Ottoman Read online

  Ottoman

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 1990

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1990 by Macdonald & Co.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  BOOK THE FIRST

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  5

  BOOK THE SECOND

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  BOOK THE THIRD

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  BOOK THE FOURTH

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Postscript

  “Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai

  Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,

  How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp

  Abode his destin’d Hour, and went his way.”

  Omar Khayyam

  (translated by Edward Fitzgerald)

  BOOK THE FIRST

  The Capital of the World

  “The spider’s curtain hangs before the portal of Caesar’s palace;

  And the owl stands sentinel on the watch-tower of Afrasiab.”

  FIRDUSI

  Words spoken by Mahomet II on 1 June 1453, as he gazed at the ruins of Constantinople.

  1

  The Golden Horn

  Mail-clad soldiers stood on the outer wall of the city, by the Gate of St Romanus, and looked down on the cavalcade winding its way towards them.

  The wall, made of cemented stone and brick, furnished with watchtowers from which pennants drifted in the breeze, rose twenty-five feet above a breastwork, which itself rose out of a ditch sixty feet broad and fifteen deep. Beyond the ditch were open fields, with not a tree to block the horizon or offer concealment to an approaching foe. These fields were mostly under cultivation, or used for pasture; the cattle-herders and farmers, roughly-dressed men whose backs were bent with toil, also ceased work to gaze in mingled alarm and disgust at the flowing, multi-coloured silk robes of the approaching horsemen, and then back at the walls of their city.

  Constantinople made a reassuring sight. If the watchers from the fields could see the sun glinting on the spears and helmets of the soldiers, they could also see that behind the guards lay some sixty feet of open ground before the inner main wall was reached. This rose forty feet, and had one hundred and twelve towers, each sixty feet high. Defended by such a massive fortification, surely the people of the Byzantine Empire could dwell in peace and security; these walls, built by the Emperor Theodosius II in the sixth century, had never been breached.

  But like the farmers, the soldiers muttered anxiously and pulled their beards as the embassy approached. For the horsemen rode beneath a fluttering green flag bearing the golden crescent insignia of the Ottoman Turks.

  The gate was opened, and the embassy entered the narrow streets of the city, hooves striking sparks from the cobbles. The Greeks hurried from their homes and shops to gaze at the brown faces with the fiercely hooked noses and long moustaches, the heavy beards and the rich silk robes, the domed helmets and chain-mail breastplates, the magnificent Asian horses and the gleaming spears and scimitars of the people they both hated and feared.

  Once upon a time, a thousand years into history, the Byzantine Empire had stretched from the Taurus Mountains to the Pyrenees, from the Arabian desert to the Danube. Now it had shrunk to a single city, and where the mailed cataphracts had once rode in glory, the land now lay beneath the rule of the Turkish sipahis.

  The word that an Ottoman embassy had arrived rapidly spread through the city. More and more people abandoned work to throng the streets, forming a crowd behind the Turks, which moved towards the old inner city of Byzantium and the royal palace.

  For months they had been awaiting news of the great army commanded by the famous soldier. Janos Hunyadi, marching east from Hungary at the behest of the Pope himself. For years they had dreamed of succour from the West, as previous armies had sought out the descendants of Othman. But no previous army had been led by Hunyadi. Now the news had surely come.

  But the men bringing it were not western knights, nor did they ride like defeated men.

  In the Imperial Palace, beyond the white gate and inside the inner city of old Byzantium, Zagan Pasha was conducted into the great reception hall of the emperors. In the huge, pillared doorway he paused; he had not been here before.

  It was not the business of an ambassador of the Emir Murad ever to show appreciation, much less awe, at foreign surroundings, but Zagan could not help but be impressed. He had never seen a room so long or so wide, a ceiling so high supporting pillars as thick and symmetrical. But then, he had never seen such exquisitely inlaid marbled tiles as those on the floor, such bright geometric designs as covered the roof. Only when he glanced left and right did he experience disapproval: the walls were covered in paintings, mostly of a woman and her child. No Muslim could accept such reproduction of the human form as being less than an affront to the teachings of the Prophet.

