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  “Galata,” the captain explained. “Our Genoese colony here in the east. That is our destination.”

  *

  Men on the Galata side of the entrance strained at the spokes of a giant capstan wheel to which the thick rope end of the chain was attached, and a portion of the boom was laboriously lowered. The carrack entered the harbour under shortened sail, to be immediately surrounded by small boats to take her lines and carry them ashore, so that the big ship could be slowly winched alongside one of the quays. The Hawkwoods hurriedly repaired to the cabin to assemble their scanty luggage; they were the only passengers to have come this far, and had had the afterquarters mostly to themselves in the fortnight since leaving Piraeus.

  They found themselves the centre of interest as they stepped ashore, their legs uncertain on firm ground after so many weeks at sea. It was by now late evening, but people crowded to stare at their red hair and admire the splendid physiques of the new arrivals. “They are Vikings,” someone remarked in Italian.

  Oh, indeed, Anthony Hawkwood thought; we are Vikings, come to save you from the forces of evil. He felt the blood pounding in his arteries; if Galata was no more than a typical seaport, with its large warehouses and mean houses, brusque men and sideways-glancing women, he had fallen in love with the city across the harbour at first sight, even without having yet set foot in it.

  *

  They were given accommodation for that night in the inn where the captain himself lodged, all five of them huddled in one bed — and surprised to find the night air so cool. They had earlier found it difficult to digest the strange meal placed before them, in which meat and vegetables were combined to make a kind of dry stew, to which were added various unfamiliar spices; while instead of ale or the soft Italian vintages they had become used to on board ship, they were given Byzantine wine which was sharp on the palate and made them shudder.

  “Is there no wholesome food and drink in this place?” Mary complained.

  “You will cook what you wish when we have a house of our own,” John promised her.

  “And when will that be?” she inquired.

  “Why, as soon as I have been interviewed by this Prince Constantine, tomorrow.”

  “May we come with you, Father?” Anthony asked eagerly.

  John Hawkwood considered, then shook his head. “It is best I went alone.” He smiled at the boy’s obvious disappointment. “For tomorrow you can explore Galata — add mind you stay out of mischief.”

  He had been warned by the Genoese sea-captain of the hostility he, a Catholic, could expect from the Byzantines, so John was in no hurry to expose his family to possible insult in the city. Indeed, he was himself somewhat apprehensive as he took the ferry across the harbour the next morning.

  If the huge harbour seemed oddly desolate with only the fishing fleet on the move — although he noticed some twenty war galleys moored further up the curving gulf — the city itself appeared even more awe-inspiring at close hand. As John climbed the stone steps from the ferry to enter by one of the water gates, he gazed up at the immense walls, higher and thicker than he had previously estimated. His soldier’s eye immediately discerned that the defences were in need of repair in many places, the stonework beginning to crumble. There was also scarcely a handful of men in sight — but no doubt the embrasures would fill up rapidly enough, were a Turkish army to appear in sight.

  Once within the walls, he looked around and found himself in a cauldron of noise and hustle and heat, even if it was late October. He gazed at narrow cobbled streets, teeming with humanity and domestic animals, with all their odours and bristling cacophony. He looked around at the close-packed houses, which varied capriciously from huts hardly better than hovels to porticoed palaces rising high above his head. He inhaled the scents of perfume and slops, roasting lamb and cooling retsina. John Hawkwood had visited London more than once, and had believed that one big city was much like another; but here, instead of claustrophobia, there was an odd sensation of freedom in the warm sunshine, the gentle breeze, and in the scanty clothing all around him. In his tunic and jerkin he felt quite overdressed.

  The people themselves appeared to be of every size and colour, race and creed. They varied from fair-haired Macedonians to black-skinned Africans, though his was the only red hair to be seen. They spoke in a wide variety of languages, and Hawkwood was relieved to hear the occasional word of Italian; but there was no English.

