands proudly erect
as a representative of all the other nations of the Faith welcoming the gazi
warriors into the inheritance promised by the Prophet. His scimitar points to
a heap of fallen Christians at the sultan’s feet, whose shields are surmounted
with crosses – a memory of the Crusades and a symbol of the triumph of
Islam over Christianity. According to legend, Mehmet stopped and gave
thanks to God. Then he turned to congratulate his “seventy or eighty
thousand Muslim heroes, crying out: ‘Halt not Conquerors! God be praised!
You are the Conquerors of Constantinople!’” It was the iconic moment at
which he assumed the name by which he has always been known in Turkish
– Fatih, the Conqueror – and the instant at which the Ottoman Empire came
fully into its own. He was twenty-one years old.
Mehmet then processed into the heart of the city to inspect the buildings
that he had visualized so clearly from afar – past the church of the Holy
Apostles and the mighty aqueduct of Valens toward St. Sophia. He was
probably sobered rather than impressed by what he saw. It resembled a
human Pompeii more than the City of Gold. Uncontrolled, the army had
forgotten the edict to leave the fabric of the buildings untouched. They had
fallen on Constantinople, according to Kritovoulos, with a measure of
exaggeration, “like a fire or a whirlwind … the whole city was deserted and
emptied and appeared ravaged and charred as if by fire … the only houses
left had been devastated, so ruined that they struck fear in the hearts of all
that saw them because of the enormous devastation.” Although he had
promised his army three days of looting, it had effectively been picked
clean in one. In order to prevent even greater destruction he broke his
promise and ordered an end to the looting by nightfall on the first day – and
it says something for the underlying discipline of his army that the
chavushes were able to enforce obedience.
Mehmet rode on, stopping to inspect particular landmarks along the
way. According to legend, as he passed the serpent column of Delphi, he
struck it with his mace and broke off the under jaw of one of the heads.
Passing the statue of Justinian, he rode up to the front doors of St. Sophia
and dismounted. Bowing down to the ground, he poured a handful of dust
over his turban as an act of humility to God. Then he stepped inside the
wrecked church. He seems to have been both amazed and appalled by what
he saw. As he walked across the great space and stared up at the dome, he
caught sight of a soldier smashing away at the marble pavement. He asked
the man why he was demolishing the floor. “For the Faith,” the man replied.
Infuriated by this visible defiance of his orders to preserve the buildings,
Mehmet struck the man with his sword. He was dragged off half-dead by
Mehmet’s attendants. A few Greeks, who were still hiding in the farthest
recesses of the building, came out and threw themselves at his feet, and
some priests reappeared – possibly those who had miraculously been
“swallowed up” by the walls. In one of those unpredictable acts of mercy
that characterized the sultan, Mehmet ordered that these men should be
allowed to go home under protection. Then he called for an imam to go up
into the pulpit and recite the call to prayer, and he himself climbed onto the
altar and bowed down and prayed to the victorious God.
Later, according to the Ottoman historian Tursun Bey, Mehmet,
“mounting as [Jesus] the spirit of God ascending to the fourth sphere of
heaven,” climbed up through the galleries of the church out onto the dome.
From here he could look out over the church and the ancient heart of the
Christian city. Below, the decay of a once-proud empire was all too
apparent. Many of the buildings surrounding the church had collapsed,
including most of the raised seating of the Hippodrome and the old Royal
Palace. This building, once the center of imperial power, had long been a
ruin, totally wrecked by the crusaders in 1204. As he surveyed the desolate
scene, “he thought of the impermanence and instability of this world, and
its ultimate destruction,” and remembered a couplet of poetry that recalled
the obliteration of the Persian Empire by the Arabs in the seventh century:
The spider is curtain-bearer in the Palace of Chosroes
The owl sounds the relief in the castle of Afrasiyab.
It is a melancholy image. Mehmet had achieved everything he had dreamed
of; at the end of an enormous day when he had confirmed the Ottoman
Empire as the great superpower of the age, he had already stared over the
edge of its own decline. He rode back through the wrecked city. Long lines
of captives were being herded into makeshift tents outside the fosse. Almost
the whole population of 50,000 had been led away to the ships and the
camp; maybe 4,000 had been killed in the day’s fighting. Separated from
their families, children could be heard calling out for their mothers, men for
their wives, all “dumbfounded by such a catastrophe.” In the Ottoman camp
there were fires and festivities, singing and dancing to pipes and drums.
Horses were dressed in the robes of priests and the crucifix was mockingly
paraded through the Ottoman camp, topped with a Turkish cap. Booty was
traded, precious stones bought and sold. Men were said to become rich
overnight “by buying jewels for a few pence,” “gold and silver were traded
for the price of tin.”
If the day had unfolded in pitiful scenes and terrible instances of
massacre, there was nothing particular to Islam in this behavior. It was the
expected reaction of any medieval army that had taken a city by storm. The
history of Byzantium could produce many similar episodes that were only
incidentally conducted on religious grounds. It was no worse than the
Byzantine sack of the Saracen city of Candia on Crete in 961, when
Nicephorus Phocas – a man nicknamed “the white death of the Saracens” –
lost control of his army for three days of appalling carnage; no worse than
the Crusader sack of Constantinople in 1204 itself, and more disciplined
than an irrational outburst of xenophobia that had preceded it in 1183, when
the Byzantines butchered nearly every Latin in the city, “women and
children, the old and infirm, even the sick from the hospitals.” But when
night fell on the Bosphorus and on the city on May 29, 1453, and slanted in
through the windows of the dome of St. Sophia and obliterated the mosaic
portraits of emperors and angels, the porphyry columns, the onyx and
marble floors, the smashed furniture and the pools of dried blood, it carried
Byzantium away with it too, once and for all.

The ruined palace of Hormisdas on the Marmara shore

 16 The Present Terror of the World 1453–1683
Whichever way I look, I see trouble.
Angelo Lomellino, podesta of Galata, to his brother, June 23, 1453

The reckoning followed hard on the heels of the fall. The next day, there
was a distribution of the booty: according to custom, Mehmet as
commander was entitled to a fifth of everything that had been taken. His
share of the enslaved Greeks he settled in the city in an area by the Horn,
the Phanar district, which would continue as a traditional Greek quarter
down to modern times. The vast majority of the ordinary citizens – about
30,000 – were marched off to the slave markets of Edirne, Bursa, and
Ankara. We know the fates of a few of these deportees because they were
important people who were subsequently ransomed back into freedom.
Among these was Mathew Camariotes, whose father and brother were
killed, and whose family was dispersed; painstakingly he set about finding
them. “I ransomed my sister from one place, my mother from somewhere
else; then my brother’s son: most pleasing to God, I obtained their release.”
Overall, though, it was a bitter experience. Beyond the death and
disappearance of loved ones, most shattering to Camariotes was the
discovery that “of my brother’s four sons, in the disaster three – alas! –
through the fragility of youth, renounced their Christian faith … maybe this
wouldn’t have happened, had my father and brother survived … so I live, if
you can call it living, in pain and grief.” Conversion was a not uncommon
occurrence, so traumatic had been the failure of prayers and relics to
prevent the capture of the God-protected city by Islam. Many more captives
simply disappeared into the gene pool of the Ottoman Empire – “scattered
across the whole world like dust” – in the lament of the Armenian poet
Abraham of Ankara.

A medal showing the aging Mehmet, dated 1481, the year of his death

The surviving notables in the city suffered more immediate fates.

Mehmet retained all the significant personages whom he could find,
including the grand duke Lucas Notaras and his family. The Venetians,
whom Mehmet identified as his key opponents in the Mediterranean basin,
came in for especially harsh treatment. Minotto, the bailey of their colony,
who had played a spirited part in the defense of the city, was executed,
together with his son and other Venetian notables; a further twenty-nine
were ransomed back to Italy. The Catalan consul and some of his leading
men were also executed, while a vain hunt was conducted for the unionist
churchmen Leonard of Chios and Isidore of Kiev, who managed to escape
unrecognized. A search in Galata for the two surviving Bocchiardi brothers
was similarly unsuccessful; they hid and survived.
The podesta of Galata, Angelo Lomellino, acted promptly to try to save
the Genoese colony. Its complicity in the defense of Constantinople made it
immediately vulnerable to retribution. Lomellino wrote to his brother that
the sultan “said that we did all we could for the safety of Constantinople …
and certainly he spoke the truth. We were in the greatest danger, we had to
do what he wanted to avoid his fury.” Mehmet ordered the immediate
destruction of the town’s walls and ditch, with the exception of the sea wall,
destruction of its defensive towers, and the handing over of the cannon and
all other weapons. The podesta’s nephew was taken off into the service of
the palace as a hostage, in common with a number of sons of the Byzantine
nobility – a policy that would both ensure good behavior and provide
educated young recruits for the imperial administration.
It was in this context that the fate of the grand duke Lucas Notaras was
decided. The highest-ranking Byzantine noble, Notaras was a controversial
figure during the siege, given a consistently bad press by the Italians. He
was apparently against union; his oft repeated remark “rather the sultan’s
turban than the cardinal’s hat” was held up by Italian writers as proof of the
intransigence of Orthodox Greeks. It appears that Mehmet was initially
minded to make Notaras prefect of the city – an indication of the deeper
direction of the sultan’s plans for Constantinople – but was probably
persuaded by his ministers to reverse the decision. According to the ever-
vivid Doukas, Mehmet, “full of wine and in a drunken stupor” demanded
that Notaras should hand over his son to satisfy the sultan’s lust. When
Notaras refused, Mehmet sent the executioner to the family. After killing all
the males, “the executioner picked up the heads and returned to the banquet,
presenting them to the bloodthirsty beast.” It is perhaps more likely that
Notaras was unwilling to see his children taken as hostages, and Mehmet
decided that it was too risky to let the leading Byzantine nobility survive.
The work of converting St. Sophia into a mosque began almost at once.
A wooden minaret was rapidly constructed for the call to prayer and the
figurative mosaics whitewashed over, with the exception of the four
guardian angels under the dome, which Mehmet, with a regard for the
spirits of the place, preserved. (Other powerful “pagan” talismans of the
ancient city also survived intact – the equestrian statue of Justinian, the
serpent column from Delphi, and the Egyptian column; Mehmet was
nothing if not superstitious.) On June 2, Friday prayers were heard for the
first time in what was now the Aya Sofya mosque “and the Islamic
invocation was read in the name of Sultan Mehmet Khan Gazi.” According
to the Ottoman chroniclers, “the sweet five-times-repeated chant of the
Muslim faith was heard in the city” and in a moment of piety Mehmet
coined a new name for the city: Islambol – a pun on its Turkish name,
meaning “full of Islam” – that somehow failed to strike an echo in Turkish
ears. Miraculously Sheik Akshemsettin also rapidly “rediscovered” the
tomb of Ayyub, the Prophet’s standard-bearer who had died at the first Arab
siege in 669 and whose death had been such a powerful motivator in the
holy war for the city.
Despite these tokens of Muslim piety, the sultan’s rebuilding of the city
was to prove highly controversial to conventional Islam. Mehmet had been
deeply disturbed by the devastation inflicted on Constantinople: “what a
city we have committed to plunder and destruction,” he is reported to have
said when he first toured the city, and when he rode back to Edirne on June
21 he undoubtedly left behind a melancholy ruin, devoid of people.
Reconstructing an imperial capital was to be a major preoccupation of his
reign – but his model would not be an Islamic one.

The Christian ships that had escaped on the morning of May 29 carried
word of the city’s fall back to the West. At the start of June three ships
reached Crete with the sailors whose heroic defense of the towers had
prompted their release by Mehmet. The news appalled the island. “Nothing
worse than this has happened, nor will happen,” wrote a monk. Meanwhile
the Venetian galleys reached the island of Negroponte off the coast of
Greece and reduced the population to panic – it was only with difficulty that
the bailey there managed to prevent a whole-scale evacuation of the island.
He wrote posthaste to the Venetian Senate. As ships crisscrossed the
Aegean exchanging news, the word spread with gathering speed to the
islands and the seaports of the eastern sea, to Cyprus, Rhodes, Corfu, Chios,
Monemvasia, Modon, Lepanto. Like a giant boulder dropped into the basin
of the Mediterranean, a tidal wave of panic rippled outward all the way to
the Gates of Gibraltar – and far beyond. It reached the mainland of Europe
at Venice on the morning of Friday, June 29, 1453. The Senate was in
session. When a fast cutter from Lepanto tied up at the wooden landing
stage on the Bacino, people were leaning from windows and balconies avid
for news of the city, their families, and their commercial interests. When
they learned that Constantinople had fallen, “a great and excessive crying
broke out, weeping, groaning … everyone beating their chests with their
fists, tearing at their heads and faces, for the death of a father or a son or a
brother, or for the loss of their property.” The Senate heard the news in
stunned silence; voting was suspended. A flurry of letters was dispatched
by flying courier across Italy to tell the news of “the horrible and deplorable
fall of the cities of Constantinople and Pera [Galata].” It reached Bologna
on July 4, Genoa on July 6, Rome on July 8, and Naples shortly after. Many
at first refused to believe reports that the invincible city could have fallen;
when they did, there was open mourning in the streets. Terror amplified the
wildest rumors. It was reported that the whole population over the age of
six had been slaughtered, that 40,000 people had been blinded by the Turks,
that all the churches had been destroyed and the sultan was now gathering a
huge force for an immediate invasion of Italy. Word of mouth emphasized
the bestiality of the Turks, the ferocity of their attack on Christendom –
themes that would ring loudly in Europe for hundreds of years.
If there is any moment at which it is possible to recognize a modern
sensibility in a medieval event, it is here in the account of reactions to the
news of the fall of Constantinople. Like the assassination of Kennedy or
9/11 it is clear that people throughout Europe could remember exactly
where they were when they first heard the news. “On the day when the
Turks took Constantinople the sun was darkened,” declared a Georgian
chronicler. “What is this execrable news which is borne to us concerning
Constantinople?,” wrote Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini to the pope. “My hand
trembles, even as I write; my soul is horrified.” Frederick III wept when
word reached him in Germany. The news radiated outward across Europe as
fast as a ship could sail, a horse could ride, a song could be sung. It spread
outward from Italy to France, Spain, Portugal, the Low Countries, Serbia,
Hungary, Poland, and beyond. In London a chronicler noted that “in this
year was the City of Constantine the noble lost by Christian men and won
by the Prince of the Turks, Muhammad”; Christian I, king of Denmark and
Norway, described Mehmet as the beast of the Apocalypse rising out of the
sea. The diplomatic channels between the courts of Europe hummed with
news and warnings and ideas for projected Crusades. Across the Christian
world there was a huge outpouring of letters, chronicles, histories,
prophecies, songs, laments, and sermons translated into all the languages of
the Faith, from Serbian to French, from Armenian to English. The tale of
Constantinople was heard not just in palaces and castles but also at
crossroads, market squares, and inns. It reached the farthest corners of
Europe and the humblest people: in due course even the Lutheran prayer
book in Iceland would beg God’s salvation from “the cunning of the Pope
and the terror of the Turk.” It was just the start of a huge renewal of anti-
Islamic sentiment.

Within Islam itself, the word was greeted with joy by pious Muslims. On
October 27 an ambassador from Mehmet arrived in Cairo, bearing news of
the city’s capture and bringing two highborn Greek captives as visible
proof. According to the Muslim chronicler, “the Sultan and all the men
rejoiced at this mighty conquest; the good news was sounded by the bands
each morning and Cairo was decorated for two days … people celebrated
by decorating shops and houses most extravagantly … I say to God be
thanks and acknowledgement for this mighty victory.” It was a victory of
immense significance for the Muslim world; it fulfilled the old pseudo-
prophecies attributed to Muhammad and seemed to restore the prospect of
the worldwide spread of the Faith. It brought the sultan immense prestige.
Mehmet also sent the customary victory letter to the leading potentates of
the Muslim world that staked his claim to be the true leader of the holy war,
taking the title of Father of the Conquest, directly linked “by the breath of
the wind of the Caliphate” to the early, glorious days of Islam. According to
Doukas the head of Constantine, “stuffed with straw,” was also sent round
“to the leaders of the Persians, Arabs and other Turks,” and Mehmet sent
400 Greek children each to the rulers of Egypt, Tunis, and Granada. These
were not mere gifts. Mehmet was laying claim to be the defender of the
Faith and to its ultimate prize: protectorate of the holy places of Mecca,
Medina, and Jerusalem. “It is your responsibility,” he peremptorily scolded
the Mamluk sultan in Cairo, “to keep the pilgrimage routes open for the
Muslims; we have the duty of providing gazis.” At the same time, he
declared himself to be “Sovereign of two seas and two lands,” heir to the
empire of the Caesars with ambitions to a world domination that would be
both imperial and religious: “there must … be only one empire, one faith
and one sovereignty in the world.”