  Also there were women present, a cluster of tall hats and heavy brocaded gowns on the far side of the room. The presence of women at a place where men would discuss business was frivolous.

  Zagan marched forward, his soft boots making little sound on the floor; his aides marched at his back. He approached the throne, which was on a stepped dais at the rear of the room. It was the only chair in the hall. At the foot of the steps he bowed low before the Emperor John VIII Paleologus, as if he was still the most powerful monarch in the world, then straightened and looked at the men grouped behind the throne. These included the emperor’s brother, Constantine Dragases; Grand Duke Lukas Notaras, the most powerful lord in the city; princes of the blood such as Theophilus Paleologus and Andronicus Cantacuzene; nobles such as the Bocchiardi brothers and Theodore of Karystos; and the patriarch Gennadius. Like the soldiers on the walls, these rich and famous men stroked their beards, pulled their moustaches, smoothed their fine robes, the crimsons and blues laced with gold and silver thread, and whispered at each other as the Turks approached.

  Perhaps Zagan Pasha smiled; it was difficult to be sure as he also stroked his moustache, and in any event his face was immediately controlled.

  “There has been a great battle, Your Excellency.”

  John Paleologus leaned forward, lined face twisting with anxiety. He was still a handsome man, despite his age and permanent depression. His moustache was clipped short, his beard carefully pointed to give his features the appearance of strength. He wore a purple tunic with a stiff collar and a high-domed felt hat with a pronounced peak. He waited.

  “At Kossovo,” the envoy said, “twenty-five thousand armoured men marched behind Hunyadi’s standard. They were armed with handguns.”

  A ripple of whispers swept through the Byzantine courtiers. Handguns were hardly more than a rumour to most people.

  “The Emir met them,” the envoy said, “with a hundred thousand men. The Janissaries had but bows and arrows.”

  “They were defeated?” John whispered, scarce daring to hope. “The Janissaries were defeated?”

  Now Zagan Pasha did smile, openly. “For two days did the battle rage. The soldiers of both sides erected palisades in front of them as they faced each other at barely a hundred feet distance. The handguns did terrible execution. It is said there were counted thirty thousand Janissaries dead upon the field. The field is now called ‘the Field of the Blackbirds’, from the crows which
came to feast.”

  John sighed. Thirty thousand Turks. “And the Christians?” he asked.

  Zagan Pasha bowed again; he had carefully saved the best for last. “The Christian army is no more, Your Excellency.”

  John stared at him and sat straight. His courtiers rattled their swords.

  “You lie,” growled Lukas Notaras.

  Zagan Pasha bowed, and snapped his fingers. One of the men standing behind him stepped forward with a small bag. The envoy offered it to the Emperor.

  John blanched, and would not touch it. Notaras himself came round the throne, took the bag, released the string and emptied its contents into the palm of his hand. It was a single object, a withered piece of flesh. Notaras shuddered, and let it fall to the floor.

  On the far side of the reception hall the group of watching women whispered excitedly.

  Zagan Pasha bowed again. “You will observe, Your Excellency, that it is uncircumcised. It was cut from the still-living body of a Hungarian knight but three days ago.”

  “It cannot be,” Notaras muttered, still looking at the severed penis.

  “Hunyadi was ill-served, Your Excellency. Prince Drakul of Wallachia deserted him during the fight, and Prince George Brankovich of Serbia followed.”

  “What else could you expect?” snorted the Patriarch. “The man’s sister is in the Emir’s harem.”

  Zagan Pasha bowed. Mara Brankovich was indeed reputed to be Murad’s favourite wife.

  “And Hunyadi?” the Emperor asked.

