place abandoned bythe faithful ever since that day of the fraternal alliance of the two Churches. The whole court gathers round the emperor, the nobles, the Greek and Catholic priests, the Genoese and Venetian soldiers and sailors, all in armour and carrying weapons, and behind them thousands and thousands of murmuring shadows kneel in silent awe—the people of the city with their backs bowed, in a turmoil of fear and anxiety—and the candles trying to rival the darkness of the vaulting overhead light up the crowd kneeling in prayer as if it were a single body. The soul of Byzantium is praying to God here. Now the Patriarch raises his voice strongly, urging them on, and the choirs answer him. Once more the holy and eternal voice of the west answers him in the music filling this place. Then one after another they go up to the altar, the emperor first of all, to receive the consolation of the faith, until the huge cathedral is filled to high in its vaulting by a constant surge of prayer. The last Mass, the funeral Mass of the eastern Roman Empire has begun, for the Christian faith has lived for the last time in Justinian’s cathedral.
After this overwhelming ceremony, the emperor returns fleetingly to his palace once more to ask all his subjects and servants forgiveness for any wrong he has ever done them in life. Then he mounts his horse and rides—like Mahomet his great enemy at the same hour—from end to end of the walls, encouraging the soldiers. It is deep night now. Not a voice rises, not a weapon clinks. Moved to their very souls, the 1,000 wait inside those walls. They are waiting for the day and for death.
KERKOPORTA, THE FORGOTTEN DOOR
At one in the morning, the Sultan gives the signal to attack. The great standards are unfurled, and with a single cry of
Allah, Allah il Allah
100,000 men fall on the city walls with weapons and ladders, ropes and grappling hooks, while all the drums are beaten at the same time, all the fanfares blare and the kettledrums are struck, cymbals and flutes mingle their high notes with human cries and the thunder of the cannon into a single sound like the roar of a hurricane. Pitilessly the irregular troops, the bashi-bazouks, are flung against the walls—their half-naked bodies serving the Sultan’s plan of attack to some extent, but only as buffers intended to tire and weaken the enemy before the core troops are brought into action for the final storm. Whipped on, the bashi-bazouks charge the walls in the dark, climb the battlements, storm the fortifications again and again, for they have no way of escape behind them, they are worthless human material marked out only for sacrifice. The core troops are already standing ready, driving them on to almost certain death. The defenders still have the upper hand; their coats of mail withstand the countless arrows and stones that come their way. But their real danger—and here Mahomet’s calculations were correct—is weariness. Constantly fighting against the light Turkish troops pressing forward, always moving from one point of attack to another, they exhaust a large part of their strength in the manner of defence forced upon them. And now—after two hours of skirmishing day is beginning to dawn—the second line of attack, the Anatolians, are storming forward, andthe battle becomes more dangerous. For the Anatolians are disciplined warriors, well trained and also wearing coats of mail; moreover, they are present in superior numbers and are well rested, while the defenders have to protect first one and then another breach against the enemy’s incursions. But still the attackers are being thrown back, and the Sultan must turn to his last reserves, the janissaries, a troop of picked men, the elite guard of the Ottoman army. He places himself at the head of 12,000 young and carefully chosen soldiers, the best in Europe at this time, and with a single battle cry they fling themselves on their exhausted adversaries. It is high time for all
After this overwhelming ceremony, the emperor returns fleetingly to his palace once more to ask all his subjects and servants forgiveness for any wrong he has ever done them in life. Then he mounts his horse and rides—like Mahomet his great enemy at the same hour—from end to end of the walls, encouraging the soldiers. It is deep night now. Not a voice rises, not a weapon clinks. Moved to their very souls, the 1,000 wait inside those walls. They are waiting for the day and for death.
KERKOPORTA, THE FORGOTTEN DOOR
At one in the morning, the Sultan gives the signal to attack. The great standards are unfurled, and with a single cry of
Allah, Allah il Allah
100,000 men fall on the city walls with weapons and ladders, ropes and grappling hooks, while all the drums are beaten at the same time, all the fanfares blare and the kettledrums are struck, cymbals and flutes mingle their high notes with human cries and the thunder of the cannon into a single sound like the roar of a hurricane. Pitilessly the irregular troops, the bashi-bazouks, are flung against the walls—their half-naked bodies serving the Sultan’s plan of attack to some extent, but only as buffers intended to tire and weaken the enemy before the core troops are brought into action for the final storm. Whipped on, the bashi-bazouks charge the walls in the dark, climb the battlements, storm the fortifications again and again, for they have no way of escape behind them, they are worthless human material marked out only for sacrifice. The core troops are already standing ready, driving them on to almost certain death. The defenders still have the upper hand; their coats of mail withstand the countless arrows and stones that come their way. But their real danger—and here Mahomet’s calculations were correct—is weariness. Constantly fighting against the light Turkish troops pressing forward, always moving from one point of attack to another, they exhaust a large part of their strength in the manner of defence forced upon them. And now—after two hours of skirmishing day is beginning to dawn—the second line of attack, the Anatolians, are storming forward, andthe battle becomes more dangerous. For the Anatolians are disciplined warriors, well trained and also wearing coats of mail; moreover, they are present in superior numbers and are well rested, while the defenders have to protect first one and then another breach against the enemy’s incursions. But still the attackers are being thrown back, and the Sultan must turn to his last reserves, the janissaries, a troop of picked men, the elite guard of the Ottoman army. He places himself at the head of 12,000 young and carefully chosen soldiers, the best in Europe at this time, and with a single battle cry they fling themselves on their exhausted adversaries. It is high time for all
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