Siege Read online

  Siege

  Jack Hight

  Jack Hight

  Siege

  Prologue

  OCTOBER 1448: THE PLAINS OF KOSSOVA

  Longo lay still under the bodies of two dead soldiers and waited for the last of the Turkish army to pass. The Christian crusade had been routed, and now the enemy marched around and over him, their boots squishing in the blood-drenched earth. He could just hear the distant horns of the scattered Christian army as it fled, followed by the cries and drums of the pursuing Turks. Finally the field fell silent save for the moans of the wounded and the harsh cries of the ravens that were arriving to feast upon the dead. One settled on a corpse near Longo and began to peck at the soft flesh of the face. If the ravens were here, then the battle was truly over. He had waited long enough.

  He rose, stiff from lying so long on the cold, wet ground. He kicked at the raven, sending it flying away cawing in protest, and then drew his sword, a long thin blade of dark-grey steel. The battle might be over, but Longo was not done fighting. He scanned the horizon and saw a few distant enemy soldiers, pillaging amongst the thousands of dead. He ignored them; they were not the prey he sought. He was looking for one man: a Turk with pale-grey eyes and a gruesome scar stretching down the right side of his face from his temple to his jaw.

  At the height of the battle, Longo had seen his quarry behind the Turkish lines, wearing chainmail covered in scarlet fabric. He rode beneath a golden standard from which hung three horsetails — the mark of a vizier. Longo had no sooner spotted him, however, than the Christian line had broken and the retreat had been sounded. In the ensuing chaos, Longo had played dead. He had searched for this man for years, and now that he had finally found him, he would not let him escape.

  Stepping over the bodies of the dead, Longo strode towards the Turkish camp. As he neared the first of the tents, five Turkish soldiers came out to meet him. They were ragged bazibozouks, peasant soldiers who were recruited to the defence of Islam whenever the Ottoman Empire went to war. Two carried heavy axes, better for chopping wood than fighting. One held a sword, while the last two carried crude wooden clubs studded with protruding nails. As they rushed Longo, they screamed the Allah! Allah! Allah! battle cry of the Turks, but Longo did not hear them. He heard only the blood pumping in his ears as he stood his ground and readied his shield and sword.

  At the last second, Longo sprang to his left, outflanking the group so he only had to face one man. He knocked the Turk's club aside with his shield and then slashed down with his sword, dropping his enemy. Then he waded straight into the rest: at close quarters the clubs and axes would be less effective. He sidestepped a clumsy axe blow and spun away in one fluid motion, slashing across the face of his attacker before thrusting up past the guard of the next man. Leaving his sword embedded in the Turk's chest, Longo drew a dagger from his belt, turned, and threw. It caught the second to last Turk in the throat. The dying man's club dropped from his hands, and he fell in a mass of blood.

  Longo felt the hard slap of a sword glancing off the chainmail along his side. He turned just in time to raise his shield and deflect another blow, this one aimed at his face. He stepped back, weaponless, and faced his final assailant, a huge Turk who wore a long beard. The man grinned, revealing yellow, rotting teeth. 'Now you die, infidel!' he roared and swung in a huge arc for Longo's chest. Longo feinted as if to block the blow, then ducked and came up under it, smashing the Turk in the face with his shield. The Turk staggered backwards, his broken nose pouring blood, then turned on his heel and stumbled away, fleeing for his life.

  Longo retrieved his own sword and grimaced as he reached over to feel the bruise that was already forming along his side. He had been lucky. A more experienced swordsman would have killed him. Offering up a prayer of thanks to the Virgin, he stepped into the shadow of the nearest tent and peered deeper into the camp. Cooks were busy tending dozens of cooking fires, but there were relatively few soldiers and no sign of his quarry. He had almost given up hope when he heard a horse whinny behind him. Turning, he saw the vizier riding towards the camp, surrounded by some two-dozen black-armoured janissaries.