  “The warrior escaped, with the remnants of his force. The Emir bade me bring you this news, Your Excellency. Truly, he grieves for you, and wishes you good counsel.”

  Again his gaze swept over the princes of the Empire.

  “Hang the dog,” Notaras said. “Hang him by the balls until they tear away. His insolence is intolerable.”

  “He is an envoy,” John said wearily. He looked old, tired, and defeated. And ill. He was all of those. Janos Hunyadi had been the third general to lead an army against the Turks in the last thirty years; he was also the third to see his followers annihilated. There would be no more. But the Emperor could not allow the Turk to see his despair. “Thank your master, my cousin the lord Murad,” he said. “Congratulate him on his victory, and tell him I shall pray for the souls of the gallant men who have died. Tell him I shall indeed seek wise counsel.”

  Zagan Pasha bowed, looked round at the princes a last time, and backed from the throne room.

  “Take that thing away,” the Emperor muttered, and a page hurried forward.

  “Insolent dog,’ Notaras said again, staring after the retreating Turk. “You are too soft with these people, Your Grace.”

  “They are strong, we are weak,” the Emperor observed. “To amuse ourselves by executing one Turk would do nothing to improve our position. I fear now that it can never be improved. We lie like a babe in the arms of a hungry giant, waiting to be consumed. What is the date?”

  “It is the twentieth of October, Your Grace,” said Gennadius.

  “A black day: 20 October 1448. Remember it, my lords. A black day. It heralds the doom of Constantinople.”

  “Constantinople has never fallen to assault,” Constantine Dragases declared, concerned at his brother’s pessimism. “When the Franks gained the city in 1204, it was only by treachery. And it will not fall to assault now. There is no force on earth that can breach these walls, or climb them.”

  “True, had we the men to defend them,” Notaras sneered. “You will hold thirteen miles of wall with five thousand men? These spineless rats will muster no more.”

  “There will be men,” Constantine declared. “My mission to the courts of the Franks aroused great enthusiasm. There are men coming from everywhere, from Italy and France, Spain and Genoa.”

  “And from Venice?” the Grand Duke inquired.

  Constantine flushed. “Not from Venice. They are the friends of the Turk. But,” he added eagerly, “there are even men coming from England. Men who fought beneath the English king, the great Harry. Men who were at Agincourt.”

  “You mean you have recruited a lot of papists,” Gennadius said disparagingly. “We want none of them here. I tell you frankly, I would rather see Murad himself worshipping in our cathedral than any cardinal.”

  “They are men who will fight for us,” Constantine insisted, and half turned his head to listen. Even as he spoke, the great bells of St Sophia were beginning a mournful dirge. The news had already reached the priests and was now about to be told to the populace. Hunyadi had been defeated.

  *

  The Genoese carrack made but minimal way against the fast-flowing current. There was a fair breeze and every sail was set, but the round ship, for all her three masts and varnished topsides, sailed like the tub she resembled. Her bottom was foul; long strings of weed trailed away from the carvel-built hull, but she was capable of little speed even when scraped clean.

  “It is a slow business.” The master agreed with John Hawkwood’s unspoken impatience. “The current is very strong. The Black Sea, beyond that land you can see, is fed constantly by the great rivers. It is relatively fresh, and seeks an outlet. The Mediterranean is salt and evaporates. Thus the Black Sea flows constantly south through the Bosphorus and then the Dardanelles to join the Aegean. Between the two straits is this Marmara, the White Sea, constantly replenished. And debouching from those narrows at such speed…” He shrugged.

  John Hawkwood knew the man was speaking the truth. Three days ago they had clawed their way up that very narrow passage called the Dardanelles, which was hardly a mile wide, he estimated. The land on either side was dead: brown, hilly, uncultivated, deserted. Then he had seen a castle on the Asiatic shore, as brown and forbidding as the land out of which it rose, but it was towered, castellated, and occupied. There were flags streaming in the wind and he caught the glint of armour.