In the West the fall of Constantinople changed nothing and everything. To

those close to events, it was clear that the city was undefendable. As an
isolated enclave its capture was ultimately inevitable; if Constantine had
managed to stave off the Ottoman siege it would only have been a matter of
time before another assault succeeded. For those who cared to look, the fall
of Constantinople or the capture of Istanbul – depending on religious
perspective – was largely the symbolic recognition of an established fact:
that the Ottomans were a world power, firmly established in Europe. Few
were that close. Even the Venetians, with their spies and their endless flow
of diplomatic information back to the Senate, were largely unaware of the
military capabilities available to Mehmet. “Our Senators would not believe
that the Turks could bring a fleet against Constantinople,” remarked Marco
Barbaro on the tardiness of the Venetian rescue effort. Nor had they
understood the power of the guns or the determination and resourcefulness
of Mehmet himself. What the capture of the city underlined was the extent
to which the balance of power had already shifted in the Mediterranean –
and clarified the threat to a host of Christian interests and nations that
Constantinople, as a buffer zone, had encouraged them to ignore.
Throughout the Christian world the consequences were religious,
military, economic, and psychological. At once the terrible image of
Mehmet and his ambitions were drawn into sharp focus for the Greeks, the
Venetians, the Genoese, the pope in Rome, the Hungarians, the
Wallachians, and all the peoples of the Balkans. The implacable figure of
the Great Turk and his insatiable desire to be the Alexander of the age were
projected wildly onto the screen of the European imagination. One source
has the Conqueror entering the city with the words “I thank Muhammad
who has given us this splendid victory; but I pray that he will permit me to
live long enough to capture and subjugate Old Rome as I have New Rome.”
This belief was not without foundation. In Mehmet’s imagination, the seat
of the Red Apple had now moved westward – from Constantinople to
Rome. Long before Ottoman armies invaded Italy they went into battle with
the cry “Roma! Roma!” Step by step the very incarnation of the Antichrist
seemed to be moving inexorably against the Christian world. In the years
following 1453, he would snuff out the Black Sea colonies of the Genoese
and the Greeks one after another: Sinop, Trebizond, and Kaffa all fell. In
1462 he invaded Wallachia, the following year Bosnia. The Morea fell
under Ottoman rule in 1464. In 1474 he was in Albania, 1476 in Moldavia –
the rolling tide of the Ottoman advance seemed irreversible. Its troops
failed to take Rhodes in a famous siege in 1480, but it was only a temporary
setback. The Venetians had more to fear than most: war with Mehmet
opened in 1463 and ran for fifteen years – it was to be just the overture to a
titanic contest. During this time they lost their prize trading post at
Negroponte, and worse: in 1477 Ottoman raiders plundered the hinterlands
of the city; they came so near that the smoke of their fires could be seen
from the campanile of St. Mark’s. Venice could feel the hot breath of Islam
on its collar. “The enemy is at our gates!” wrote Celso Maffei to the doge.
“The axe is at the root. Unless divine help comes, the doom of the Christian
name is sealed.” In July 1481 the Ottomans finally landed an army on the
heel of Italy to march on Rome. When they took Otranto, the archbishop
was felled at the altar of his cathedral, 12,000 citizens were put to death. In
Rome the pope considered flight, and the people panicked, but at this
moment news of Mehmet’s death reached the army, and the Italian
campaign collapsed.
Under the impetus of the fall of Constantinople, popes and cardinals
tried to breathe life back into the project of religious Crusades that
continued well into the sixteenth century. Pope Pius II, for whom the whole
Christian culture was at stake, set the tone when he convened a congress at
Mantua in 1459 to unify the fractious nations of Christendom. In a ringing
speech that lasted two hours he outlined the situation in the bleakest terms:
We ourselves allowed Constantinople, the capital of the east, to be conquered by the Turks. And
while we sit at home in ease and idleness, the arms of these barbarians are advancing to the Danube
and the Sava. In the Eastern imperial city they have massacred the successor of Constantine along
with his people, desecrated the temples of the Lord, sullied the noble edifice of Justinian with the
hideous cult of Muhammad; they have destroyed the images of the mother of God and other saints,
overturned the altars, cast the relics of the martyrs to the swine, killed the priests, dishonored women
and young girls, even the virgins dedicated to the Lord, slaughtered the nobles of the city at the
sultan’s banquet, carried off the image of our crucified Saviour to their camp with scorn and mockery
amid cries of “That is the God of the Christians!” and befouled it with mud and spittle. All this
happened beneath our very eyes, but we lie in a deep sleep … Mehmet will never lay down arms
except in victory or total defeat. Every victory will be for him a stepping-stone to another, until, after
subjecting all the princes of the West, he has destroyed the Gospel of Christ and imposed the law of
his false prophet upon the whole world.

Despite numerous attempts, such impassioned words failed to provoke

practical action, just as the project to save Constantinople itself had failed.
The powers of Europe were too jealous, too disunited – and in some senses
too secular – ever to combine in the name of Christendom again: it was
even rumored that the Venetians had been complicit in the landing at
Otranto. However it did reinvigorate deep European fears about Islam. It
would be another two hundred years before the advance of the Ottomans
into Europe was definitely halted, in 1683, at the gates of Vienna; in the
interval Christianity and Islam would wage a long-running war, both hot
and cold, that would linger long in the racial memory and that formed a
long link in the chain of events between the two faiths. The fall of
Constantinople had awakened in Islam and Europe deep memories of the
Crusades. The Ottoman peril was seen as the continuation of the perceived
assault of Islam on the Christian world; the word Turk replaced the word
Saracen as the generic term for a Muslim – and with it came all the
connotations of a cruel and implacable opponent. Both sides saw
themselves engaged in a struggle for survival against a foe intent on
destroying the world. It was the prototype of global ideological conflict.
The Ottomans kept the spirit of jihad alive, now linked to their sense of
imperial mission. Within the Muslim heartlands the belief in the superiority
of Islam was rejuvenated. The legend of the Red Apple had enormous
currency; after Rome it attached successively to Budapest, then Vienna.
Beyond these literal destinations, it was the symbol of messianic belief in
the final victory of the Faith. Within Europe, the image of the Turk became
synonymous with all that was faithless and cruel. By 1536 the word was in
use in English to mean, in the words of the Oxford English Dictionary,
“anyone behaving as a barbarian or savage.” And what added fuel to these
attitudes was a discovery that typified the very spirit of Renaissance
enlightenment – the invention of printing.
The fall of Constantinople happened on the cusp of a revolution – the
moment that the runaway train of scientific discovery started to gather
speed in the West at the expense of religion. Some of these forces were at
play in the siege itself: the impact of gunpowder, the superiority of sailing
ships, the end of medieval siege warfare; the next seventy years would
bring Europe, among other things, gold fillings in teeth, the pocket watch
and the astrolabe, navigation manuals, syphilis, the New Testament in
translation, Copernicus and Leonardo da Vinci, Columbus and Luther – and
movable type.
Gutenberg’s invention revolutionized mass communications and spread
new ideas about the holy war with Islam. A huge corpus of crusader and
anti-Islamic literature poured off the presses of Europe in the next 150
years. One of the earliest surviving examples of modern printing is the
indulgence granted by Nicholas V in 1451 to raise money for the relief of
Cyprus from the Turks. Thousands of copies of such documents appeared
across Europe along with crusader appeals and broadsheets – forerunners of
modern newspapers – that spread news about the war against “the damnable
menace of the Grand Turk of the infidels.” An explosion of books followed
– in France alone, eighty books were published on the Ottomans between
1480 and 1609, compared to forty on the Americas. When Richard Knolles
wrote his best seller The General History of the Turks in 1603, there was
already a healthy literature in English on the people he called “the present
terror of the world.” These works had suggestive titles: The Turks’ Wars, A
Notable History of the Saracens, A Discourse on the Bloody and Cruel
Battle lost by Sultan Selim, True News of a Notable Victory obtained
against the Turk, The Estate of Christians living under the Subjection of the
Turk – the flood of information was endless.

Seeing your enemy: sixteenth-century German print of Ottoman cavalry

Othello was engaged in fighting the world war of the day – against the
“general enemy Ottoman,” the “malignant and turbaned Turk” – and for the
first time, Christians far from the Muslim world could see woodcut images
of their enemy in highly influential illustrated books such as Bartholomew
Georgevich’s Miseries and Tribulations of the Christians held in Tribute
and Slavery by the Turk. These showed ferocious battles between armored
knights and turbanned Muslims, and all the barbarism of the infidel: Turks
beheading prisoners, leading off long lines of captive women and children,
riding with babies spitted on their lances. The conflict with the Turk was
widely understood to be the continuation of a much longer-running contest
with Islam – a thousand-year struggle for the truth. Its features and causes
were exhaustively studied in the West. Thomas Brightman, writing in 1644,
declared that the Saracens were “the first troop of locusts … about the year
630” who were succeeded by “the Turks, a brood of vipers, worse than their
parent, [who] did utterly destroy the Saracens their mother.” Somehow the
conflict with Islam was always different: deeper, more threatening, closer to
nightmare.

It is certainly true that Europe had much to fear from the wealthier, more
powerful, and better organized Ottoman Empire in the two hundred years
after Constantinople, yet the image of its opponent, conceived largely in
religious terms at a time when the idea of Christendom itself was dying,
was highly partial. The inside and the outside of the Ottoman world
presented two different faces, and nowhere was this clearer than in
Constantinople.
Sad-ud-din might declare that after the capture of Istanbul “the churches
which were within the city were emptied of their vile idols, and cleansed
from their filthy and idolatrous impurities” – but the reality was rather
different. The city that Mehmet rebuilt after the fall hardly conformed to the
dread image of Islam that Christendom supposed. The sultan regarded
himself not only as a Muslim ruler but as the heir to the Roman Empire and
set about reconstructing a multicultural capital in which all citizens would
have certain rights. He forcibly resettled both Greek Christians and Turkish
Muslims back into the city, guaranteed the safety of the Genoese enclave at
Galata, and forbade any Turks to live there. The monk Gennadios, who had
so fiercely resisted attempts at union, was rescued from slavery in Edirne
and restored to the capital as patriarch of the Orthodox community with the
formula: “Be Patriarch, with good fortune, and be assured of our friendship,
keeping all the privileges that the Patriarchs before you enjoyed.” The
Christians were to live in their own neighborhoods and to retain some of
their churches, though under certain restrictions: they had to wear
distinctive dress and were forbidden from bearing arms – within the context
of the times it was a policy of remarkable tolerance. At the other end of the
Mediterranean, the final reconquest of Spain by the Catholic kings in 1492
resulted in the forced conversion or expulsion of all the Muslims and Jews.
The Spanish Jews themselves were encouraged to migrate to the Ottoman
Empire – “the refuge of the world” – where, within the overall experience
of Jewish exile, their reception was generally positive. “Here in the land of
the Turks we have nothing to complain of,” wrote one rabbi to his brethren
in Europe. “We possess great fortunes, much gold and silver are in our
hands. We are not oppressed with heavy taxes and our commerce is free and
unhindered.” Mehmet was to bear the brunt of considerable Islamic
criticism for these policies. His son, the more pious Bayezit II, declared that
his father “by the counsel of mischief makers and hypocrites” had
“infringed the Law of the Prophet.”
Although Constantinople would become a more Islamic city over the
centuries, Mehmet set the tone for a place that was astonishingly
multicultural, the model of the Levantine city. For those Westerners who
looked beneath the crude stereotypes, there were plenty of surprises. When
the German Arnold von Harff came in 1499 he was amazed to discover two
Franciscan monasteries in Galata where the Catholic mass was still being
celebrated. Those who knew the infidel up close were quite clear. “The
Turks do not compel anyone to renounce his faith, do not try hard to
persuade anyone and do not have a great opinion of renegades,” wrote
George of Hungary in the fifteenth century. It was a stark contrast to the
religious wars that fragmented Europe during the Reformation. The flow of
refugees after the fall would be largely one way: from the Christian lands to
the Ottoman Empire. Mehmet himself was more interested in building a
world empire than in converting that world to Islam.
The fall of Constantinople was a trauma for the West; not only had it
dented the confidence of Christendom, but it was also considered the tragic
end of the classical world, “a second death for Homer and Plato.” And yet
the fall also liberated the place from impoverishment, isolation, and ruin.
The city “garlanded with water,” which Procopius had celebrated in the
sixth century, now regained its old dash and energy as the capital of a rich
and multicultural empire, straddling two worlds and a dozen trade routes;
and the people whom the West believed to be tailed monsters spawned by
the Apocalypse – “made up of a horse and a man” – reincarnated a city of
astonishment and beauty, different from the Christian City of Gold, but cast
in equally glowing colors.

Ottoman calligraphy

Constantinople once again traded the goods of the world through the
labyrinthine alleys of the covered bazaar and the Egyptian bazaar; camel
trains and ships once more connected it to all the principal points of the
Levant, but for sailors approaching from the Marmara, its horizon acquired
a new shape. Alongside Aya Sofya, the hills of the city started to bubble
with the gray leaded domes of mosques. White minarets as thin as needles
and as fat as pencils, grooved and fluted and hung with tiers of delicately
traceried balconies, punctuated the city skyline. A succession of brilliant
mosque architects created, under sprung domes, abstract and timeless
spaces: interiors of calm light, tiled with intricate geometric patterns and
calligraphy and stylized flowers whose sensuous colors – crisp tomato and
turquoise and celadon and the clearest blue from the depths of the sea –
created “a reflection of the infinite garden of delight” promised in the
Koran.
Ottoman Istanbul was a city that lived vividly in the eye and the ear – a
place of wooden houses and cypress trees, street fountains and gardens,
graceful tombs and subterranean bazaars, of noise and bustle and
manufacture, where each occupation and ethnic group had its quarter, and
all the races of the Levant in their distinctive garb and headdresses worked
and traded, where the sea could be suddenly glimpsed, shimmering at the
turn of a street or from the terrace of a mosque, and the call to prayer, rising
from a dozen minarets, mapped the city from end to end and from dawn to
dusk as intimately as the street cries of the local traders. Behind the
forbidding walls of the Topkapi palace, the Ottoman sultans created their
own echo of the Alhambra and Isfahan in a series of fragile, tiled pavilions
more like solid tents than buildings, set in elaborate gardens, from which
they could look out over the Bosphorus and the Asian hills. Ottoman art,
architecture, and ceremonial created a rich visual world that held as much
astonishment for Western visitors as Christian Constantinople had done
before it. “I beheld the prospect of that little world, the great city of
Constantinople,” wrote Edward Lithgow in 1640, “which indeed yields
such an outward splendor to the amazed beholder … whereof now the
world makes so great account that the whole earth cannot equal it.”

The new skyline: the Islamic city from the sea

Nowhere is the sensuous texture of Ottoman Istanbul recorded more

vividly than in the endless succession of miniatures in which sultans
celebrated their triumphs. It is a joyous world of primary color patterned
flat and without perspective, like the decorative devices on tiles and carpets.
Here are court presentations and banquets, battles and sieges, beheadings,
processions, and festivities, tents and banners, fountains and palaces,
elaborately worked kaftans and armor and beautiful horses. It is a world in
love with ceremony, noise, and light. There are ram fights, tumblers, kebab
cooks, and firework displays, massed Janissary bands that thump and toot
and crash their way soundlessly across the page in a blare of red, tightrope
walkers crossing the Horn on ropes suspended from the masts of ships,
cavalry squadrons in white turbans riding past elaborately patterned tents,
maps of the city as bright as jewels, and all the visible exuberance of paint:
vivid red, orange, royal blue, lilac, lemon, chestnut, gray, pink, emerald,
and gold. The world of the miniatures seems to express both joy and pride
in the Ottoman achievement, the breathtaking ascent from tribe to empire in
two hundred years, an echo of the words once written by the Seljuk Turks
over a doorway in the holy city of Konya: “What I have created is
unrivalled throughout the world.”
In 1599 Queen Elizabeth I of England sent Sultan Mehmet III an organ
as a gift of friendship. It was accompanied by its maker, Thomas Dallam, to
play the instrument for the Ottoman ruler. When the master musician was
led through the successive courts of the palace and into the presence of the
sultan, he was so dazzled by the ceremonial that “the sight whereof did
make me almost to think that I was in another world.” Visitors had been
emitting exactly the same gasps of astonishment since Constantine the
Great founded the second Rome and the second Jerusalem in the fourth
century. “It seems to me,” wrote the Frenchman Pierre Gilles in the
sixteenth century, “that while other cities are mortal, this one will remain as
long as there are men on earth.”
 Epilogue: Resting Places
It was fortunate for Christendom and for Italy that death checked the fierce and indomitable
barbarian.
Giovanni Sagredo, seventeenth-century Venetian nobleman

In the spring of 1481, the sultan’s horsetail banners were set up on the
Anatolian shore across the water from the city, signifying that the year’s
campaign would be in Asia. It is typical of Mehmet’s secrecy that no one,
not even his leading ministers, knew its true objective. It was, in all
likelihood, war against the rival Muslim dynasty of the Mamluks of Egypt.
For thirty years the sultan had worked to build the world empire,
personally managing the affairs of state himself: appointing and executing
ministers, accepting tribute, rebuilding Istanbul, forcibly resettling
populations, reorganizing the economy, concluding treaties, visiting terrible
death on recalcitrant peoples, granting freedom of worship, dispatching or
leading armies year after year to east and west. He was forty-nine years old
and in poor health. Time and self-indulgence had taken their toll. According
to an unflattering contemporary report, he was fat and fleshy, with “a short,
thick neck, a sallow complexion, rather high shoulders, and a loud voice.”
Mehmet, who collected titles like campaign medals – “The Thunderbolt of
War,” “The Lord of Power and Victory on Land and Sea,” “Emperor of the
Romans and of the Terrestrial Globe,” “The World Conqueror” – could at
times hardly walk. He was affected by gout and a deforming morbid
corpulence, and shut himself away from human gaze in the Topkapi Palace.
The man whom the West called “the Blood Drinker,” “the Second Nero,”
had taken on the appearance of a grotesque. The French diplomat Philippe
de Commynes declared that “men who have seen him have told me that a
monstrous swelling formed on his legs; at the approach of summer it grew
as large as the body of a man and could not be opened; and then it
subsided.” Behind the palace walls Mehmet indulged in the untypical
pursuits of a tyrant: gardening, handicrafts, and the commissioning of
obscene frescoes from the painter Gentile Bellini, recently imported from
Venice. Bellini’s famous last portrait, framed in a golden arch and
surmounted with imperial crowns, hints at some unappeased essence in the
man: the World Conqueror remained to the last moody, superstitious, and
haunted.