  The officer inside the water gate, resplendent in mail cap and corselet, examined his credentials: a piece of parchment given him by the Byzantine envoy who had enlisted him, and written in Greek. Hawkwood had no idea what it said, but it must convey not only that he was a volunteer come to serve the Emperor, but also the fact that he could speak only Latin, because the officer, having looked him up and down, summoned one of his subordinates and gave him instructions.

  The man nodded. “You will accompany me,” he addressed Hawkwood in Italian.

  “Willingly,” Hawkwood agreed. “But will you tell me where we are going?”

  “I am to present you to the Prince. Your passport speaks of others?” the sergeant observed.

  “My family waits for me in Galata.”

  During this time the captain’s face never relaxed its severity. But soon the sergeant was leading the way through the crowd, Hawkwood attracting curious glances.

  “Your captain is a stern man,” Hawkwood commented.

  “He hates all Azymites,” the sergeant replied enigmatically.

  “And he thinks that I am one?”

  “If you are of the Roman communion, you are an Azymite,” the sergeant declared.

  Their route led them through a white gateway set in an inner, lower wall which enclosed the original city of Byzantium. In contrast to the human ant-heap outside, this central area contained only palaces and cathedrals separated by some attractively wooded parks; and at the southern end, up against the wall itself, lay a huge oval amphitheatre.

  “The hippodrome,” the sergeant explained, “where the circus is held. Do you have such things where you come from, Englishman?”

  “No,” Hawkwood said.

  “You must tell me of England.” The sergeant smiled. “My name is Panadou.”

  Perhaps he does not detest Azymites quite as much as his captain, Hawkwood thought. He gazed at the huge, curving bulk of the Cathedral of St Sophia, lost in wonder at so great an edifice, at the richness of the stained glass windows, the gold inlays in the corbels catching brilliant reflections of light. He did not suppose there could be another building like it in the world.

  *

  John Hawkwood was kept waiting in an antechamber for some time, before being admitted to the presence of Prince Constantine. The sergeant, Panadou, having delivered him to the Prince’s major-domo, had bidden him farewell.

  “No doubt we will meet again,” Hawkwood suggested. The sooner he could make some friends here, the better.

  “No doubt,” Panadou said briefly, and left.

  The major-domo did not speak any Latin, but there could be no doubt that he also hated Azymites. The same undoubtedly went for the many others waiting in the antechamber; without exception they stared at the big red-haired Englishman with undisguised hostility. Hawkwood tried to ignore them by studying his splendid surroundings. Inlaid mosaic tiles covered the floors and the ceiling; ikons bearing representations of the Virgin and Child were fixed on the walls. The red robes of the major-domo would have done justice to a noble earl in England. In fact Hawkwood became increasingly aware of his own shabby tunic and patched hose, both in their workmanlike shade of brown. Only his white shirt was fresh and crisp — kept especially for this occasion.

  The Prince was a thin man of no more than medium height, with a straggly beard. He wore a round hat with a high crown and was notably more richly dressed than his major-domo, his fingers covered with valuable rings. But he carried his finery with an abstracted air, and his manner was courteous. Greeting Hawkwood in Latin, he extended
his knuckles to be kissed. John was taken aback at this, but decided it must be the fashion and knelt. When he was standing upright again, Prince Constantine looked into his face and eyes.

  “John Hawkwood,” he said, “from England. You bear a famous name.”

  “I had a famous great-uncle, my lord.”

  “Then are we blessed. Are there many as large as you in that far-off land?”

  “Many, sire.”

  The Prince sighed. “Oh, to have a few hundred such men at my back.” He tapped the passport. “You are an artillerist?”

  “That is my profession.”

  “Then are you doubly welcome. Cannon are our only hope now, had we sufficient of them. And sufficient gunners.” He tapped the passport again. “But this speaks of sons.”

  “I have two sons, who have accompanied me.”

  “And are they fighting men?”

  “They have come here to fight, my lord.”

  “It is a start — and there will be others. My agents report there are men coming to us from all over Europe.” He glanced at Hawkwood. “Our people in Constantinople have lived in peace for too long.”