  “Is that Greek or Turkish?” he had asked. He spoke Italian slowly, but well enough to make himself understood.

  “It is Turkish,” the Genoese captain had told him. “Whatever you see is Turkish. From the Taurus to the Danube, the Ottomans rule. Constantinople is but a jewel, floating in the midst of a hostile sea.”

  Hawkwood scratched his beard as he studied the shore. “And these Turks do not dispute this passage?”

  The captain smiled. “They have tried to do so from time to time. My ship is heavily armed.” He pointed at the swivel guns mounted on the lower deck, designed to sweep an approaching enemy with nails and pieces of scrap-iron as well as lead bullets. “They have but galleys.”

  “Were there cannon on that headland, they would render these narrow straits impassable.”

  “Cannon? What do you know of cannon, Englishman?”

  “Something,” Hawkwood said.

  The captain smiled again. “The Turks know nothing of such things. They fight with bows and arrows.”

  “And yet conquer the world.”

  The smile faded. “There are great numbers of them,” he muttered.

  *

  Hawkwood went down the ladder from the poop to the waist, to join his family and tell them that their journey would last a few hours longer.

  Once they had left the Dardanelles behind, the carrack’s progress had improved on the broad waters of the Sea of Marmara, yet it had taken two days to traverse the last ninety miles. Now they were again closing the land. Beyond lay the strait known as the Bosphorus, out of which, as the captain had explained, the waters of the Black Sea came eternally pumping.

  Hawkwood’s family had also seen the land, and were gathered to stare at it. They stood out from amongst the Genoese seamen by virtue of their size and colouring. John Hawkwood was proud of his sons. At twenty, William was two inches over six feet, the same height as his father, and he had the same curling red hair and ruddy complexion; the same heavy muscles, too, to accompany the bold, confident features.

  Anthony, four years younger, was cast in the same mould, and would prob
ably grow even bigger than his brother, even if he as yet lacked hair on his chin. Catherine, who was eighteen, matched them perfectly, not as tall, but with equally glowing hair and complexion. She would never be beautiful: her features were too strong — but what man could resist the swell at breast and buttock, and the suggestion of long legs beneath her green cotehardie? She was wearing her best for their arrival in Constantinople.

  John Hawkwood stood beside his wife, shorter than her children, a surprisingly slight mother for such a brood of lions. Now she shuddered. “It is a dead country,” she said. “There is no green.”

  “It is a heathen land,” he offered by way of explanation. “We will be at the Golden Horn by nightfall.”

  There she would find beauty, he trusted. There they would find everything they sought. They had to, or he would have made a catastrophic decision. But the very name, the Golden Horn, promised wealth and fortune to a man bold enough to pluck it. John Hawkwood had never lacked confidence.

  He was fifty years old in this Year of Our Lord 1448. From his earliest youth he had followed the profession of arms. Although descended from a tanner, his was now a martial family; his grandfather’s brother, also named John, had been knighted on the field of Crecy by King Edward III of England, and had then gone to Italy to become a leader of mercenaries — a condottiere. The first John Hawkwood had married the daughter — illegitimate to be sure — of the Duke of Milan, and had risen to the rank of Captain General of Florence before his death, only four years before the birth of his grandnephew.

  John Hawkwood the younger saw no reason why he should not emulate his famous namesake, save perhaps in the matter of marriage — he already had a wife. But as a leader of men he could go further. He was a specialist, as his father and grandfather had been before him. He was an artillerist.

  Unfortunately the term was as yet hardly understood, even by armies. John Hawkwood’s grandfather had fought beside his brother at Crecy. William Hawkwood the elder had been only a boy, but even then he had helped to serve the guns. They had not been needed; the Welsh archers had been sufficient to destroy the French. Sixty-nine years later, as a boy of seventeen, John Hawkwood the younger had followed Great Harry to Agincourt, marching with his father beside the guns. Then, too, the archers had done the work.