View of the Ottoman city

Mehmet crossed the straits to Asia on April 25 for the year’s campaign
but was almost immediately struck down with acute stomach pains. After a
few days of excruciating torment he died on May 3, 1481, near Gebze,
where another would-be world conqueror, Hannibal, had committed suicide
by poison. It was an end surrounded in mystery. The likeliest possibility is
that Mehmet was also poisoned, by his Persian doctor. Despite numerous
Venetian assassination attempts over the years, the finger of suspicion
points most strongly at his son, Bayezit. Mehmet’s law of fratricide had
perhaps tempted the prince to make a preemptive – and successful – strike
for the throne. Father and son were not close: the pious Bayezit detested
Mehmet’s unorthodox religious views – an Italian court gossip quotes
Bayezit as saying “his father was domineering and did not believe in the
Prophet Muhammad.” Thirty years later Bayezit would in turn be poisoned
by his son, Selim “the Grim”; “there are no ties of kinship between princes”
goes the Arab saying. In Italy the news of Mehmet’s death was greeted with
particular joy. Cannon fired and bells rang; in Rome there were fireworks
and services of thanksgiving. The messenger who brought the news to
Venice declared, “the great eagle is dead.” Even the Mamluk sultan in Cairo
breathed a sigh of relief.
Today Fatih – the Conqueror – lies in a mausoleum in the mosque
complex and the district of Istanbul that both bear his name. The choice of
site was not accidental. It replaced one of the most famous and historical of
all Byzantine churches: that of the Holy Apostles, where the city’s founder,
Constantine the Great, had been entombed with great ceremony in 337. In
death, as in life, Mehmet assumed the imperial inheritance. The original
mausoleum was shattered by an earthquake and completely rebuilt so that
the interior is now as ormolu as a nineteenth-century French drawing room,
complete with grandfather clock, baroque ceiling decoration, and pendent
crystal chandelier, like the resting place of a Muslim Napoleon. The richly
decorated tomb, covered with a green cloth and surmounted by a stylized
turban at one end, is as long as a small cannon. People come here to pray, to
read the Koran, and to take photographs. With the passing of time sainthood
has come to Fatih – he has taken on some of the characteristics of a holy
man for the Muslim faithful – so that he has a dual identity, sacred and
secular. He is both a national brand, like Churchill – the name of a make of
lorry, a bridge over the Bosphorus, the instantly recognizable image of a
heroic galloping horseman on a commemorative stamp or a school building
– and a symbol of piety. The Fatih district is the heartland of traditional and
newly self-confident Muslim Istanbul. It is a peaceful spot: in the mosque
courtyard, women in head scarves gather to talk under the plane trees after
prayers; attendant children run round in circles; wandering salesmen sell
sesame rolls, toy cars, and helium balloons in the shapes of animals. At the
doorway of Mehmet’s tomb there is a stone cannonball placed like a votive
offering.
The fates of the other principal Ottoman actors at the siege reflected the
insecurities of serving the sultan. For Halil Pasha, who had consistently
opposed the war policy, the end was quick. He was hanged at Edirne in
August or September 1453 and replaced by Zaganos Pasha, the Greek
renegade who had so actively supported the war. The fate of the old vizier
marked a decisive shift in state politics: almost all successive viziers were
of converted slave origin rather than born Turks from the old aristocracy. Of
Orban the cannon founder, a key architect of the victory, there is
circumstantial evidence that he survived the siege to claim a reward from
the sultan: after the capture of Istanbul there was an area called Gunner
Verban District, suggesting that the Hungarian mercenary had taken up
residence in the city whose walls he had done so much to destroy. And
Ayyub, the Prophet’s companion, whose death at the first Arab siege had
been so inspirational to the gazis, now rests in his own mosque complex
among plane trees in the pleasant backwater of Eyüp at the top of the
Golden Horn, a venerated place for pilgrimage and for hundreds of years
the coronation mosque of the sultans.
Among the defenders who escaped, fates were many and various. The
Greek refugees generally experienced the typical fortunes of exile:
destitution in a foreign land and nostalgia for the lost city. Many eked out
their lives in Italy – there were 4,000 Greeks in Venice alone by 1478 – or
on Crete, which was a bastion of the Orthodox Church, but they were
dispersed across the world as far away as London. The descendants of the
family of Palaiologos gradually disappeared into the general pool of the
lesser aristocracy of Europe. One or two, through homesickness or poverty,
returned to Constantinople and threw themselves on the sultan’s mercy. At
least one, Andrew, converted to Islam and became a court official under the
name Mehmet Pasha. The melancholy Greek reality of the fall is perhaps
encapsulated in the experiences of George Sphrantzes and his wife. They
ended their days in monasteries on Corfu, where Sphrantzes wrote a short,
painful chronicle of the events of his life. It starts: “I am George Sphrantzes
the pitiful First Lord of the Imperial Wardrobe, presently known by my
monastic name Gregory. I wrote the following account of the events that
occurred during my wretched life. It would have been fine for me not to
have been born or to have perished in childhood. Since this did not happen,
let it be known that I was born on Tuesday, August 30, 1401.” In laconic,
strangulated tones Sphrantzes recorded the twin tragedies – personal and
national – of the Ottoman advance. Both his children were taken into the
seraglio; his son was executed there in 1453. Of September 1455 he wrote:
“my beautiful daughter Thamar died of an infectious disease in the Sultan’s
seraglio. Alas for me, her wretched father! She was fourteen years and five
months.” He lived on until 1477, long enough to see the almost complete
extinction of Greek freedom under the Turkish occupation. His testament
ends with a reaffirmation of the Orthodox position on the filioque – the
issue that had caused so much trouble during the siege: “I confess with
certainty that the Holy Ghost does not issue from the Father and the Son, as
the Italians claim, but without separation from the very manifestation of the
Father.”
Among the Italian survivors, fates were similarly diverse. The wounded
Giustiniani made it back to Chios where – according to his fellow Genoese,
Archbishop Leonard – he died not long afterward, “either from his wound
or the shame of his disgrace,” almost universally blamed for the final
defeat. He was buried with the epitaph, now lost, that read: “Here lies
Giovanni Giustiniani, a great man and a noble of Genoa and Chios, who
died on 8 August 1453 from a fatal wound, received during the storming of
Constantinople and the death of the most gracious Constantine, last emperor
and brave leader of the Eastern Christians, at the hands of the Turkish
sovereign Mehmet.” Leonard himself died in Genoa in 1459; Cardinal
Isidore of Kiev, who had come to bring union to the Greeks, was made
Patriarch of Constantinople in absentia by the pope on no legitimate
authority; he succumbed to senile dementia and died in Rome in 1463.
For Constantine himself there is no certainty, no burial place. The
emperor’s death heralded the emphatic eclipse of the Byzantine world and
the onset of the Turkocratia – the Turkish occupation of Greece – that
would outlast Byron. Constantine’s unknown fate became the focus of a
deep yearning in the Greek soul for the lost glories of Byzantium, and in
time a rich vein of prophecy attached to his name. He became an Arthurian
figure in Greek popular culture, the Once and Future King, sleeping in his
tomb beside the Golden Gate, who would one day return through that gate
and chase the Turks back east as far as the Red Apple Tree and reclaim the
city. The Ottomans feared the talismanic figure of the emperor – Mehmet
carefully watched Constantine’s brothers and walled up the Golden Gate for
good measure. These legends would ensure the unlucky Constantine a
tragic afterlife. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, his legacy would
get bound up with a Greek national vision, the Great Idea – the dream of
reincorporating the Greek populations of Byzantium into the Greek state. It
provoked a disastrous intervention in Turkish Anatolia that was crushed by
Kemal Ataturk in 1922 and the massacre of the Greek population of
Smyrna and the subsequent exchange of populations. It was only then that
hopes of rebuilding Byzantium finally died.
 If the spirit of Constantine resides anywhere it is not in Istanbul, but a
thousand miles away in the Peloponnese. Here for a time he had ruled the
Morea as despot from the small medieval city of Mistra that for two
hundred years witnessed an astonishing late flowering of the Byzantine
tradition. It remains a shrine to the Byzantine soul: every lamppost in the
modern village beneath the citadel bears the insignia of the double-headed
eagle; in the square, the Platia Palaiologou, there is a statue of Constantine
defending the faith with drawn sword – image of a man whose image is
unknown. He stands in front of a marble plinth that carries a quotation from
Doukas; above his head the Byzantine flag, a vivid yellow stamped with
black eagles, hangs lifelessly against the blue Greek sky. Medieval Mistra
rises up behind, a stacked green hillside of crumbling mansions, churches,
and halls interspersed with cypress trees. It is a poignant place. Here for a
fragile moment, Constantinople rebuilt itself in miniature as a Greek
Florence. It painted a brilliant humanist version of the gospels in radiant
frescoes, rediscovered the teachings of Aristotle and Plato, and dreamed of
a golden future before the Ottomans came to snuff it out. In the little
cathedral of St. Demetrios, no bigger than an English country church,
Constantine was possibly crowned; in the church of St. Sophia, his wife
Theodora lies buried. At the top of the site is the Palace of Despots with the
bare Taygetus mountains behind and the Spartan mesa rolling away far
below. The building is similar in style to the imperial palace on the walls of
Constantinople, and it is easy to imagine the emperor looking out from the
socketless windows of his airy hall down over the green plain where
Spartan hoplites once trained for Thermopylae and the Byzantines grew oil,
wheat, honey, and silk. And on May 29, each year, while the Turks
celebrate the capture of Istanbul with a military re-enactment at the Edirne
Gate, Constantine, who died in heresy because of his support for union, is
remembered in the small barrel-vaulted village churches of Crete and the
great cathedrals of Greek cities.

In Istanbul itself, little of the Christian city now remains, though one can
still walk through the great brass doors of St. Sophia, battered open for the
last time on May 29, 1453, and pass beneath the mosaic figure of Christ
with his hand raised in blessing, into a space as astonishing now as it was in
the sixth century. The city itself, contained within the two sides of the
triangle made by the Horn and the Marmara, visibly retains the particular
shape that determined so many of the key events. Ferries chug up into the
mouth of the Bosphorus from the west in the wake of the four Christian
ships, past the Acropolis point where the naval battle was fought, before
making the identical turn across the wind into the mouth of the Horn,
blocked now by a different boom – the bridge over to Galata. At the next
stop up the Horn, boats put in at Kasimpasha – the Valley of the Springs –
where Mehmet’s ships splashed one by one into the calm water, while on
the Bosphorus shore, Rumeli Hisari, the Throat Cutter, still straddles its
extraordinary sloping site, and a red Turkish flag flutters brightly from the
large tower at the water’s edge that was Halil’s contribution to the project.
Some of the sea walls of the city, particularly those along the Horn, are
mere fragments now, but the great land wall of Theodosius, the third side of
the triangle, that confronts the modern visitor arriving from the airport,
seems to ride the landscape as confidently as ever. Up close, it shows its
fifteen hundred years: sections are battered and crumbling, downright seedy
in some places or incongruously restored in others; towers lean at strange
angles, split by earthquakes or cannonballs or time; the fosse that caused the
Ottoman troops so much trouble is now peacefully occupied by vegetables;
the defenses have been breached in places by arterial roads and undermined
by a new metro system more effectively than the Serbian miners ever did,
but despite the pressures of the modern world, the Theodosian wall is
almost continuous for its whole length. One can walk it from sea to sea,
following the lie of the land down the sloping central section of the Lycus
valley where the walls have been ruined by medieval cannonfire, or stand
on the ramparts and imagine Ottoman tents and pennants fluttering on the
plain below, “like a border of tulips,” and galleys sliding noiselessly on the
glittering Marmara or the Horn. Almost all the gateways of the siege have
survived; the ominous shadow of their weighty arches retains the power to
awe, though the Golden Gate itself, approached down an avenue of
cannonballs from Orban’s great guns, was long ago bricked up by Mehmet
against the prophetic return of Constantine. For the Turks, the most
significant is the Edirne Gate, the Byzantine Gate of Charisius, where
Mehmet’s formal entry into Istanbul is recorded by a plaque, but the most
poignant of all the gateways that figured in the story of the siege stands
completely forgotten a little farther up toward the Horn.
 Here the wall takes its sudden right-angle turn, and hidden nearby
behind a patch of wasteland and directly abutting the shell of Constantine’s
Palace, there is an unremarkable bricked-in arch, typical of the patchwork
of alterations and repairs over the centuries. This is said by some to be the
prophetic Circus Gate, the small postern left open in the final attack that
first allowed Ottoman soldiers onto the walls. Or it might be somewhere
else. Facts about the great siege shade easily into myths.

There is one other powerful protagonist of the spring of 1453 still to be

discovered within the modern city – the cannon themselves. They lie
scattered across Istanbul, snoozing beside walls and in museum courtyards
– primitive hooped tubes largely unaffected by five hundred years of
weather – sometimes accompanied by the perfectly spherical granite or
marble balls that they fired. Of Orban’s supergun there is now no trace – it
was probably melted down in the Ottoman gun foundry at Tophane,
followed sometime later by the giant equestrian statue of Justinian. Mehmet
took the statue down on the advice of his astrologers, but it appears to have
lain in the square for a long time before being finally hauled off to the
smelting house. The French scholar Pierre Gilles saw some portions of it
there in the sixteenth century. “Among the fragments were the leg of
Justinian, which exceeded my height, and his nose, which was over nine
inches long. I dared not publicly measure the horse’s legs as they lay on the
ground but privately measured one of the hoofs and found it to be nine
inches in height.” It was a last glimpse of the great emperor – and of the
outsize grandeur of Byzantium – before the furnace consumed them.
The blocked-up arch of the Circus Gate
 About the Sources

There were so many events in this war that the pen can’t describe them all, the tongue can’t list them
all.
Neshri, fifteenth-century Ottoman chronicler