  Hawkwood made no reply to that. He had already commenced to wonder why, with such a large population, the Byzantines needed outside help to fill up the ranks of their army. Instead he asked, “How long will it be before the Turkish assault?”

  The Prince’s face grimaced and he sat down, motioning Hawkwood to a chair. John hesitated, he had never been invited to sit in the presence of royalty before. As he sat down, the hovering major-domo looked scandalised.

  “There is no war at present between us and the Ottomans,” the Prince continued. “Indeed, there is a treaty of peace between our two nations. Yet we know they do intend to stamp us from existence. Do you know much of them?”

  “A little only, sire.”

  “Then listen, for they are formidable. Two hundred years ago no one had ever heard of the Ottomans. They are a race of hardy people who emerged from the depths of Asia, led by one Ertughril. They made their home in Anatolia, and troubled no one. It was Ertughril’s son Osman, known to us as Othman, who began to lead his people to war. It is from him they call themselves Osmanlis, or Ottomans. Do you know what the name means in Turkish, Hawkwood?”

  John shook his head.

  “It means ‘leg-breaker’ — an apt description. Othman, as I say, led his people to war; and it was his fortune to do so when our city was just recovering from the sack by the crusaders in 1204. You will have heard of that?”

  John nodded.

  “It is not easily forgotten. If many of our people still hate the Franks, it is through tales of that act of treachery, as handed down from generation to generation. You are a Frank, of course…”

  “My lord, I am English. The French are my hereditary enemies.”

  “All Westerners are Franks to the people of Constantinople. Remember that, Hawkwood.”

  “You expect me to fight for a people who hate me?”

  “You came here to fight the Turks. And if they are not checked soon, they will conquer all Europe — even England.”

  Hawkwood stroked his beard.

  “You think I am being fanciful?” the Prince continued. “Then listen. Othman prospered because of our weakness. His son, Orkhan, prospered even more. He led his armies across the Bosphorus and into the Balkans. He so frightened the then emperor, John Cantacuzene, that a Byzantine princess was granted to the Turk as a wife. Can you imagine, a Christian lady enduring the horrors of the harem? It is unthinkable. And yet George Brankovich has done the same.” He brooded for several minutes. “Thus Byzantium became virtually a fief of the infidel. Yet these were mere raiders from Asia. They could gain no lasting victories, it was supposed. The Turk is a nomad from the steppes, for all his fine airs, and he lacks discipline. He is a magnificent horseman, and when assembled they provide a general with the best light cavalry in the world. But the day of cavalry is past, as you well know. Without disciplined heavy infantry, true success in warfare is impossible.”

  You are wrong in that, Hawkwood thought. It is the possession of artillery that matters now. But he did not interrupt.

  “It was Orkhan’s son, Murad I, who realised he could never lead mere cavalry against the armies of the West with any hope of success. So he hit upon a plan, a devilish plan. He began to kidnap Christian children and educate them in the ways of the Crescent rather than the Cross. He instilled in them strict discipline and created, in effect, an army of military monks. Have you heard of these Janissaries?”

  “I have heard of them.”

  “They are the most formidable soldiers in the world.”

  Hawkwood again stroked his beard; he himself had fought beside Great Harry.

  Constantine observed his scepticism. “You will find out, before long.”

  “When did this Murad rule, sire?” Hawkwood asked.

  “Sixty years ago.”

  “And Constantinople still stands.”

  Constantine gave a twisted smile. “A peculiar blessing of God, perhaps. Murad led his Janissaries into Europe, and defeated the Serbs at the Battle of Kossovo.” He sighed. “The first battle of Kossovo. That was in 1389. After the battle, Murad himself was assassinated by a Serbian nobleman who had been taken prisoner, but his son Bayazid took immediate command of the army and the empire. Bayazid who called himself ‘the Thunderer’. He was the second greatest warrior of the age. You have heard of the first?”

  Hawkwood considered: 1389 was too early for Great Harry, too late for the Black Prince. “Bertrand du Guesclin?” He hated to praise a Frenchman, but was an honest man.

  “Du Guesclin,” Constantine snorted with contempt. “Have you never heard of Timur the Mongol? Timur they called ‘the Lame’?’