  With no thought to anything but his blazing need for revenge, Longo raised his sword and charged. The janissaries saw him coming and formed a square of bristling spears around the vizier. Longo hurled himself into the guards. He deflected one spear with his shield and knocked another aside with his sword before charging into one of the janissaries, knocking him backwards and whirling away just in time to avoid a spear thrust. He hacked down, snapping the spear shaft in two, and then waded deeper into the fray, spinning and slashing in a mad frenzy as he pressed his way towards the vizier, each foot forward bought with blood and death.

  A spear skipped off Longo's shield and drove into his shoulder. Oblivious to the pain, he grabbed the spear and jerked on it, pulling the janissary forward and then slashing down to finish him. Longo saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and narrowly ducked a blow that would have decapitated him. He turned quickly, swinging his sword in a wild effort to keep the janissaries at bay. Swords were glancing off his chainmail, but Longo ignored them. A spear drove into his leg and he dropped to one knee. Still he kept fighting, striking out again and again as he yelled with rage and pain. The vizier was now only a few yards away. The man's thin face was lined and his beard and moustache had turned grey since Longo last saw him all those many years ago, but there was no mistaking his pale eyes or the jagged scar that Longo had left on his face. Longo crawled towards him, but a janissary stepped in front, blocking his path. Longo tried to stab at the man, but someone grabbed his arm from behind and wrenched away his sword.

  As Longo raised his eyes, he saw death towering over him: a janissary with his long yatagan raised high, the sword's inward-curving blade showing dark against the bright sun. He felt no fear, only bitter disappointment at having failed. He noticed a knick on the long blade, the smooth black leather of the pommel, the janissary's bulging arm, and then the sword began its fatal descent.

  'Stop!' The sword froze inches short of Longo's neck. 'Leave him to me.'

  The janissaries stepped away to reveal a huge man, well over six feet and barrel-chested, wearing the black armour of a janissary, with the fur-trimmed cloak and yellow boots of a general. The man spoke briefly to the vizier, who turned his horse and rode away. 'Go! Escort him to the sultan,' the general commanded the janissary troop as he pulled an impossibly long yatagan from the scabbard at his side. 'I will finish this one.' He swung his huge sword lightly from side to side as he approached Longo.

  The general waited until the other janissaries were well away and then sheathed his sword. He offered Longo his hand. 'Get up,' he ordered. Longo hesitated, then took the hand and pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain of his injured leg. He stared into the janissary's face, trying to understand. 'You haven't forgotten me, have you?' the general asked.

  Longo blinked, his pain momentarily forgotten as he remembered where he had seen this face before. It had been a younger face then, thinner and unscarred — a boy's face. Long ago in the godforsaken camp of the janissaries, this was the one man he had called friend. 'Ulu,' Longo whispered.

  'You saved my life once, Longo,' Ulu said urgently. 'Now I have returned the favour — but if you wish to escape, you must go quickly. Head south and pray to Allah that we never meet again. For my debt is paid, and the next time we meet, it will be as enemies. Now go!' Turning his back on Longo, the general strode away.

  Longo watched him disappear into the Turkish camp. As his blood rage vanished, he felt the pain from his wounds flood back, mixed with the familiar cold ache of vengeance delayed. He turned and limped away from the camp, to the south. If he hurried, perhaps he could catch up with his men. Otherwise, it would be a long, lonel
y walk to Constantinople. Part I

  Chapter 1

  NOVEMBER 1448: CONSTANTINOPLE

  Sofia Dragases, Princess of the Eastern Roman Empire, walked through the dark hallways of the emperor's palace in Constantinople, hurrying to keep up with John Dalmata, the commander of the emperor's guard. As they passed a window, she glanced out to where a full moon hung heavy in the night sky over the waters of the harbour. It was several hours until dawn. The emperor, John VIII, had been ill for weeks, and Sofia would only have been summoned so late if he were on the verge of death.

  The antechamber of the emperor's apartments was crowded. Most of those present knelt on the hard stone floor, whispering prayers for the health of their emperor. They spoke in Greek, for although the people of Constantinople still called themselves Romans, Greek had replaced Latin as the language of the empire centuries ago. As she passed through the crowd, Sofia noticed the emperor's mother, Helena Dragases, seated in a corner, speaking with George Sphrantzes, the emperor's most trusted minister. Dalmata led Sofia to the door of the emperor's bedchamber, which was guarded by the praepositus sacri cubiculi, a balding eunuch who controlled access to the emperor. 'He is very weak. Do not stay too long,' the eunuch told Sofia as he ushered her through the door.