The Fall of Constantinople – or the Capture of Istanbul – was a fulcrum

moment in the Middle Ages. The news spread across the Muslim and
Christian worlds with astonishing speed, and a hungry interest in the story
has ensured the survival of a huge number of accounts, so that the event
seems to be blessed with a unique assemblage of reports. On closer
examination, however, the sum of the parts is slightly less than the whole.
The band of eyewitnesses is actually quite small, and largely Christian;
many of their names will have become familiar to the readers of this book:
Archbishop Leonard of Chios, the intemperate Catholic churchman; Nicolo
Barbaro, the ship’s doctor who wrote the most reliably dated diary;
Giacomo Tetaldi, a Florentine merchant; the Russian Orthodox Nestor-
Iskander; Tursun Bey, an Ottoman civil servant; and one or two others, such
as George Sphrantzes, whose chronicles have proved something of a
headache for modern historians. Behind these participants come a tight
group of immediate successors who lived close to the moment and who
probably heard the story soon afterward secondhand – Doukas, the
irrepressible Greek chronicler, vivid, unreliable, and full of apocryphal
stories, who imparts a lively energy to the story – and another Greek,
Kritovoulos, a judge on the island of Imbros, unique in writing a Christian
but pro-Ottoman version. (One of his many ambitions for his work was for
it to be read “by all the western nations,” including those who inhabit the
British Isles.) Successive centuries see a wealth of further versions from
both sides; some of these are straight retellings, others add hearsay, lost oral
accounts, myth, and Christian or Ottoman imperial propaganda to create a
heady mix of unverifiable information. It is out of such a bag of narratives
that this book has been fashioned.
 Many of the difficulties that arise from handling the sources are of
course endemic to history, particularly history before the age of science.
Eyewitnesses at the siege are notoriously prone to large round numbers
when estimating army sizes and casualty figures, hazy on dates and times,
given to the use of infuriatingly local systems of weights and measures, and
keen to exaggerate for a receptive audience. The chronological sequencing
of events is usually a convention waiting to be invented, and the distinction
between fact, story, and myth is a fine one. Religious superstitions are so
deeply intertwined with events that the city’s fall is a narrative about what
people believed as well as what actually happened. And of course the
notion of an objective account is entirely alien throughout.
Every writer has an angle and a motive for his version, and it is
necessary to pick carefully through the claims and special interests of each
one. Judgments are routinely made on the basis of religion, nationality, and
creed. Venetians will automatically talk up the valor of their sailors and
denigrate the treachery of the Genoese – and vice versa. Italians will accuse
the Greeks of cowardice, laziness, and stupidity. Catholics and Orthodox
will hurl insults at each other over the parapets of schism. Within the
Christian camp the search for an explanation, either theological or human,
for the loss of the city is a prime motivation, and the blame culture rings
loudly through the pages. And of course all the Christian writers hurl
routine abuse at the blood-drinker Mehmet – with the exception of
Kritovoulos, who leans over backward to ingratiate himself with the sultan.
The Ottomans naturally return these insults in kind.
The tale that these witnesses tell is always vivid – they were conscious
that they had witnessed, and survived, the most extraordinary event – but
the versions are full of strange silences. Given the huge significance of
1453 to the history of the Turkish people, it is surprising that there are so
few contemporary Ottoman accounts of the capture of the city, no
eyewitness narratives, almost no personal reports of the feelings and
motivations of the Muslim soldiers, apart from Sheik Akshemsettin’s letter
to Mehmet. The society was predominately preliterate; transmission of
events was largely oral, with no tradition of recording individual stories.
What does exist is in the form of terse chronicles, later reworked to serve in
the creation of an Ottoman dynastic legend, so that the Ottoman perspective
often has to be constructed by reading between the lines of Christian
accounts: 1453 is unusual in being history largely written by the losers.
Almost as surprising is the shortage of testimony from Orthodox
Greeks. Perhaps because many of the leading Byzantines were killed in the
final sack, or were possibly too traumatized, like George Sphrantzes, to
dwell on the details, the Christian story is largely relayed by Italians or
prounionist Greeks who give the Orthodox defenders of the city, with the
exception of Constantine, an unstintingly bad press.
As a consequence the story contains a large number of mysteries that
will probably never be resolved. How the Ottomans transported their ships
remains a lively subject for debate among Turkish historians, while the
death of Constantine is maddeningly elusive – the competing versions
divide neatly along party lines; indeed Constantine himself remains a
shadowy figure beside the impatient, irrepressible person of Mehmet, who
seems to be omnipresent in the siege.
My aim in retelling “the tale of Constantinople” has been to construct
out of these conflicts and difficulties a robust central version of events – as
close to certainty as I can make it. I have picked my way through the
sources, awkwardly at times, trying to square accounts and seeking the most
likely explanations. Dates are notoriously uncertain, despite Barbaro’s
diary, which does narrate the siege day by day. Every account chooses a
different line in the detail of the sequencing and dating of events, and many
who have studied the subject will disagree with me on fine points. A
forensic study of this book will reveal some small mysteries in the timing of
events. I have let these stand as a record of what is unknowable and cannot
be reconciled. I have decided in general to choose the chronology that
seems to me most likely and to limit, as far as possible, the dreaded words
perhaps, possibly, and might have from my narrative. The alternative was to
bog the general reader down in variant source versions, which would have
added little to the overall dynamic of a story whose outlines are strong and
brilliantly colored. At the same time I have drawn straight lines to
deductions that I feel are justifiable from the physical evidence of
geography, landscape, weather, and time.
My second aim for this book has been to capture the sound of human
voices – to reproduce the words, prejudices, hopes, and fears of the
protagonists firsthand – and to tell something of “the story of the story,” the
versions that they believed to be true as well as the verifiable facts. The
sources are often personalities in their own right, almost as exotic and
mysterious as the tale they tell; some, such as Barbaro, exist only in their
telling and vanish back into silence. Others, such as Leonard of Chios and
Isidore of Kiev, are more deeply embedded in the church history of the
period. Among the most fascinating and problematic of the accounts is that
of the Orthodox Russian Nestor-Iskander, who seems to have come to
Constantinople as a conscript in the Ottoman army. By deduction it appears
that he escaped into the city early in the siege, witnessed and participated in
its events – he is particularly vivid on the subject of bombardment and
events on the wall – and survived Ottoman retribution afterward, possibly
disguised as a monk in a monastery. His mystical and often fantastic
mixture of legend, hearsay, and firsthand observation is so confused about
dates and sequence that many writers have been inclined to dismiss it
altogether, but it contains a mass of convincing details – he is uniquely
concrete about the struggle for the wall and the process of disposing of the
dead, a task in which he was probably involved. Almost alone among the
sources, Nestor-Iskander also gives us reports of the Greeks actually
fighting, for example in the incident that leads to the death of Rhangabes.
The Venetians and Genoese would have us believe it was an almost
exclusively Italian affair, with the Greek population at best passive and at
worst, because of religious differences, obstructive, profiteering, and
cowardly.
Two other chronicles destined to a colorful afterlife are those of George
Sphrantzes and Doukas, respectively. Sphrantzes is famous for having
written two versions of the story, known as the Lesser and the Greater
chronicles. For a long time it was assumed that the Greater was just a later
expansion of the Lesser, which says almost nothing about the siege – the
most significant, if traumatic, event in Sphrantzes’s long life. The Greater,
which is vivid, detailed, and highly plausible, was for a long time widely
used as a major source of information about 1453. However, it has been
conclusively shown to be an ingenious work of literary impersonation,
written over a hundred years later by one Makarios Melissenos, taking on
the first-person guise of Sphrantzes. His credentials do not inspire
confidence: Melissenos was a priest known to have forged an imperial
decree to win an ecclesiastical dispute. Consequently all the contents of the
Greater chronicle have been thrown into doubt. Historians now tiptoe
around the work in various ways – anyone who wants to write about the
siege must decide how to tackle it. A case has been made, based on close
textual analysis, for believing that it does rest on a longer version of
Sphrantzes, now lost, and the sheer specificity of some of its content would
argue for a historical novelist of a very high order if it were a complete
invention. Melissenos is responsible for the incident in which Sphrantzes
stands in the dark on the tower before the battle with Constantine; he is also
the source for an iconic moment in Turkish history: the tale of Hasan of
Ulubat, the giant Janissary who becomes the first to plant the Ottoman flag
on the walls. The second at least seems to be too detailed to be invented.
Just as exotic is the chronicle of Doukas – a long-range history of the
fall of Byzantium. Doukas witnessed many of the events surrounding the
siege, if not the siege itself. He probably saw the test firing of Orban’s great
cannon at Edirne and the rotting bodies of the sailors impaled by Mehmet
after their ship was sunk at the Throat Cutter. His vivid, intransigent
account comes to a strange end: abruptly, in midsentence, during its
description of the Ottoman siege of Lesbos in 1462, leaving the fate of its
author, like so much in this story, hanging in the air. The vivid account of
events on Lesbos gives a strong impression that the author was there and
prompts the speculation that he was stopped pen in hand by the final
collapse of the Greek defense. Did he undergo the terrible fate of the
defenders – sawn in two to fulfill a promise that their heads would not be
cut off – or was he sold into slavery? He walks out of the room in
midphrase.
Telling the story of Constantinople has an immensely rich history of its
own. The present book rests on the shoulders of a long tradition of versions
in English; there is a line of succession that runs through Edward Gibbon in
the eighteenth century, via two English knights, Sir Edwin Pears in 1903,
and the great Byzantine historian Sir Stephen Runciman in 1965, and a host
of accounts in other languages. As to the difficulties of getting it right,
Kritovoulos of Imbros, a man with a good line in historical awareness,
spotted the problem five hundred years ago and provided himself with a
neat disclaimer in his dedication to Mehmet – a prudent measure when
addressing the World Conqueror when you were not actually present
yourself. Any subsequent version might wish to invoke his words:
“Therefore, O mighty Emperor, I have laboured hard, for I was not myself a
witness of the events, to know the exact truth about these things. In writing
the history I have at the same time inquired of those who knew, and have
examined exactly how it all happened … And if my words seem inferior to
your deeds … I myself … yield in the matter of historical record to others
who in such things are far more competent than I.”
 Source Notes

The pagination of this electronic edition does not match the edition from
which it was created. To locate a specific entry, please use the search
feature of your eBook reader. All references to authors relate to their books
listed in the bibliography.

Epigraph
xv “Constantinople is a city …,” quoted Stacton, p. 153
xv “I shall tell the story …,” Melville Jones, p. 12

Prologue: The Red Apple

4 “The horse faces East …,” Procopius, p. 35
6 “The seat of the Roman …,” Mansell, p. 1

1 The Burning Sea

9 “O Christ, ruler …,” quoted Sherrard, p. 11
9 “In the name of Allah …,” quoted Akbar, p. 45
10 “Tell him that …,” quoted ibid., p. 44
11 “to wage the holy war by sea,” Ibn Khaldun, vol. 2, p. 40
12 “like a flash …,” Anna Comnena, p. 402
12 “burned the ships …,” quoted Tsangadas, p. 112
12 “having lost many fighting …,” quoted ibid., p. 112
12 “the Roman Empire was guarded by God,” Theophanes Confessor, p.
676
14 “It is said that they even …,” ibid., p. 546
14 “brought the sea water …,” ibid., p. 550
14 “to announce God’s mighty deeds,” ibid., p. 550
14 “God and the all-holy Virgin …,” ibid., p. 546
15 “In the jihad …,” quoted Wintle, p. 245
16 “the place that’s the vast …,” Ovid, Tristia, 1.10
17 “more numerous than …,” quoted Sherrard, p. 12
17 “the city of the world’s desire,” quoted Mansell, p. 3
17 “O what a splendid city …,” quoted Sherrard, p. 12
18 “during this time …,” quoted ibid., p. 51
18 “It seems not to rest…,” quoted ibid., p. 27
18 “the golden stream … a drift of snow,” quoted Norwich, vol. 1, p. 202
18 “we knew not whether …,” quoted Clark, p. 17
19 “The city is full …,” quoted ibid., p. 14
20 “they are introduced …,” quoted Sherrard, p. 74
22 “will be the fourth kingdom …,” quoted Wheatcroft, p. 54

2 Dreaming of Istanbul
23 “I have seen that God …,” quoted Lewis, Islam from the Prophet, vol. 2,
pp. 207–8
24 “Sedentary people …,” Ibn Khaldun, vol. 2, pp. 257–8
24 “to revive the dying …,” Ibn Khaldun, quoted Lewis, The Legacy of
Islam, p. 197
24 “God be praised …,” quoted Lewis, Islam from the Prophet, vol. 2, p.
208
26 “on account of its justice …,” quoted Cahen, p. 213
26 “an accursed race … from our lands,” quoted Armstrong, p. 2
26 “they are indomitable …,” quoted Norwich, vol. 3, p. 102
27 “we must live in common …,” quoted The Oxford History of Byzantium,
p. 128
27 “Constantinople is arrogant …,” quoted Kelly, p. 35
27 “since the beginning …,” quoted Morris, p. 39
27 “so insolent in …,” quoted Norwich, vol. 3, p. 130
28 “they brought horses …,” quoted Norwich, vol. 3, p. 179
28 “Oh city …,” quoted Morris, p. 41
29 “situated at the junction …,” quoted Kinross, p. 24
30 “It is said that he …,” quoted Mackintosh-Smith, p. 290
31 “Sultan, son of …,” quoted Wittek, p. 15
31 “The Gazi is …,” quoted ibid., p. 14
31 “Why have the Gazis …,” quoted ibid., p. 14
34 “in such a state …,” Tafur, p. 146
35 “Turkish or heathen …,” Mihailovic, pp. 191–2
35 “They are diligent …,” Broquiere, pp. 362–5

3 Sultan and Emperor

37 “Mehmet Chelebi …,” quoted Babinger, p. 59
38 “On his clothing …,” quoted Babinger, p. 418
38 “He never took anything …,” Brocquière, p. 351
39 “If He has decreed …,” quoted Inalcik, p. 59
40 “Your father has sent me …,” quoted Babinger, p. 24
42 “my earnest desire …,” A History of Ottoman Poetry, vol. 2
43 “The Turks through such …,” Mihailovich, p. 171
43 “The treaties that …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 228
43 “He left as a bequest …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 41
44 “Why do my father’s viziers …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 227
45 “a parrot’s beak …,” quoted Babinger, p. 424
45 “The sovereign, the Grand Turk …,” quoted Babinger, p. 112
47 “a large town … now at Venice,” Brocquière, pp. 335–41
49 “a philanthropist and without malice,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 67
51 “whichever of my …,” quoted Babinger, p. 47

4 Cutting the Throat

52 “The Bosphorus …,” quoted Freely, p. 269
52 “a mob of venal …,” quoted Babinger, p. 68
52 “Come, Mr. Ambassador … since childhood,” Sphrantzes, trans.
Philippides, p. 59
53 “and by the angels …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 228
54 “Standing with their arms …,” Tursun Bey, p. 33
54 “the Emperor of …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, pp. 234–5
55 “You stupid Greeks …,” quoted Nicol, The Immortal Emperor, p. 52
56 “path of the vessels …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 11
56 “stone and timber …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 19
56 “for the construction …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, pp. 237–8
57 “now you can see …,” ibid., p. 238
57 “as a son would …,” ibid., p. 239
57 “what the city contains …,” ibid., p. 239
57 “Go away and tell …,” ibid., p. 245
57 “well-prepared for …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 21
58 “masons, carpenters …,” Mihailovich, p. 89
58 “the distance between …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 22
58 “twisting curves …,” ibid., p. 22
59 “gave up all thoughts of relaxation,” Tursun Bey, p. 34
59 “publicly offered …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 22
60 “since you have preferred …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 245
61 “not like a fortress …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 22
62 “like dragons with …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 311
62 “not even a bird …,” ibid., p. 311
62 “In this manner …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 12
64 “by a stake … I went there,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 248

5 The Dark Church

65 “It is far better …,” quoted Mijatovich, p. 17
65 “Flee from …,” quoted in an article on the Daily Telegraph website,
May 4, 2001
66 “Let God look and judge,” quoted Ware, p. 43
66 “over all the earth …,” quoted Ware, p. 53
67 “an example of perdition …,” quoted Clark, p. 27
67 “a difference of dogma …,” quoted Norwich, vol. 3, p. 184
67 “Whenever the Turks …,” quoted Mijatovich, pp. 24–5
68 “the wolf, the destroyer,” quoted Gill, p. 381
69 “If you, with your nobles …,” quoted Runciman, pp. 63–4
69 “Constantine Palaiologos …,” quoted Nicol, The Immortal Emperor, p.
58
70 “apart from …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 125
70 “We don’t want …,” quoted Gill, p. 384
71 “with the greatest solemnity …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 11
71 “the whole of the city …,” ibid., p. 92
71 “nothing better than …,” quoted Stacton, p. 165
72 “like the whole heaven …,” quoted Sherrard, p. 34
72 “Wretched Romans …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 254
74 “has not stopped marching …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 30
74 “without it … on this very account,” Kritovoulos, History of Mehmet,
pp. 29–31
74 “we must spare nothing …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 32
75 “unusual and strange …,” ibid., p. 37
75 “wheat, wine, olive oil …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 257
76 “And from this …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 3
76 “as friends, greeting them …,” ibid., p. 4
77 “firstly for the love of God …,” ibid., p. 5
77 “With these ships …,” ibid., p. 13
78 “with many excellent devices …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 265
78 “We had received as much …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 72

6 The Wall and the Gun

79 “From the flaming …,” quoted Hogg, p. 16
79 “dredged the fosse …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 37
81 “a seven-year-old boy …,” Gunther of Pairis, p. 99
82 “one of the wisest …,” quoted Tsangadas, p. 9
82 “the scourge of God,” quoted Van Millingen, Byzantine Constantinople,
p. 49
82 “in less than two months …,” quoted ibid., p. 47
84 “This God-protected gate …,” quoted ibid., p. 107
86 “a good and high wall,” quoted Mijatovich, p. 50
87 “struck terror …,” quoted Hogg, p. 16
87 “made such a noise …,” quoted Cipolla, p. 36
87 “the devilish instrument of war,” quoted DeVries, p. 125
90 “If you want …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, pp. 247–8
91 “like a scabbard,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 44
91 “iron and timbers …,” ibid., p. 44
92 “so deep that …,” ibid., p. 44
92 “On the day …,” Chelebi, In the Days, p. 90
92 “the Vezirs …,” ibid., p. 90
93 “The time limit having expired …,” ibid., p. 91
93 “The bronze flowed out …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 44
93 “a horrifying and extraordinary monster,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 248
94 “the explosion and …,” ibid., p. 249
94 “so powerful is …,” ibid., p. 249