  Hawkwood frowned. He had indeed heard the name, but had always supposed it some legend from the East.

  “Constantinople then lay at Bayazid’s mercy,” Constantine said. “My grandfather knew his hour had struck — but we were saved, by a miracle.”

  “By an infidel Mongol,” Hawkwood suggested.

  “God moves in a mysterious way, Englishman, but saved we were. Bayazid’s sipahis, his Janissaries, his generals, he himself for all his reputation, were as nothing before Timur. They were trodden into the dust, and Bayazid the Thunderer was imprisoned in an iron cage and exposed to the multitude, to die of shame.”

  “And Constantinople then lay at Timur’s mercy?” Hawkwood observed. “Yet it still stands.”

  “Timur had no interest in Europe. He sought to destroy Bayazid only because Bayazid was a rival in Asia. After that he marched away into China, his true goal, and died there. Thus we were saved. It was then we should have reasserted our greatness — while Bayazid’s sons fought for the succession. Indeed we appealed to the West for armies to aid us in ridding the world of the leg-breakers. There were, we were told, great soldiers in the West. There was one in particular, who ruled your England: Great Harry. Did you know of him?”

  “I fought beneath him at Agincourt, against the French,” Hawkwood said proudly.

  “Against the French,” Constantine repeated sadly. “Brother against brother, Frank against Frank. There was our ruination, Englishman. Had that same battle been fought on the shores of the Dardanelles, and your mighty warrior opposed his strength to the Janissaries, then might Europe have been saved.”

  Hawkwood could think of no reply to make.

  “Since then the Turks have rebuilt their strength,” the Prince continued. “Out of the civil wars that followed Bayazid’s death, Mahomet I became Emir. The Ottomans call him ‘the Restorer’. We called him ‘the Gentleman’, because he confined himself to righting matters within his father’s domains, and treated us with dignity and peace. His son Murad II is a different man, a warrior with blood in his mind as well as in his heart. He besieged us briefly in 1422, but he could make no impression on our walls, and he went away again to extend his dominions to the west. Against him the Pope mou
nted a crusade, five years ago.”

  “I have heard of that, sire,” Hawkwood interposed.

  “Then you will know how the army commanded by Ladislas of Hungary was destroyed, the king with it. Only the great war-captain Janos Hunyadi escaped. Now this year Hunyadi raised another army. Four days ago it too was destroyed, once again at Kossovo.” He uttered another sigh. “The Field of the Blackbirds.”

  “I knew there had been a defeat, from the tolling of the bell,” Hawkwood said.

  Constantine straightened up suddenly. “Englishman, there will be no more crusades, no more Papal armies. If Constantinople is to survive, it can only be through our own efforts now.”

  “Your walls have never been breached,” Hawkwood observed.

  “There is our strength — that and our cannon. But we have weaknesses enough. My brother the Emperor is a sick man. I doubt he will survive the year. Our people are torn by faction, and they are careless. Because Constantinople has never been taken by assault, they think it never can be taken. I can muster less than five thousand men-at-arms to guard our walls, yet I need men of courage. With them at my back, I could withstand the Turk — even Murad, who treats us with insolent contempt. But that is the Turkish way: he feels that whenever he snaps his fingers, this great city will be his. For the moment he is content that we retain some independence.”

  “But I would say this city is rich, my lord, although I do not altogether understand how.”

  “We are rich because we are the market of the world — the crossroads of the world. People come to us from every country known to man, to trade in freedom and safety. Even the Turks — for they wish to enjoy the fruits of other men’s labour. Thus they now leave us in peace, while heaping insults upon us. But one day the Janissaries will march against our walls.”

  “Which will defeat them,” Hawkwood said, “if adequately manned, and defended by cannon. I am told the Ottomans do not have cannon?”

  “They are nomads from the steppes. What do they know of cannon?” Constantine smiled. “Now you know the truth of us, Englishman. I would have no man fight for a cause he cannot make his own. Will you stay and fight with us?”