  The room was lit only by the flicker of a few candles near the entrance. At first Sofia could not see the emperor, but she could hear his laboured breathing — a series of rattling gasps coming from the darkness on the far side of the room. She moved towards the sound, and as she approached, she made out a large, canopied bed and then the emperor himself. John had been a large man, but now he had wasted to the point where she scarcely recognized the skeletal figure before her. His face was waxen and his eyes closed. Were it not for the horrible rasping of his breathing, Sofia would have thought him dead. As she watched him sleep, she fought back tears.

  She did not love her uncle. He was temperamental and drank too much. Nevertheless, John had been a good emperor, and he had allowed Sofia her freedom. She was nearly twenty-four, well past the age when a princess of the empire should have been married, yet her uncle had never broached the subject. He had allowed her to study, not just the literature and philosophy normally taught to women of the court, but also mathematics, government and languages — Italian, Arabic, Latin and Turkish. At the urging of the Empress-Mother Helena, he had even allowed her to join him in council meetings, where she had learned the art of politics. Whoever succeeded John, Sofia doubted that he would be so accommodating towards her.

  Sofia gently smoothed back the emperor's hair. 'I have come, Uncle,' she whispered.

  John opened his eyes. 'Sit beside me, Sofia,' he gasped. 'I want to ask…' John stopped short, his words lost in a long fit of coughing. 'I want to ask your forgiveness,' he continued at last, 'for any wrongs that I have done you.' Such a request was traditional for emperors in their last days. It was clear that John knew his time was near.

  'You have no need to ask, Uncle,' Sofia replied. 'You have done me no wrongs.'

  He frowned and shook his head. 'No, Sofia. I fear I was wrong to raise you as I did. You reminded me so much of my poor dead wife, Maria. I wished to keep you near me, as a reminder of her, and to give you all you wished, as I failed to give her.' He sighed. 'I did not prepare you to be a princess, to be a wife. You have not learned your place in this world.'

  'I wish for no other place than that which I have,' Sofia told him. 'I do not regret what I have learned.'

  'Nor do I, Sofia,' John wheezed between ragged breaths. 'These are difficult times, and the empire has need of you. There are those in Constantinople who would sell the city to the Turks to feed their ambition. We must stop them. Our empire has stood for over a thousand years. We are the heirs of Rome. We must not fall!'

  'But what can I do?' Sofia asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice. 'I am a woman, Uncle. I will have little influence at Constantine's court.'

  John shook his head as he was seized by another fit of coughing. 'No, you are more than that. Look at my mother, Helena. She is a better statesman than any of my councillors. You have her same spirit, Sofia. My brother Constantine is a good man, but he is not a subtle one. When I am gone, he will need your help, even if he does not wish for it.'

  'I will do what I can, Uncle.'

  'You must swear to me, Sofia,' John gasped. 'Give me your hand…' Sofia placed her hand in his, and the dying emperor gripped it with surprising strength. His eyes burned with urgency as he met Sofia's gaze. 'Swear that when I am gone, you will do all you can to protect this city from those who would destroy it.'

  'I swear it,' Sofia replied solemnly. 'I will defend Constantinople with my life.'

  John released her hand and lay back, suddenly small and fragile. 'Good. Now go,' he said. 'And send in my mother.' Sofia nodded and left. In the antechamber, she told the empress-mother that John wished to see her, and then knelt, joining the others in silent prayer.

  Sofia knew they were praying for themselves as much as for the emperor. John had no sons and three brothers, and the people feared civil war if he died. And with civil war came the threat of another Ottoman invasion. The Eastern Roman Empire was only a shadow of what it had been when Constantine the Great moved the imperial capital from Rome to Constantinople in 330 AD. The current Turkish sultan, Murad II, had taken the great cities of Adrianople and Salonika. Now, nearly all that remained of the once great Empire of the Romans was the imperial city of Constantinople. It was the last link to a glorious history that reached unbroken to the Caesars; the last barrier between the Turks and the rest of Europe. The sultan's armies had already gathered in the north to confront the crusade called by John before he grew ill. News of a battle had not yet reached Constantinople, but if the Turks were victorious, and John died, then there would be little to stop the sultan's armies from marching on Constantinople.