7 Numerous as the Stars

95 “When it marched …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 315
95 “the Turkish Emperor storms …,” Mihailovich, p. 177
95 “heralds to all …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 262
96 “from among craftsmen and peasants,” quoted Imber, The Ottoman
Empire, p. 257
96 “when it comes …,” ibid., p. 277
96 “When recruiting for the …,” quoted Goodwin, p. 66
97 “Everyone who heard …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 262
97 “the promise of the Prophet …,” Sad-ud-din, p.16
97 “from Tokat, Sivas …,” Chelebi, Le Siège, p. 2
97 “cavalry and foot soldiers …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 38
98 “with all his army …,” ibid., p. 39
98 “the ulema, the sheiks …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 17
98 “begged God …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 262
99 “a river that transforms …,” quoted La Caduta, vol. 1, p. xx
99 “According to custom …,” Tursun Beg, p. 34
100 “his army seemed …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 47
100 “There is no prince …,” quoted Goodwin, p. 70
100 “as the halo …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 316
100 “the best of the …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 41
100 “A quarter of them …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 176
101 “although they were …,” ibid., p. 5
101 “I can testify …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 130
101 “We had to ride …,” Mihailovich, p. 91
102 “a river of steel,” quoted La Caduta, vol. 1, p. xx
102 “as numerous as the stars,” quoted ibid., p. xx
102 “know therefore that …,” Mihailovich, p. 175
102 “at the siege there were …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 175–6
102 “tailors, pastry-cooks …,” quoted Mijatovich, p. 137
102 “how many able-bodied men …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 49
102 “the Emperor summoned me … gloom,” ibid., pp. 49–50
103 “in spite of the great size …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 69
103 “Genoese, Venetians …,” Leonard, p. 38
103 “the greater part of the Greeks …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 146
103 “skilled in the use of …,” Leonard, p. 38
103 “The true figure remained …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 70
104 “the principal persons …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 19
104 “an old but sturdy …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 148
104 “at their own …,” ibid., p. 27
104 “John from Germany … able military engineer,” Sphrantzes, trans.
Philippides, p. 110
105 “the Greek Theophilus …” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 148
105 “the most important …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 19
106 “This was always …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 152–4
106 “with their banners …,” Barbaro, Giornale, pp. 19–20
106 “Nor do We punish …,” The Koran, p. 198
107 “we accept neither …,” Chelebi, Le Siège, p. 3
107 “encouraging the soldiers …,” Doukas, trans. Magoulias, p. 217
107 “Icons sweated …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 37
109 “man experienced in war …,” ibid., p. 40

8 The Awful Resurrection Blast

110 “Which tongue can …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 45
110 “killing some and wounding a few,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 41
111 “bringing up stones …,” ibid., p. 46
111 “burst out of the …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 266
111 “some firing …,” ibid., p. 266
111 “when they could not …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 47
111 “thirty heavily-armed …,” ibid., p. 48
112 “a terrible cannon,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 130
112 “which was protected by neither …,” Leonard, p. 18
112 “the weakest gate …,” Barbaro, p. 30
112 “a shot that reached …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 43
112 “eleven of my …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 130
113 “stones balls for cannon …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 15
113 “whatever happened, it could not …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 45
113 “certain techniques … wide of the target,” ibid., p. 45
114 “And when it had caught …,” ibid., p. 45
114 “sometimes it destroyed …,” ibid., p. 45
114 “they pulverized the wall …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 130
115 “like the awful resurrection blast,” Sad-ud-din, p. 21
115 “voicing petitions and prayers …,” Nestor-Iskander, pp. 33–5
115 “Do not betray …,” ibid., p. 35
115 “all of the people …,” ibid., p. 35
116 “shook the walls …,” Melville Jones, p. 46
116 “but since there was …,” ibid., p. 47
116 “No ancient name …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 46
116 “The assault continued …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 48
117 “cracked as it was being fired …,” ibid., pp. 48–9
118 “about thirty to …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, pp. 273–4
118 “the shot being carried …,” Melville Jones, p. 45
118 “by experiencing the force …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 103
119 “The Turks fought bravely …,” Leonard, p. 38
119 “immense power in …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 266
120 “And when one or two …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 22
120 “the heavy infantry …,” Kritovoulos, History of Mehmet, p. 49
120 “I cannot describe …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 15–16
121 “the clatter of cannons …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 37
121 “slashed to pieces … completely broken corpses,” ibid., p. 39
122 “the all-powerful God and …,” ibid, p. 39

9 A Wind from God

123 “Battles on the sea …,” quoted Guilmartin, p. 22
124 “thought that the fleet …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 38
125 “long ships …,” ibid., p. 38
125 “skilled seamen …,” ibid., p. 38
125 “a great man …,” ibid., p. 43
125 “homeland of defenders of the faith,” La Caduta, vol. 2, p. 256
126 “with cries and cheering …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 39
126 “the wind of divine …,” La Caduta, vol. 2, p. 256
126 “we put ready for battle …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 19
127 “in close array …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 29
127 “well armed …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 20
128 “Seeing that we …,” ibid., p. 20
128 “with determination,” ibid., p. 21
128 “eager cries …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 15
128 “waiting hour after …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 22
130 “wounding many …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 51
130 “and inflicted …,” ibid., p. 51
131 “in the East…,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. lxxvi
132 “either to take …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 53
132 “many other weapons …,” ibid., p. 53
133 “with ambition and …,” ibid., p. 53
133 “with a great sounding …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 23
133 “they fought from …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 53
134 “shouted in a commanding voice,” ibid., p. 53
134 “like dry land,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 269
134 “they threw missiles …,” Leonard, p. 30
134 “that the oars …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 269
134 “There was great …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 54
136 “like demons,” Melville Jones, p. 21
136 “defended itself brilliantly …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 140
136 “the sea could hardly be seen,” Barbaro, p. 33
136 “for they took it in turns …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 54
137 “and tore his garments …,” Melville Jones, p. 22
137 “at least twenty galleys,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 24
137 “stunned. In silence …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 55

10 Spirals of Blood
138 “Warfare is deception,” Lewis, Islam from the Prophet, vol. 1, p. 212
138 “the ambitions of the Sultan …,” Leonard, p. 18
139 “This unhoped-for result …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 55
139 “They prayed to their …,” Barbaro, Giornale, pp. 23–4
139 “This event caused despair …,” Tursun Beg, quoted Inalcik, Speculum
35, p. 411
140 “This event has caused us …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 301
140 “I have been accused …,” ibid., pp. 301–2
140 “groaned from the depths …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 56
140 “if you could not take them …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 25
140 “You know, it was visible …,” ibid., p. 25
141 “with a golden rod …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 214
142 “as the ripe fruit falls …,” quoted Mijatovich, p. 161
143 “Lord Jesus Christ…,” quoted Nicol, The Immortal Emperor, pp. 127–
8
143 “This was the start …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 16
143 “For such a big stretch …,” ibid., p. 16
143 “These repairs were made …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 36
144 “their huge cannon …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 17
144 “could not be seen …,” ibid., p. 17
144 “our merciful Lord …,” ibid., p. 16
145 “be certain that if I knew …,” Doukas, trans. Magoulias, p. 258
145 “by the recollections …,” Leonard, p. 28
146 “The people of Galata …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 134–6
147 “And having girdled them …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 56
148 “Some raised the sails …,” ibid., p. 56
148 “It was an extraordinary sight…,” ibid., p. 56
148 “of fifteen banks of oars …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 28
149 “It was a marvellous achievement…,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 56
150 “now that the wall …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 57
150 “When those in our fleet …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 19
150 “to burn the enemy fleet…,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 29
150 “a man of action, not words,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 111
151 “From the twenty-fourth … perfidious Turks,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 30
152 “to win honour …,” ibid., p. 31
152 “And this fusta could not have stayed …,” ibid., p. 31
152 “There was so much smoke …,” ibid., p. 32
153 “A terrible and ferocious …,” ibid., p. 33
153 “Throughout the Turkish camp …,” ibid., p. 33
153 “Giacomo Coco …,” Barbaro, Giornale, pp. 31–2
153 “The Grand Turk [makes] …,” quoted Babinger, p. 429
154 “the stakes were planted …,” Melville Jones, p. 5
154 “countless stakes planted …,” Doukas, trans. Magoulias, p. 260
154 “the lamentation in the city …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 31
154 “Our men were enraged …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 144
154 “In this way …,” ibid., p. 144

11 Terrible Engines
156 “There is a need …,” Siegecraft: Two Tenth-century Instructional
Manuals by Heron of Byzantium, ed. D. F. Sullivan, Washington, DC,
2000, p. 29
156 “Alas, most blessed Father …,” Leonard, p. 36
156 “this betrayal was committed …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 20
156 “so greedy for …,” ibid., p. 142
156 “each side accusing …,” ibid., p. 142
157 “put the rudders and sails … drop of blood,” ibid., p. 23
157 “many of their men … half a mile,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 34
158 “that could fire the stone …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, pp. 51–2
158 “came from the top …,” Leonard, p. 32
158 “of three hundred botte …,” Barbaro, Giornale, pp. 35–6
158 “some shots killing …,” ibid., p. 36
158 “a woman of excellent reputation …,” Leonard, p. 32
158 “whatever they were owed …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 279
158 “With this act of …,” ibid., p. 278
159 “two hundred and twelve …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 39
159 “because in that place …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 43
159 “clatter and flashing …,” ibid., p. 45
159 “as if on the steppes … filled with blood,” ibid., p. 45
160 “What is the defence …,” Leonard, p. 44
160 “were full of hatred …,” ibid., p. 46
160 “what certain people …,” ibid., p. 44
160 “the Emperor lacked severity …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 152
160 “The forces defending …,” Tursun Beg, p. 36
161 “fell silent for a long time …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 49
161 “he ordered all …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 53
162 “cries and the banging …,” Barbaro, p. 36
162 “bared his sword …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 55
162 “but they were unable …,” ibid., p. 57
163 “there was great mourning …,” ibid., p. 57
163 “On the eleventh … the unfortunate walls,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 39
163 “the blood remained …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 47
163 “Thus one could see …,” ibid., p. 47
163 “in the jihad against …,” quoted Wintle, p. 245
164 “let us see who …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 37
165 “believed that night …,” ibid., p. 39
165 “if it continues …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 57
165 “the Turks were already …,” ibid., p. 59
165 “the Emperor arrived …,” ibid., p. 61
165 “but the nobles of the imperial …,” quoted Mijatovich, p. 181
166 “day and night these cannon …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 40
166 “good cannon and …,” ibid., p. 40
166 “and we Christians …,” ibid., p. 40
166 “they hurriedly started rowing …,” ibid., p. 41
166 “more than seventy shots …,” ibid., p. 41
166 “with a great sounding …,” ibid., p. 44
166 “two hours after sunrise …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 55
167 “if the bridge …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 43
167 “masters in the art …,” La Caduta, vol. 2, p. 262
168 “John Grant, a German …,” ibid., vol. 1, p. 134
169 “the Christians dug counter-mines …,” Melville Jones, p. 5
169 “overtopping the walls …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 42
170 “so that shots from …,” ibid., p. 43
170 “half a mile long … small cannon,” ibid., p. 43
170 “such as the Romans …,” Leonard, p. 22
170 “it seemed, from sheer high spirits,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 53
170 “and when they saw it…,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 42
170 “suddenly the earth roared … from high,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 51
171 “long battering rams …,” Leonard, p. 22
171 “and when they had confessed …,” Barbaro, Giornale, pp. 46–7
172 “a Christian land …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 26
172 “and so we want to return …,” ibid., pp. 26–7
172 “began to weep … that they might guard it,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 35

12 Omens and Portents

173 “We see auguries …,” quoted Sherrard, p. 167
173 “misfortune to you …,” Yerasimos, Les Traditions Apocalyptiques, p.
59
174 “that universal ruin was approaching,” Melville Jones, p. 129
174 “in time the squares …,” Leonard, p. 14
174 “all of the people assembled …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 69
175 “life will be short, fortune unstable,” quoted Yerasimos, Les Traditions
Apocalyptiques, p. 70
175 “The air was clear and unclouded …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 56
175 “only three days old …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 26
175 “grew little by little …,” ibid., p. 26
176 “the Emperor was greatly …,” ibid., pp. 26–7
177 “Do thou save thy city …,” quoted Tsangadas, p. 304
177 “without any reason …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 58
177 “were unable either to stand …,” ibid., p. 58
177 “many following were in danger …,” ibid., pp. 58–9
177 “certainly foretold the imminent …,” ibid., p. 59
177 “departure of God …,” ibid., p. 59
178 “great darkness began to gather over the city,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 81
178 “at the top of … Lord have mercy …,” ibid., p. 63
179 “This is a great sign …,” ibid., p. 81
179 “Emperor: weigh all …,” ibid., p. 63
179 “do not allow them …,” ibid., p. 65
181 “many kings and sultans …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 309–10
181 “the Turks began to shout…,” Leonard, p. 50
182 “Men of Greece …,” Melville Jones, pp. 47–8
182 “taking their possessions …,” ibid., p. 48
182 “as a means of testing …,” ibid., p. 48
183 “impose as large an annual tribute …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 286
183 “your power, which is already very …,” Leonard, p. 50
184 “The Genoese are split …,” ibid., p. 50
184 “the chance of making …,” Melville Jones, p. 6
184 “decide the day of battle …,” Leonard, p. 50
184 “And all the tents …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 27
184 “This strange spectacle … like lightning,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 281
184 “It seemed that the sea …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 181
185 “Illala, lllala …,” Leonard, p. 54
185 “the sky itself would …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 48
185 “they appeared to be half-dead …,” Doukas, trans. Magoulias, p. 221
185 “Spare us, O Lord …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 281
185 “I cannot describe …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 27
186 “Misfortune to you …,” quoted Yerasimos, Les Traditions
Apocalyptiques, p. 157

13 “Remember the Date”

187 “These tribulations are …,” quoted Inalcik, The Ottoman Empire: The
Classical Age, p. 56
187 “a great rug to be …,” Mihailovich, p. 145
188 “they did nothing apart from …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 49
188 “the provincial governors and generals …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p.
59
188 “fashioned out of gold and silver …,” ibid., p. 61
189 “once we have started …,” ibid., p. 62
190 “to be silent …,” ibid., p. S3
190 “you know how many …,” Melville Jones, pp. 48–9
190 “but if I see …,” ibid., p. 49
190 “by the four thousand …,” Leonard, p. 54
191 “Once the city of …,” quoted Babinger, p. 355
191 “O, if you had heard …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 156–8
192 “and all us Christians …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 49
193 “for the advantage of …,” ibid., p. 21
193 “right away his resolution …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 75
193 “treated him all night …,” ibid., p. 77
193 “it was a thing … ending the bombardment,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 60
194 “The Prophet said …,” quoted Babinger, p. 85
195 “Gardens watered by …,” The Koran, p. 44
195 “You well know …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 302
195 “God has promised you …,” The Koran, p. 361
197 “that all who called themselves …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 50
198 “evil Turks … for his horses,” Leonard, p. 56
198 “you have decorated … immortal glory,” ibid., p. 58
198 “only two or three …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, pp. 61–2
200 “fell to the ground … reached to heaven,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 87
200 “Children of Muhammad …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 49
201 “that to us it seemed …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 56
201 “with all their weapons …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 49
201 “and when each side …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 29
201 “from dusk till dawn …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 27
201 “the Emperor mounted …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Carroll, p. 74
202 “On the same night …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 61

14 The Locked Gates

203 “There is no certainty …,” Ibn Khaldun, vol. 2, p. 67
203 “the moat has all been filled …,” Kritovoulos, History of Mehmet, p. 62
204 “three thousand …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 283
205 “victory was assured,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 42
206 “Christians, kept in his camp …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 30
206 “Greeks, Latins, Germans …,” Leonard, p. 16
206 “with arrows from … blasphemies and curses,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli,
p. 66
206 “threw big stones down … dying on one side or the other,” Barbaro,
Diary, p. 62
207 “Advance, my friends …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 67
207 “like lions unchained …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 52
207 “When they heard …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 71
208 “killed an incredible …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 52
208 “We hurled deadly missiles …,” Leonard, p. 60
208 “all brave men,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 52
208 “they continued to raise …,” Leonard, p. 60
208 “Sometimes the heavy infantry …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 67
209 “that the very air …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 53
210 “where the city’s defenses …,” Leonard, p. 40
210 “they were frightened by nothing …,” ibid., p. 40
210 “men who were very …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 68
211 “neither hunger …,” ibid., p. 68
211 “the blackness of night …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 158
211 “the bowmen, slingers and …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 68
211 “there were so many …,” Melville Jones, p. 7
211 “the rain of arrows … war cry,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 68
211 “not like Turks …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 53
211 “With their great shouting …,” ibid., p. 53
211 “eager and fresh …,” ibid., p. 53
212 “like men intent …,” ibid., p. 53
212 “all his nobles …,” ibid., p. 53
212 “javelins, pikes …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 68
212 “fell, struck by …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 160
212 “taunts, those stabbing …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 69
212 “It seemed like something …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 53
212 “We repelled them …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 161
212 “brave soldiers …,” Leonard, p. 44
213 “wicked and merciless fortune,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 68
214 “Friends, we have the city …,” ibid., p. 70
215 “such cries that it seemed …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 54
215 “so that they made …,” Melville Jones, p. 50
216 “Then all the rest of …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 70