  Sofia's thoughts were interrupted by a loud wailing from the emperor's room. It was the Empress-Mother Helena mourning her son. The emperor was dead. The evening sun hung low in the sky when William Whyte reached the top of a long rise and saw Constantinople for the first time. The city was still several miles off, but even at this distance, the majesty of it caused him to stop short. Fields of wheat and herds of roaming cattle lay spread out before him, running right up to the city's towering walls. The walls stretched for miles, from the Golden Horn, its waters glinting to the north, to the Sea of Marmora to the south. Beyond the walls, the city rose high on its seven hills. Squinting, William could just make out a few monuments: domed churches, sprawling palaces and thin columns towering above the city. It was no wonder they called Constantinople the Queen of Cities. William had never seen anything like it.

  William took his eyes off the city as the long rope that led from his bound hands to the saddle of the horse before him went taut, jerking him forward so that he stumbled down the far side of the hill. The man riding the horse — a Turk named Hasim, who had rotten teeth and a greying beard — turned back and shouted something in his strange tongue. The man's meaning was clear: speed up, or else. He had already beaten William more than once during the long journey from Ephesus to Constantinople — seven days of hard marching across brutal dry lands, and seven cold nights spent huddled on the ground beneath the unforgiving autumn sky. Thin already, William had lost more weight, and now his ribs showed clearly through his skin. He spat at Hasim but quickened his pace.

  It was barely two months since William had joined the crew of the Kateryn, sailing for the East from his home, the English port of Fowey. He had thought he was sailing to riches. An Italian, Carlo Grimaldi, who claimed to be an exile from Genoa, had promised that he could lead the Kateryn safely past the Genoese and Venetian galleys that dominated the eastern spice trade. Captain Smith, William's uncle, had been sceptical, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. If they could make a direct connection with the eastern spice traders, cutting out the Italian middlemen, then they would make a fortune. It had been a kindness of Captain Smith t
o ask William to join the crew. William's father had died almost ten years ago, when William was only five, and for the past year his mother had suffered from a wasting sickness. The little that William earned as a water-porter, even when combined with his winnings at the knife fights, was barely enough to feed them and pay rent for the draughty, damp room they shared. With the money from the voyage, William had hoped to find proper lodgings so that his mother could spend her last days in comfort.

  But his plans had gone awry even before they left port. The day before they sailed, William's mother died. Once in the East, Grimaldi had led them to a small cove south of the Turkish town of Ephesus, where they had found the tents of a Turkish caravan set up on the shore. Smith had anchored far out, and William had watched from his position in the crow's nest high above the deck as Smith, Grimaldi and four heavily armed crewmen had rowed ashore to negotiate. They had hardly stepped out of the boat before archers hidden in the tents cut the crewmen down. Grimaldi had killed Captain Smith himself, striking him down from behind. The remaining crew onboard the Kateryn had hurried to set sail, but two Turkish longboats had cut off their escape. The ship had been boarded, and after a brief, bloody fight they had surrendered. William had been lucky; he was young enough to be sold as a slave. So while the old and injured crewmen were lined up on the beach and executed, William had been given to Hasim, who had set off immediately for the slave markets of Constantinople, where a fair-skinned European like William could be expected to fetch a high price as a house slave for some Turkish or Greek family.

  Now, as they covered the last few miles to the city, William kept a careful eye on his captor. Whenever Hasim was not looking, William worked at the bonds that tied his hands. It was nervous work. Just yesterday, Hasim had caught William at it and had whipped him, then tied his hands so tightly that the ropes cut into his skin. William ignored the pain as he continued to work the ropes, pulling this way then that as they slowly loosened. If he did not escape soon, it would be too late. Already the Golden Gate leading into Constantinople was looming before him.