15 A Handful of Dust
217 “Tell me please …,” Sherrard, p. 102
217 “ordered his trumpeters …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 296
218 “attacked them …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 71
218 “to create universal terror …,” ibid., p. 71
218 “everyone they found …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 55
218 “threw bricks and …,” Nestor-Iskander, p. 89
218 “the whole city was filled …,” Melville Jones, p. 51
219 “their wives and children … friends and wives,” Doukas, Fragmenta,
p. 295
219 “beautifully embellished …,” Doukas, trans. Magoulias, p. 228
219 “slaughter their aged …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 29
219 “nations, customs and languages,” Melville Jones, p. 123
219 “plundering, destroying …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 71
219 “terrible and pitiful … their bed chambers,” ibid., pp. 71–2
220 “slaughtered mercilessly … and the infirm,” Leonard, p. 66
220 “The newborn babies …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 295
220 “dragging them out …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 72
220 “young and modest …,” ibid., p. 72
220 “holy artifacts and …,” ibid., p. 73
220 “walls of churches and sanctuaries …,” ibid., p. 73
220 “The consecrated images …,” Melville Jones, p. 38
220 “led to the fleet …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 67
220 “hauled out of the … things were done,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 73
221 “and from the West …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 292
222 “to search for gold …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 34
222 “and so they put …,” Barbaro, Diary, p. 67
222 “churches, old vaults …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 74
223 “men, women, monks …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 296
223 “the fury of … help them,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 185–6
224 “not without great danger …,” ibid., p. 44
224 “I always knew that …,” ibid., p. 44
225 “We were in a terrible situation …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 36
225 “all of us would …,” ibid., p. 37
225 “at midday with …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 58
225 “like melons along a canal,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 36
226 “some of whom had been drowned …,” ibid., p. 36
227 “to the very heavens,” Procopius, quoted Freely, p. 28
228 “trapped as in a net,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 74
228 “a certain spot, and … extraordinary spectacle,” Doukas, trans.
Magoulias, p. 227
228 “in an instant …,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 292
228 “ransacked and desolate,” ibid., p. 227
229 “the blind-hearted emperor,” Sad-ud-din, p. 30
230 “the Emperor turned to …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 214
230 “The Emperor of Constantinople …,” ibid., pp. 184–5
230 “Weep Christians …,” Legrand, p. 74
231 “The ruler of Istanbul …,” quoted Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of
Europe, p. 30
231 “seventy or eighty thousand …,” quoted Freely, pp. 211–12
232 “like a fire or a whirlwind …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, pp. 74–5
233 “mounting as [Jesus] … castle of Afrasiyab,” quoted Lewis, Istanbul,
p. 8
233 “dumbfounded by … a few pence,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 219–21
233 “gold and silver …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 327
234 “women and children …,” Norwich, vol. 3, p. 143

16 The Present Terror of the World

235 “Whichever way I look …,” Melville Jones, p. 135
235 “I ransomed … in pain and grief,” Camariotes, p. 1070
236 “scattered across …,” La Caduta, vol. 2, p. 416
236 “said that we did …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, pp. 44–6
237 “full of wine … the bloodthirsty beast,” Doukas, trans. Magoulias, pp.
234–5
237 “and the Islamic invocation …,” quoted Lewis, Istanbul, p. 8
237 “the sweet five-times-repeated …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 33
237 “what a city we have …,” Kritovoulos, Critobuli, p. 76
238 “Nothing worse than this …,” quoted Wheatcroft, The Ottomans, p. 23
238 “a great and excessive crying …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. xxxviii
239 “On the day when the Turks …,” quoted Schwoebel, p. 4
239 “What is this execrable news …,” quoted ibid., p. 9
239 “in this year was …,” ibid., p. 4
239 “the cunning of the Pope …,” Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of Europe,
p. 32
239 “the Sultan and all the men …,” Ibn Taghribirdi, pp. 38–9
240 “stuffed with straw … Turks,” Doukas, Fragmenta, p. 300
240 “It is your responsibility …,” Inalcik, The Ottoman Empire, p. 56
240 “there must … be only …,” quoted Schwoebel, p. 43
240 “Our Senators would not …,” Barbaro, Giornale, p. 66
241 “I thank Muhammad …,” quoted Schwoebel, p. 11
241 “The enemy is at …,” quoted Babinger, p. 358
242 “We ourselves allowed …,” quoted Babinger, pp. 170–71
245 “general enemy Ottoman … malignant and turbaned Turk,” Othello
245 “the first troop … their mother,” quoted Nabil, p. 158
245 “the churches which were within the city …,” Sad-ud-din, p. 33
246 “Be Patriarch …,” quoted Runciman, The Fall of Constantinople, p.
155
246 “Here in the land of …,” quoted Mansel, p. 15
246 “The Turks do not compel …,” quoted Mansel, p. 47
246 “a second death for Homer and Plato,” quoted Schwoebel, p. 9
247 “made up of a horse and a man,” quoted Nabil, p. 159
247 “a reflection of the infinite …,” quoted Levey, p. 15
250 “I beheld the prospect …,” quoted Istanbul: Everyman Guides, p. 82
250 “What I have created …,” quoted Levey, p. 18
250 “the sight whereof …,” quoted Mansel, p. 57
251 “It seems to me …,” quoted Freely, p. 14

Epilogue: Resting Places

253 “It was fortunate for …,” quoted Babinger, p. 408
253 “a short, thick neck …,” quoted ibid., p. 424
254 “men who have seen him …,” quoted ibid., p. 424
254 “his father was domineering …,” quoted ibid., p. 411
254 “there are no ties …,” quoted ibid., p. 405
256 “I am George Sphrantzes …,” Sphrantzes, trans. Philippides, p. 21
256 “my beautiful daughter Thamar …,” ibid., p. 75
256 “I confess with certainty …,” ibid., p. 91
256 “either from his wound …,” La Caduta, vol. 1, p. 162
256 “Here lies Giovanni Giustiniani …,” quoted Setton, p. 429
259 “like a border of tulips,” Chelebi, La Siège, p. 2
260 “Among the fragments …,” Gilles, p. 130

About the Sources

261 “There were so many …,” La Caduta, vol. 2, p. 261
265 “Therefore, O mighty Emperor …,” Kritovoulos, History of Mehmet,
pp. 4–6
 Bibliography

Collections of Sources
Jorga, N., Notes et extraits pour servir à l’Histoire des Croisades au Xve
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Legrand, Emile, Recueil de Chansons Populaires Grecques, Paris, 1874
Lewis, Bernard, Islam from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of
Constantinople, 2 vols., New York, 1974
Melville Jones, J. R., The Siege of Constantinople 1453: Seven
Contemporary Accounts, Amsterdam, 1972
Pertusi, Agostino, La Caduta di Costantinopoli, 2, vols., Milan, 1976

Individual Sources
Barbaro, Nicolo, Giornale dell’ Assedio di Costantinopoli 1453, ed. E.
Cornet, Vienna, 1856; (in English) Diary of the Siege of Constantinople
1453, trans. J. R. Melville Jones, New York, 1969
Broquière, Bertrandon de la, in Early Travels in Palestine, ed. T. Wright,
London, 1848
Camariotes, Matthew, “De Constantinopoli Capta Narratio Lamentabilis,”
in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeco-Latina, vol. 160, ed. J.
P. Migne, Paris, 1866
Chelebi, Evliya, In the Days of the Janissaries, ed. Alexander Pallis,
London, 1951
________, “Le Siège de Constantinople d’après le Seyahatname d’Evliya
Chelebi,” trans. H. Turkova, Byzantinoslavica, vol. 14, 1953
Comnena, Anna, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, trans. E. R. A. Sewter,
London, 1969
Doukas, Decline and Fall of Byzantium to the Ottoman Turks, trans. Harry
J. Magoulias, Detroit, 1975
________, Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, vol. 5, Paris, 1870
Gilles, Pierre, The Antiquities of Constantinople, London, 1729
Gunther of Pairis, The Capture of Constantinople: The Hystoria
Constantinopolitana of Gunther of Pairis, ed. and trans. Alfred J.
Andrea, Philadelphia, 1997
Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, 3 vols., trans. Franz Rosenthal, London,
1958
Ibn Taghribirdi, Abu al-Mahasin Yusuf, History of Egypt, Part 6, 1382–
1469 A.D., trans, W. Popper, Berkeley, 1960
Khoja Sa’d-ud-din, The Capture of Constantinople from the Taj-ut-
Tevarikh, trans. E. J. W. Gibb, Glasgow, 1879
Kritovoulos, Critobuli Imbriotae Historiae, ed. Diether Reinsch, Berlin,
1983; (in English) History of Mehmet the Conqueror, trans. Charles T.
Riggs, Westport, 1970
Leonard of Chios, De Capta a Mehemethe II Constantinopoli, Paris, 1823
Mihailovich, Konstantin, Memoirs of a Janissary, trans. Benjamin Stolz,
Ann Arbor, 1975
Nestor-Iskander, The Tale of Constantinople, trans, and ed. Walter K. Hanak
and Marios Philippides, 1998
Procopius, Buildings, London, 1971
Pusculus, Ubertino, Constantinopoleos Libri IV, in Ellissen, Analekten der
Mittel-und Neugriechischen Literatur III, 1857
Spandounes, Theodore, On the Origin of the Ottoman Emperors, trans, and
ed. Donald M. Nicol, Cambridge, 1997
Sphrantzes, George, The Fall of the Byzantine Empire: A Chronicle by
George Sphrantzes 1401–1477, trans. Marios Philippides, Amherst, 1980
_______, A Contemporary Greek Source for the Siege of Constantinople
1453: The Sphrantzes Chronicle, trans. Margaret Carroll, Amsterdam,
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Tafur, Pero, Travels and Adventures, 1435–1439, trans. Malcolm Letts,
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Theophanes Confessor, The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor, trans.
Cyril Mango and Roger Scott, Oxford, 1997
Tursun Beg, The History of Mehmet the Conqueror, trans. Halil Inalcik and
Rhoads Murphey, Minneapolis and Chicago, 1978

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Akbar, M. J., The Shade of Swords: Jihad and the Conflict between Islam
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Armstrong, Karen, Holy War: The Crusades and Their Impact on Today’s
World, London,1992
Atil, Esin, Levni and the Surname: The Story of an Eighteenth-Century
Ottoman Festival, Istanbul, 1999
Ayalon, David, Gunpowder and Firearms in the Mamluk Kingdom, London,
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 Acknowledgments

The idea for this book has been on the road for such a long time that the
debts for its creation are many. The fact that it now exists is due most
immediately to Andrew Lownie, my agent; Julian Loose at Faber; and Bill
Strachan at Hyperion for believing in the story, and then to the professional
and enthusiastic teams at both publishers for making it happen.
For its deepest origins I am always grateful to Christopher Trillo, the
champion of Istanbul, for persuading me to go there in 1973, and a small
army of old friends who have advised along the way: Andrew Taylor,
Elizabeth Manners, and Stephen Scoffham for proposal and manuscript
reading; Elizabeth Manners again for her cover photographs of the wall
paintings from the monastery of Moldovita in Rumania; John Dyson for a
huge amount of help in Istanbul sourcing books and arranging photographs,
and for hospitality; Rita and Ron Morton for matching hospitality in
Greece; Ron Morton and David Gordon-Macleod for taking me to Mount
Athos to glimpse the living Byzantine tradition; Annamaria Ferro and
Andrew Kirby for translations; Oliver Poole for photographs; Athena
Adams-Florou for scanning pictures; Dennis Naish for information on
casting cannon; Martin Dow for advice on Arabic. To all these people I am
very grateful. Last and always my deep thanks are to Jan, not only for
proposal and manuscript reading, but also for surviving Turkish dog bites
and the author year in, year out, with love.

I am also grateful to the following publishers for permission to reproduce

substantial extracts included in this book. Material from The Tale of
Constantinople by Nestor-Iskander, translated and annotated by Walter K.
Hanak and Marios Philippides, courtesy Aristide D. Caratzas, Publisher
(Melissa International Ltd); material from Babinger, Franz: Mehmet the
Conqueror and His Time © 1978 Princeton University Press, reprinted by
permission of Princeton University Press.
 Index

The pagination of this electronic edition does not match the edition from
which it was created. To locate a specific entry, please use the search
feature of your eBook reader. Note: Page numbers in italics refer to
illustrations.

Abraham of Ankara, 236

Aegean Sea, underwater volcanic eruption in (718), 14
Ahmet (older brother of Mehmet), 39
Ahmet, Little (younger brother of Mehmet), 43, 50–51
Ahmet Gurani, 40
Ahmeti (chronicler), 31
Akshemsettin, Sheik, 140, 142, 184, 195,237
Alexander the Great, 17, 42, 56
Alexios, pretender to throne, 28
Alfonso of Aragon and Naples, 62
Ali (brother of Mehmet), 39, 40
AliBey, 51
Alp Arslan, Sultan, 25
Al-Rawandi, 25
Anadolu Hisari, 55, 57
Anatolia
army at Constantinople, 95, 164, 208, 209, 210
Byzantine kingdom in exile in, 28–29, 30
Genghis Khan in, 29
Great Idea in, 257
Osman (Ottoman) rule of, 30, 39
refugees in, 29
 site of, 2
Turkish raids on, 25–26
Andrew (Mehmet Pasha), 256
Andronikos III, Emperor, 30, 33
Andronikos the Terrible, 27, 83
Anemas, dungeon of, 83
Anthemius, 82
Antichrist, 174, 241
Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, 186
Apollo, temple at Delphi, 227, 237
Arabs
and Islam, 10
as Saracens, 22
in Sea of Marmara, 14
in sieges of Constantinople, 21–22, 74, 85, 108, 173, 176, 194
Virgin as protector against, 176
Armenia, Islam conquest of, 11
Arrian, 42
Asia Minor, Turkish conquest of, 26
Ataturk, Kemal, 231, 257
Attila the Hun, 82
Avars, siege of Constantinople (626) by, 21, 84, 85, 86, 176
Aya Sofya, Istanbul, 237, 247 see also St. Sophia
Ayyub, martyrdom of, 15, 139, 194, 237,255

Baalaam of Calabria, 67
Baghdad
caliph of, 24
sacking of, 192
sultans in, 24, 25
Baltaoglu (admiral), 111–12, 125, 128, 129, 132–34, 136, 140–41
barbarians, 243
Barbaro, Marco, 240
Barbaro, Nicolo
on Byzantine navy, 128, 139, 151–53, 157, 159
at city walls, 120, 143, 144, 185, 188, 193–94, 206, 207, 208, 211, 215
 diary of, 76, 163
escape from Constantinople, 224–25
on fall of Constantinople, 193, 211, 212, 215
on Genoese spies, 156
on lunar eclipse, 175–76
on Ottoman navy, 126, 127
on pontoon bridge, 167
on power of prayer, 139, 201
as ship’s doctor, 76
Battle of Agincourt, 102
Battle of Manzikert, 25–26
Battle of the Masts, 11
Bayezit I, Sultan, 36, 55
Bayezit II, Sultan, 246, 254
Bellini, Gentile, paintings by, 45, 254
Benedict XII, Pope, 67
Benvenuto (consul), 230
Blachernae
imperial palace of, 83, 104, 203, 210
shrine of Virgin at, 86
Bocchiardi brothers, 78, 104, 210, 213, 217, 236
Bosphorus
Asia and Europe divided by, 2, 30, 55
blockade of, 62–64, 76, 123, 161
guns guarding, 91
location of, 16, 248–451
Mehmet’s control of, 55–59
Throat Cutter on, 58, 61–64, 70, 76, 91, 123, 258
war of the sea in, 123–30, 132–37, 138, 150–55, 157
winters on, 74–75
Brankovi , George, 53
Brightman, Thomas, 245
Brocquière, Bertrandon de la, 35, 38, 47
Bulgars, Constantinople besieged by, 21, 23
Bursa
capture of, 30
 Janissaries in, 54, 56
tombs in, 31
Byzantine Empire
capital city of, see Constantinople
Christian symbols of, 4–5, 5
civil wars in, 34, 35, 85
and crusades, 26–29
death of, 202, 227–29, 257
decline of, 28, 32, 33–36, 46–47, 191
Doctrine of Economy, 71
dynastic succession in, 32, 38
emperor as God’s vice-regent, 17, 20
fatalism of God’s will in, 20, 180
fear of siege in, 5
as first Christian nation, 17–18
and Great Schism, 65–72
and Greek Byzas, 16
Greek fire used by, 11–13, 14, 82, 104, 209
guns and gunpowder of, 90
heir to Roman Empire, 6, 13, 17, 21, 22
lost glories of, 257–58
massacres in war, 233–34
Mehmet underestimated by, 54–55, 240
Ottoman surrender offers to, 106–7, 182–83
in Peloponnese, 257–58
prophecy in, 20, 57, 173–80, 186, 221, 257
scope of, 21
ships of, 135
spirituality in, 19
superstition in, 20, 21, 175–79
war as constant in, 21, 23

Caesar, Julius, 42, 56

Cafer Bey, 214
Camariotes, Mathew, 235
Campi, Jacopo de, 153–54
Cantacuzenos, Demetrios, 105, 218, 230
Cantacuzenos, John, 31
Cantacuzenos, John VI, 35
Cantacuzenos family, 105
Catalan soldiers, 78, 105, 223, 236
Catholic Church, see Roman Church
Chalcocondylas (Byzantine chronicler), 100, 101, 219, 230
Chelebi, Evliya, 92
Chosroes, 10
Christendom
and Antichrist, 174, 241
armies of, 35
Byzantium as first nation of, 17–18; see also Byzantine Empire
Constantinople as icon to, 2, 174, 246
converts sought in, 19
Council of Florence (1439), 68, 69, 70
crusades of, 5–6, 26–29, 35, 40–41
fading influence of, 245
Great Schism in, 65–72; see also Orthodox Church; Roman Church
Islam vs., 2, 7, 15, 25, 41, 43, 74, 228, 231, 241–43, 245
“People of the Book,” 26, 32
relics of, 9, 17–18, 197, 219, 220, 228
ships of, 135
slavery in, 33
spirituality of, 19
tolerated in Ottoman Empire, 246
True Cross as relic of, 9, 84, 197
unity as issue in, 35, 65–72, 75, 106, 242
Virgin Mary as protector of, 14, 21, 27, 75, 84, 86, 98, 163, 175–77
Christian I, king of Denmark, 239
Coco, Giacomo, 76, 150–54, 156, 157, 159
Constantine I (the Great), 198, 227
and church doctrine, 68
Constantinople founded by, 16, 17, 173, 251
myths and prophecies of, 174
tomb of, 254
Constantine XI, Emperor
background of, 46, 49
coin of, 50
constitutional position of, 68
death of, 215, 229–31, 257, 258
and Great Schism, 65–66, 68, 69–70, 72, 106
help sought from the West, 56, 57, 62, 130–34, 138–39, 144, 161, 172,
181, 183
hopelessness of, 172, 179, 193, 201–2
myths and prophecies of, 50, 174, 257,259
peace offer from, 139–43
personal traits of, 49–50
refusal to leave the city, 182–83
in siege of the city, 160, 161, 181, 197–99, 206, 211, 212, 213
signature of, 46
spirit in Peloponnese, 257–58
successors to, 50
as uncrowned, 68–69
war councils of, 165, 168, 183, 198
war preparations of, 75–76, 102–6
Constantinople
armies assembled for, 102–3
Avar siege of (626), 21, 84, 85, 86, 176
blockade of (717), 13–14
bronze horses removed from, 28, 47, 191
Bulgar sieges of, 21, 23
Byzantine recapture of (1261), 28–29
as Christian icon, 2, 174, 246
citizens sold into slavery, 235
crusades at, 5–6, 26–29, 67, 191, 196, 234
decline of, 33–36, 46–47, 53
defenses of, 21–22, 61–62, 75–76, 79–86, 102–6, 108–9, 160, 167, 170–
71, 176, 192–93, 196–99, 204–5
destruction of, 191, 191, 217–34, 237
divine protection for, 14, 21, 27, 75, 84, 86, 163, 175–80, 178, 197–98
earthquakes in, 34, 82, 84, 107,
escape from, 156, 161, 179, 214–16, 218, 222–26, 238, 255–56
final assault against, 206–16
fortified outposts of, 97–98, 111
founding of, 16, 17, 173, 251
geography of, 16–17, 79, 85, 258
harsh winters in, 74–75
Hippodrome in, 47
imaginative view, 2–3
as Islam holy place, 15, 27
as Islam target, 9–16, 22, 43, 107, 189, 194–95
as Istanbul, 30, 237; see also
Istanbul land walls of, see land walls
layout of, 17
lunar eclipse in, 175–76
magnetic pull of, 21, 30
maps, xii-xiii, 48
Mehmet’s early plans against, 41–42
Mehmet’s siege of, see 1453 siege of Constantinople
Mehmet’s threats against, 62–63
Mehmet’s triumphal entry into, 231–34, 259
mother church of, see St. Sophia
Muawiyyah’s attack on (669), 11–13
multinational forces in, 104–6, 160, 164, 184, 193, 196–99, 204
Murat’s attacks on (1422, 1430, 1446), 36, 49, 87–88, 99, 104, 106, 123
omens and portents in, 173–80, 185, 186, 221, 223, 259
Ottoman encampment outside, 100–102
as Ottoman target, 5, 30, 32, 36, 48–49, 74, 142, 189–90, 194–95, 240
Palaiologos dynasty of, 46
plague in, 34
population in, 34
rebuilding of, 237, 245–47; see also Istanbul
as Red Apple, 4, 5, 31, 97, 108, 190–91, 221
as Rum (Rome) in Islam, 21, 25, 29
Russian sieges of (860 and 941), 21, 84
sack of (in Fourth Crusade), 28, 29, 67, 80, 191, 196, 234
sealed against enemies, 98–99
 as seat of Roman Empire, 6
sea walls of, 80, 103, 126, 149–50, 161, 199, 258
splendor of, 17, 27
survival skills of, 14
taxation of, 26
trade with, 16–17, 27, 75, 247
war as constant in, 85
wealth assumed in, 21, 97, 108, 188, 190–91, 200, 226
Contarini, Jacopo, 105
Contarini, Philippo, 218
Corfu, Antonio de, 153
Crete
siege of, 90, 234
spirit of Constantine in, 258
crusades, 26–29
against Ottomans, 35, 40–41, 67, 239, 241–42
beginnings of, 26
Clermont sermon on, 26
Constantinople besieged by, 5–6, 26–29, 191, 196, 234
end of, 41
Fourth Crusade, 5–6, 27–28, 29, 67, 80, 191, 196, 234
Cyprus, Islam conquest of, 11

Dallam, Thomas, 250

Dandolo, Enrico, 27–28, 229
Dar al-Harb (House of War), 10, 15
Dar al-Islam (House of Islam), 10, 15
Darius, king of Persia, 16, 55
Demetrios (brother of Constantine), 46, 50, 62, 63, 131
Diedo, Aluvixe, 105, 128, 151, 224–25
Doctrine of Economy, 71
Dolfin, Dolfin, 157
Dolphin emblem, 1
Doria, Zorzi, 127
Doukas (Greek chronicler), 43, 73
on bombardment of Galatea, 158
 on Byzantine armies, 204
on cannons, 90, 94, 117
on methods of punishment, 64, 141,237
on Ottoman armies, 97, 184
on peace negotiations, 183
on Rumeli Hisari, 59
on surrender, 228
on war of the sea, 134, 141
Dracul, Vlad, 154

Eastern Mediterranean, map, x-xi

Edirne
Ottoman city of, 3, 35, 39, 40, 44
Shiites in, 41
Edward III, King, 87
Egypt
Islam conquest of, 11
Shiite dynasty in, 24, 25
Elizabeth I, queen of England, 250
Eugenius IV, Pope, 68
Europe
Ottoman conquests in, 31–33, 35
Reformation in, 246
scientific discoveries in, 243–45
Eyüp, martyrdom of, 194

Firuz Bey, 62
Flanders, Count of, 28
Florence, Council of (1439), 68, 69, 70
1453 siege of Constantinople
beginning of, 107–9
bombardment sustained in, 114–17, 118–19, 120, 122, 143, 151, 159–
65, 166, 175, 185, 188, 194, 202, 203
cannons in, 88–94, 93, 110–11 112–17, 119, 158–59, 162, 208–9, 259
casualties in, 108, 119–21, 153, 163
consequences of, 240–43, 245–47
 defeat and destruction in, 191, 191, 217–34, 237
defense preparations, see Constantinople; land walls
escape from the city, 156, 161, 179, 214–16, 218, 222–26, 238, 255–56
fighting inside city walls, 165, 213, 214–15
final assault in, 187–92, 193–95, 199–202, 205–16
mining tunnels underneath, 110–11, 167–69, 171
morale of troops and civilians in, 107, 108, 115, 140–43, 161, 167, 174–
82, 184–85, 188, 190, 191–92, 194–95, 197–98
negotiations in, 106–7, 130, 139–43, 182–83, 192
noise of battle, 115, 120–22, 162, 191, 209, 211
omens and prophecies of, 107, 108, 118, 163, 173–75, 176–80, 182, 186
Ottoman fleet transported over land, 145–49
Ottoman army in, see Ottoman army
pontoon bridge in, 159, 167, 189, 199, 209–10
relief sought from the West, 130–34, 138–39, 144, 161, 172, 181
siege tower in, 156, 169–71
siege warfare in, 72–73, 139, 167, 181
war for the fosse (moat), 111, 116. 119, 120–21, 159–60, 189, 203
war of the sea, 123–30, 132–37, 135, 138, 150–55, 157, 205, 209–10
Fourth Crusade, 5–6, 27–28, 29, 67, 80, 191, 196, 234
Francisco of Toledo, Don, 78, 107
Franks, 7, 68, 106
Frederick Barbarossa, Emperor, 84
Frederick III, Holy Roman Emperor, 62, 239
Fulcher of Chartres, 17

Galata, 149
bombardment of, 158–59
defensive chain at, 103, 157
Genoese colony in, 2, 27, 47, 62, 78, 146, 236, 245
and Golden Horn, 80, 150–55
neutrality of, 103, 128, 146, 157, 184, 195, 229
postwar destruction of, 236
prosperity of, 47, 146
rebuilding of, 245–46
religious tolerance in, 245–46
 seeking refuge in, 224
ships and soldiers from, 78, 146, 197
spies from, 155, 156, 159
Gallipoli
earthquake in, 31
Ottoman naval base at, 123
as talismanic city, 125–26
Genghis Khan, 29
Gennadios (Scholarios), 69–72, 75, 191, 223, 245–46
Genoese
Constantine’s appeals for help from, 62, 131
in Galata, 2, 27, 47, 62, 78, 146, 236, 245
as gunrunners, 87
Ottoman conquest of, 241
in Sea of Marmara, 132–37
ships and soldiers in Constantinople, 78, 79, 104, 127, 196–97, 198
Venetians vs., 156–57, 184, 196–97
Geoffrey de Villehardouin, 28
George of Hungary, 38, 96, 246
Georgevich, Bartholomew, 245
Gilles, Pierre, 251, 260
Giustiniani, Nicholas, 179
Giustiniani family, 78
Giustiniani Longo, Giovanni arrival of, 78
and city defenses, 79, 103, 104, 106, 109, 110–11, 121, 204, 205, 206,
211, 212
in competition for resources, 160, 164, 196
as crucial to city’s defense, 193, 204, 211
death of, 256–57
and escape from the city, 161, 214, 215, 217, 226
injuries to, 192–93, 196, 213–14
and land walls, 79, 86, 118, 143–44, 159, 185, 192, 196, 199, 204
in siege of Constantinople, 160, 162, 165, 185, 196, 205, 206, 211
and war of the sea, 146, 150, 152, 161
Golden Horn, 16, 149
attempted attack on Ottoman fleet in, 150–55
 chain across, 28, 80, 103, 126, 129–30, 145, 157, 166
escape from, 223–26
and final assault, 2.05, 209–10
guarding of, 105, 198–99
land wall at, 86, 112
Ottoman fleet transported over land into, 145–50
Ottoman navy control of, 128, 154, 157, 195
pontoon bridge across, 159, 167, 189, 199, 209–10
and sea walls, 80, 126, 149–50
sheltered anchorage in, 80, 127
Grant, John, 168–69, 171
Great Idea, 257
Great Schism, 65–72
and authority of the pope, 66
and bull of excommunication, 65–66
and Council of Florence (1439), 68, 69, 70
and Doctrine of Economy, 71
filoque omitted from creed, 66–67, 68
and unionists, 70–72, 106
Greece
refugees to, 28
Turkish occupation of, 257
Greek fire, 11–13, 14, 82, 104, 209
Greeks
Byzas, 16
exile of, 255–56
and Great Idea, 257
Orthodox religion of, see Orthodox Church
Ottoman conquest of, 241, 257
war vessels of, 124
Gregory (patriarch of Constantinople), 69, 71
Grezi, Troilo de, 153
Grioni, Zacaria, 151
Gurani, Ulema Ahmet, 142, 184
Gutenberg, Johannes, 243
Hadith, prophecies of, 15, 31, 163, 194
Hafiz, Hazret, 194
Halil Pasha (chief vizier)
as adviser to young Mehmet, 40, 41,42
and Byzantine demands, 54–55
death of, 255
and Janissary revolt, 42, 139, 141
and Mehmet’s early plans, 42, 43–44, 53,73
peace sought by, 61, 72, 139, 141–42, 183
and Throat Cutter, 58
and war tactics, 108, 189, 210
Hamza Bey, 141, 154, 195, 199, 218, 226
Hannibal, 254
Harff, Arnold von, 246
Hasan of Ulubat, 214
Helena (mother of Constantine), 50
Heraclius, 9–10, 10, 84
Hexamilion wall, 88
Hippodrome, emperor at, 9
Hodegetria, 98, 176–77, 176, 197, 220
Homer, 21, 213, 246
Hormisdas, ruined palace of, 234
Humbert of Mourmoutiers, 65–66
Hungarians
Constantine’s appeals for help from, 62, 181
crusades led by, 35, 40–41
Mehmet’s treaty with, 11 7–18
Huns, 23, 82
Hunyadi, John, 53, 62, 117, 181

Ibn Battutah, 30, 34

Ibn Khaldun, 24
Igor, Prince (Russia), 21
Innocent III, Pope, 67
Iran, Muslims in, 24
Iraq, Muslims in, 24
Ishak Pasha, 99, 189–90, 210
Isidore, Cardinal, 69–71, 105, 222–23, 236, 257
Islam
adversaries as infidels, 7
Arabs unified in, 10
Christendom vs., 2, 7, 15, 25, 41, 43, 74, 228, 231, 241–43, 245
Constantinople as target of, 9–16, 22, 43, 189, 194–95
dervishes, 25, 31
holy wars of, 11, 23, 25, 43, 74, 97, 106–7, 108, 189, 194–95; 243
law of jihad, 15, 24, 32, 107, 183, 221, 242
martyrdom in, 15, 31, 97, 189, 195,201
militant spirit of, 24–25, 242–43
and news of Constantinople’s defeat, 239–45
pilgrimage routes of, 240
protectorate of the holy places, 240
and Rum (Rome), 21, 25, 29
sharia law of, 32
Shia dynasty of, 24, 25, 41
sparse purity of, 19
spread of the Faith, 13, 15, 107
Sunni tradition of, 24, 25, 29
surrender and conversion to, 9–10, 19, 107, 182, 221, 235–36
worldwide anti-Islamic sentiment, 239–45
Ismail (emissary), 182
Istanbul
Fatih district of, 254, 255
Gunner Verban District in, 255
as multicultural capital, 245–47
name of, 30, 237
rebuilding of, 245–47, 248–49, 250–51
today, 258–59
Topkapi Palace in, 38, 250–51, 254 see also Constantinople

Janissaries, 99
call to arms, 96
encampment of, 99, 100
 fighting at the walls, 121, 144, 162, 189–90, 211–12, 214
in final assault, 206, 210–12, 214–16, 226
formation of, 33
loyalty demanded of, 54
revolts of, 42, 54, 56, 139, 141
spoils of war to, 141, 190, 226–28
strengthening of, 39
as sultan’s bodyguard, 190
on war vessels, 132
Jason and Argonauts, 16
Jerusalem
crusades against, 26–29
Islam conquest of, 11
John from Germany, 104
John the Baptist, head of, 17
John V, Emperor, 83
John VIII, Emperor, 49, 67
Justinian, Emperor
church of St. Sophia built by, 18, 200
equestrian statue of, 4–5, 5, 47, 174, 200, 226, 237, 260
and prophecy, 179

Kallinikos, 12
Kara Bey, 60
Kara Hizir Pasha, 39
Karaja Pasha, 97, 99, 189, 210, 213
Karaman, Bey of, 40, 41, 53–54
Khan Krum, 85
Komnenos, John, 52–53, 186
Koran, 32
on holy war, 97, 106–7, 195
Kosovo
first battle of, 38
second battle of, 43
Kritovoulos (Greek chronicler), 124, 148, 189
on cannons, 91, 116
 on final assault, 211, 213
on omens and portents, 107
on rise of Ottoman Empire, 74
on Rumeli Hisari, 61
on sack of Constantinople, 220
Kurds, 24
Kuwae, eruption of volcano on (1453), 180

Ladislas, king of Hungary, 40, 41

Lake Garda, fleet transported over land at, 145–46
land walls, 1–2, 2, 81
bombardment of, 107, 112, 114–17, 118–19, 120, 122, 143, 151, 159–
65, 166, 175, 185, 188, 194, 202, 203
building of, 16
Charisian Gate, 104, 199, 203, 205, 259
Circus Gate/Wooden Gate, 186, 259, 260
defenders on, 103, 104–6, 129, 207–9, 212–16
as effective defense, 5–6, 13, 21, 80–86, 114, 204
effects of artillery on, 87–88, 106, 114, 115–16, 118–19, 143, 159, 162,
185–86, 199, 203, 209
in final siege, 204–5, 207–9, 212–16, 218
gates of, 83, 203, 205, 215
Golden Gate, 81, 84, 105, 257, 259
at Golden Horn, 86, 112
imperial palace at, 83, 104, 112, 189, 203, 210, 259
at Lycus River valley, 85–86, 104, 110, 112, 118, 120, 143, 185, 189,
199, 203, 259
maintenance of, 84, 86, 106, 115, 143–44, 163, 166, 185, 199, 204
mining tunnels underneath, 110–11, 167–69, 171
and moat (fosse), 82–83, 111, 116, 119, 120–21, 159–60, 189, 203, 259
monuments of, 83, 87
right-angle turn of, 86, 104, 112, 164, 186, 259
St. Romanus Gate, 104, 107, 112, 118, 129, 143, 148, 159, 164, 165–66,
199, 205, 207
today, 258–59
towers of, 82, 85, 143
 Virgin’s protection of, 84
war preparations of, 76, 86, 103–4, 196
weak points of, 85–86, 104
Languschi, Giacomo de, 45
Lecanella, Francesco, 132
Leo II, Emperor, 13–14
Leonard, Archbishop, 146, 198, 256
on brutality, 154, 220
on city defenses, 106, 114, 160, 208, 212
death of, 257
on Ottoman armies, 101, 119, 136, 206, 210
on overland transport of ships,
on sack of Constantinople, 191, 220
on tools of war, 114, 170
Leonard of Chios, 70, 181, 193, 236
Leontari, Manuel Bryennius, 84–85
Lithgow, Edward, 250
Lomellino, Angelo, 224–25, 236
Longo, Alviso, 131
Longo, Giovanni Giustiniani, see Giustiniani Longo, Giovanni
Luke the Evangelist, Saint, 176
lunar eclipse, 175–76, 182
Lysippos, 17

Maffei, Celso, 241

Mahmut Pasha, 99, 189–90
Mamluks, 146, 253
Mammas, Gregory, 68
Manuel, Emperor, 36
Manuel II, Emperor, 49, 55, 142–43
Marangon, Zuan, 153
Marmara Sea, see Sea of Marmara
Mary, Saint, as protector, 14, 21, 27, 75, 84, 86, 98, 163, 175–77
Maslama, General, 13,16
Mehmet II, Sultan aging of, 235, 253–54
ambitions of, 42, 45, 53, 72–73, 142, 144, 184, 188, 192, 241, 246
 as Antichrist, 174, 241
armies assembled by, 95–102
ascending the throne, 52
in battle, 43, 54, 211–12
birth and childhood of, 37–39, 44
Constantinople’s defenses studied by, 61–62, 86
at Constantinople’s gates, 6, 174, 189, 211–12
death of, 241, 254–55
education of, 39, 40
encampment of, 100–102
and father’s death, 43–45
and final assault, 187–90, 206–11, 214
history studied by, 73, 146
influences on, 41–42
and Little Ahmet’s murder, 50–51
as logistical genius, 58–59, 94, 95–97, 102, 107–8, 124, 148–49, 170,
203, 205–6, 210, 240
and military technology, 72–73, 90–94, 93, 170
personal traits of, 38, 40, 44–45, 52, 53, 144–45, 147, 149, 253
prestige of, 240, 253
as protectorate of the holy places, 240
role models of, 56
and spoils of war, 235–36
superstitions of, 58, 179, 237, 260
surrender invitation from, 106–7
tomb of, 254–55
triumphal entry into Constantinople, 231–34, 259
tugra of, 37
underrated by opponents, 53–55, 240
war councils of, 41–42, 74, 183–84, 188–90
war headquarters of, 99, 104
Mehmet III, Sultan, 51
Melissenos (Greek chronicler), 116, 149, 154
Michael the Janissary, 35, 43, 95, 101, 102, 187
Michael the Syrian, 26
Middle Ages cannon in, 86–94, 93
 catapult trebuchets in, 112, 115, 138
composite bow in, 24
disease in, 34, 108, 139
engineering in, 82, 85, 147, 167, 169
Greek fire in, 11–13, 14, 82, 104, 209
gun factory methods in, 92–93, 93
guns and gunpowder in, 86–94, 88
horse warfare in, 24
impalement in, 153–54
massacres in war, 233–34
naval warfare in, 124–30
power of prophecy in, 20, 97, 173–86
saltpeter used in weaponry in, 87, 89, 113
siege warfare in, 32, 72–73, 85, 87, 139, 167, 181, 205
superstitions in, 4, 20, 21
Middle East, bezant as gold standard of, 21
Milvian Bridge, Battle of, 173
Minotto (Venetian bailey), 76–77, 104, 217, 236
Mistra, 257–58
Mongols, 24, 29, 36, 192
moon, eclipse of, 175–76, 182
Mount Olympus, 2
Muawiyyah, Caliph, attack on Constantinople, 11–13
Muhammad
Arabs unified by, 10
death of, 11
prayers to, 139
prophecies of, 31, 189, 194, 239
surrender demanded by, 9–10
Murat I, Sultan, 33, 38
Murat II, Sultan
abdication of, 40–41
armies of, 39, 87
death of, 43–45, 52
final years of, 43
return to rule, 42–43
 sieges of Constantinople (1422, 1430, 1446), 36, 49, 87–88, 99, 104,
106, 123
and son’s birth, 37
successors to, 39–41, 43
titles of, 38
Muslims, see Islam; Ottoman Empire
Mustapha (Anatolian commander), 164

Negroponte, island of, 238, 241

Nestor-Iskander, 101, 121, 159, 163, 165, 174, 178–79, 192, 200
Nicene Creed, 30, 66
Nicephorus Palaiologos, 105
Nicephorus Phocas, Emperor, 84, 234
Nicetas Chroniates, 27, 28
Nicholas I, Pope, 66
Nicholas II, Pope, 62, 64, 241
and Great Schism, 65–66, 69–71
and relief of Constantinople, 131–32
Nicholas V, Pope, 243
Notaras, Grand Duke Lucas capture of, 223, 236–37
and city defenses, 105, 106, 129, 168
in competition for resources, 160, 164, 196
and Constantine’s death, 229

Odo de Deuil, 27
Omar Bey, 162
Orban
cannons built by, 90–94, 93, 113
injury of, 117
supergun made by, 91–94, 112, 116–17, 259–60
survival of, 255
Orhan, Prince
death of, 223, 229
at Eleutherii, 105
maintenance fees for, 54–55, 56, 74
as pretender to Ottoman throne, 41,42, 53, 54
 in siege of Constantinople, 199, 222
Orhan, Sultan
at Bursa, 30, 31
tomb of, 31
tugra (imperial cipher) of, 36
Orthodox Church
antipapacy in, 68
and crusades, 26
Doctrine of Economy, 71
Great Schism in, 65–72, 106
postwar restoration of, 245–46
power of, 18
Russian conversion to, 18–19, 228
and war, 174–75
Oruch (chronicler), 231
Osman, tomb of, 31 Osman tribe, 29–30 see also Ottoman Empire
Ottoman army, 32–33, 35, 95–102
Anatolian sector of, 95, 164, 208, 209, 210
animals of, 101, 102
auxiliaries of, 102
banner of, 96
call to arms, 74, 95–97
call to prayer, 101, 163
cavalry, 244
celebration of, 233
Christian sector of, 96
courage under fire, 119, 208, 214
encampment of, 100–102
European sector of, 95, 101
final assault by, 206–16
gathering of, 98–100, 199
Janissaries, see Janissaries
logistics of, 97, 100, 107–8, 113, 181
makeup of, 33, 39, 87, 95–96
marching, 3–4, 99
military band, 203
 morale of, 180–82, 184–85, 188, 190, 191–92, 194–95
plunder as motivation for, 97, 107, 108, 183, 190, 195, 201, 222, 228
preparation for final assault, 189–90, 192, 194, 199–204, 205–6
reforms of, 56
ring of fire, 184–85, 192
size of, 102
Ottoman Empire
armies of, see Ottoman army
art of, 250
calligraphy of, 247
cannons of, 88–94, 93, 112–14, 159,208–9, 259
capital of, see Istanbul
civil war in, 42, 55, 74
crusades against, 35, 40–41, 67, 239, 241–42
dynastic succession in, 38–39, 51, 254
European conquests by, 31–33, 35
gazis of, 30–32, 74, 240
guns of, 87–94
and laws of Islam, see Islam
multicultural identity in, 6, 95, 101, 246
navies of, 33, 36, 55, 59, 62, 123–30, 132–37, 135, 138, 195
origins of, 29–33
people of, 33
prophecies of, 97, 182, 186
publications about, 243, 244, 245
refugees to, 246
rise of, 31–33, 74
sultans in, 38
taxation in, 32
triumph of, 231–34, 239–45
viziers in, 255
and world power, see Red Apple
Ovid, exile of, 16

Padishah, use of title, 38

Palaiologos
 descendants of, 256
double-headed eagle as emblem of, 34
dynasty of, 46–47
Paul the Silentiary, 18
Peloponnese
siege of, 88, 131
spirit of Constantine in, 257–58
Persian Empire
alliances against, 23
Islam conquest of, 11
Mongol attacks on, 29
Padishah in, 38
siege of Constantinople (626) by, 21
Philippe de Commynes, 254
Piccolomini, Aeneas Sylvius, 239
Pius II, Pope, 241–42
plague, 34,35
Plataea, battle of (479 B.C.), 227
Plato, 246
Princes’ Islands, 111–12
printing, invention of, 243–45
Procopius, 4–5, 18, 246–47
Pseudo-Methodius, Apocalypse of, 186

Red Apple
Budapest as, 243
Constantinople as, 4, 5, 31, 97, 108, 190–91, 221
Rome as, 241, 243
Vienna as, 243
Reformation, 246
Renaissance, 243
Rhangabes (Greek officer), 162–63
Rizzo, Antonio, 63–64, 70, 76, 91
Roman Church
and crusades, see crusades
Great Schism in, 65–72, 131
 “Rum Papa” in, 68; see also specific popes
unity as issue in, 35, 65–72, 75, 106, 242
Roman Empire
Byzantine Empire as heir to, 6, 13, 17, 21, 22
Constantinople as seat of, 6
Italian city-states in, 67
as Ottoman target, 241–43
war vessels of, 124
Romanus Augustus Argyrus, Emperor, 20
Romanus IV Diogenes, Emperor, 25
Rumeli Hisari, 52, 61, 258
and Bosphorus blockade, 62–64
construction of, 56–61
garrison in, 62
Russia, Constantinople besieged (860 and 941) by, 21, 84
Russian Orthodox Church, 18–19, 228

Sad-ud-din (Ottoman chronicler), 43, 62, 201, 219, 245

St. Elmo’s fire, 180
St. George, monastery of, 174
St. Sophia, Constantinople, 18–19, 19, 47, 65, 84
appearance of fire in, 178–79
built by Justinian, 18, 200
bull of excommunication on, 65–66
coronations in, 68–69
dark, 174
dome of, 30, 34, 234
doors of, 221, 227, 258
equestrian statue outside, 4–5, 5
in final siege, 200, 220–21
and Great Schism, 65–66, 68–69, 71–72
history of Byzantium reflected in, 227–28
legend of, 229, 232
as mosque, 237, 247
ransacked by Ottoman army, 226–28, 232–33
ransacked in Fourth Crusade, 28
 today, 258
and war preparations, 98, 197, 199–200
Saladin, 24, 146
Saracens, 22, 242, 245
Saruja Pasha, 58
Saxon silver miners, 167–69
Scholarios, George (Gennadios), 69–72, 75, 191, 223, 245–46
scientific discovery, age of, 243–45
Sea of Marmara
Arab ships destroyed in (718), 14
and Constantinople’s defense, 79–80, 81
final assault at, 190, 205, 218
and land wall, 81, 105
naval blockade of, 128, 132–37, 135
palace ruins at, 234
Princes’ Islands in, 111–12
Selim “the Grim,” Sultan, 254
Seljuks, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29
Shia dynasty, 24, 25, 41
Shihabettin Pasha, 41, 58
Soligo, Bartolamio, 103
Spain, Muslims and Jews expelled from, 246
Sphrantzes, George, 52–53, 55, 78, 102–3, 107, 201–2, 223, 256
Steco, Andrea, 153
Sufism, 25, 29
Sultan of Rum, use of title, 38
Sunni Moslems, 24, 25, 29
Syria, Arab attack on, 10–11

Tafur, Pero, 34
Tamburlaine (Timur), 36
Tartars, victories of, 43
Tetaldi, Giacomo, 100, 101, 102, 126, 169, 185, 223, 230
Theodora (wife of Constantine), 258
Theodore (brother of Constantine), 50
Theodore of Karystes, 104
Theodosius, 82
land wall of, 1, 80–86, 81, 258
Theodosius II, Emperor, 84
Theophanes the Confessor, 14
Theophilus, 105
Thessaloniki, 49
Thomas (brother of Constantine), 50, 62, 63
Timur (Tamburlaine), 36
Trapezuntios, George, 6
Trebizond, Emperor of, 52
Trevisano, Gabriel, 76–77, 105, 151, 152, 164, 166, 226
Trojan War (Homer), 21
True Cross, 9, 84, 197
Turahan Bey (Ottoman general), 63, 184
Turks
armies of, 33
as barbarians, 243
Bulgars, 21, 23
courage under fire, 119, 208, 214
emergence of, 23–26
expansion of, 35
gazis, 30
and Greeks, 257
Huns, 23, 82
Islam established among, 24
and lunar eclipse, 175–76
as military slaves, 33
military superiority of, 24, 25–26, 43, 89, 181
Osman tribe of, 29–30; see also Ottoman Empire
plunder sought by, 25, 29
publications about, 243, 244, 245
savage, myths of, 33, 173
Seljuks, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29
Sunni Moslems, 24
term as insult, 7, 33, 242–43, 245
Tursun Bey (Ottoman chronicler), 98, 132, 139, 160, 233
Tutmose III, Pharaoh, 227

ul-Ensari, Ebu Seybet, 194

ul-Ensari, Hamd, 194
Urban II, Pope, 26

Varna, Christian defeat at (1444), 41, 42, 43, 49, 50, 52

Venetian Council of the Twelve, 164
Venetians
cannons of, 90
captured in battle, 217–18, 236
Constantine’s appeals for help from, 62, 63, 130–32
in Constantinople, 76–77, 164, 196–97, 198
escape from Constantinople, 179, 224–26, 238
and Fourth Crusade, 27–28, 80
Genoese vs., 156–57, 184, 196–97
gunrunners of, 87
at Lake Garda, 145–46
as naval commanders, 150
and news of Constantinople’s defeat, 238–39
Ottoman wars against, 241
St. Mark’s and, 35
ships of, 76–77, 77, 123, 151, 161, 164, 172
spies, 108, 240
trade routes of, 131
Vienna
Ottomans halted at (1683), 242
as Red Apple, 243
Virgin, see Mary, Saint
Vladislas, king of Hungary, 117

Zaganos Pasha
and bombardment, 147, 148
and construction projects, 58, 99, 113, 146
and war plans, 189, 195, 209–10
as war promoter, 41, 142, 183–84, 255
 Praise for 1453

“Swiftly paced, useful guide to understanding the long enmity between

Islam and Christianity.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Crowley’s fascinating account … reads more like lively fiction than dry
recounting of historical events. The characters … are drawn in great detail
from historical source material to bring them to life on the page.”
—Los Angeles Times

“Crowley manages to invest his retelling of the siege of Constantinople

with almost nail-biting drama.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“Gripping—the drama of 1453 is offered by Roger Crowley, an ex-teacher

with a pedagogue’s gift for anticipating queries and injecting life into an
old, if perpetually fascinating, story.”
—The Economist
 Also by Roger Crowley

Empires of the Sea

City of Fortune
 About the Author

© OLIVER POOLE

Roger Crowley was born and brought up in England and studied English at
Cambridge University before going to live and work in Istanbul, where he
developed a strong interest in the history of Turkey. He has traveled
throughout the Mediterranean basin over many years and has a wide-
ranging knowledge of its geography and past. He is also the author of
Empires of the Sea and City of Fortune.
 Copyright

Copyright © Roger Crowley

Maps © John Fowler

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of
1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval
system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For
information address Hyperion, 1500 Broadway, New York, New York
10036.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the original hardcover edition of

this book as follows:

Crowley, Roger
1453: the holy war for Constantinople and the clash of Islam and the
West/Roger Crowley.
p. ; cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4013-0850-6
1. Istanbul (Turkey)—History—Siege, 1453. 2. East and West. 3. Islam
and world politics. I. Title.

DR730.C76 2005
949.61’98014—dc22
 2005046384

eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-0558-1

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