Read The Emperor Awakes Online

Authors: Alexis Konnaris

The Emperor Awakes (9 page)

A powerful gust of stale air rushed out and hit the Ottomans with tremendous force. It took them aback and the Ottoman rush paused, but only for a moment.

A gust of dust and debris burst through and blinded the defenders within. The mouth had widened considerably and its appetite for the Ottoman troops entering the city was insatiable.

Nothing could stop the flood of Ottomans rushing into the city through the breach. Wave after wave of Ottomans was sweeping through, thirsty for victory, hungry for killing and looting and raping, hungry for their rightful reward.

They had no fear for death itself, for there was reward in death as well, perhaps for them the biggest reward was in heaven.

Fires were breaking across the city. Screams pierced the night air. The sound of sword against sword, gun against gun, echoed all around and was getting louder as it spread through the city’s streets.

Panic reigned everywhere. You could smell the fear, the sweat, the smoke and the already rotting bodies. It choked the air out of you.

The city had been breached. The city was being violated. Its reputation of inviolability and impregnability shattered in one fell swoop. The curtain fell on the Empire that had been ruled from this city for more than a thousand years.

A new chapter was beginning. The Sultan ordered a halt to the looting after three days. The Ottomans obeyed their master and stopped, but they also saw the sense in his message: ‘do not destroy what is now ours’.

The Sultan lost no time in installing himself in the Vlachernae Palace and making the city the capital of his Empire. The Sultan, finally relieved to be able to finally put a halt to the relentless campaigns and conquests of the last few hundred years, set into motion the next part of his ambitious plans; the consolidation of his sprawling Empire.

Amongst the confusion of the battle, the Emperor’s fate would become one of the world’s greatest and longest-running mysteries.

When some of the elite Ottoman Yenitsari troops went through the breach on the wall of the Vlachernae Quarter, they opened the Adrianople Gate, and it was then that thousands of Ottoman troops started to stream into the city like an unstoppable flattening avalanche.

The Emperor, without any hesitation, relinquished his Imperial regalia and threw himself into the fighting to repel the incoming waves together with the remaining defenders of the city. If there were a body somewhere, it would be impossible to locate, let alone identify, amongst the thousands of dead.

The Sultan could not allow for any doubt surrounding the death of the Emperor to remain. That would be dangerous for, as a symbol of resistance, the hope that the Emperor could still be alive and could still return to lead a new charge against the new rule would give hope to the Sultan’s newly-conquered subjects and ammunition to his rivals lurking in the background and craving the throne; and it would be an excuse to any foreign powers to interfere and unite against him and his Empire.

Such a situation would become a gangrene of doubt against the Sultan’s legitimate claim on the throne of the Roman Empire, as rightful successor of the Emperors of Constantinople.

The Sultan had taken the title of Roman Emperor, in addition to his other titles. He emphasised his descent from the Imperial family of Constantinople and the Imperial blood running in his veins, as one of his ancestors had married a Byzantine princess.

The Sultan devised a neat and final solution to this problem. The story goes that the news was spread that the last Emperor was killed and that his head was presented to the Sultan who impaled it on the walls for all to see, as a sign of the ultimate humiliation of the Byzantine Empire, the final proof of his great victory and as a message to the remaining defenders to take away their faith, to sap their strength and the hope, which they were still clinging on, that they could still win, with the Emperor as the symbol of their struggle and as their leader.

The Sultan was certain that with the dead Emperor being paraded publicly and with such brutal fanfare, his new Byzantine subjects would lose heart and the will to fight and would finally submit to his rule; any resistance would be quashed and would die a silent death with not even as much as a whimper.

But amidst rumours that the Emperor had removed his Imperial regalia and others saying that the so-called body of the Emperor when found had no Imperial signs or regalia, to irrefutably confirm the Emperor’s death, a huge cloud weighed on the truth of the Emperor’s fate.

And as the prophecy goes, “he will rise again and free us …”

CHAPTER 9

 

Constantinople
29th May 1453 A.D.
(The Day of the Fall)

 

The Emperor never asked to see me that day to find out about the Likureian icon. No doubt his mind was otherwise engaged. I hoped he was inspiring fire into the hearts of the defenders.

I dared not leave my room for fear of being accidentally and forcibly recruited to the suicidal numbers on the walls. I could not put my life in danger like that. Not here. Not for this lost battle.

I heard the chaos running rampant outside and knew in my bones the enemy was close. The palace would not be spared. I had to get out, but could not risk using my powers for fear of being detected by any Ruinand spies in the city.

I had to do it on foot. I had to hurry, if I was to get out of there alive. I packed my things and ran out of the room, all my senses on high alert.

I did not know of any secret passages leading away from the palace. I had to reach the Basilica Cistern, which meant venturing into the streets of a city overrun by Ottomans running riot.

I had to disguise myself as an Ottoman. There was a good chance I would encounter Greeks, but they should not present a risk as they would be running away, trying to save themselves, though they could still probably stop to fight if cornered. I needed Ottoman attire. I did not want to have to kill to get it from a soldier.

I remembered the satirical play put on only last night at the palace. One of those costumes would, hopefully, help me look the part. Desperation and fear was fertile ground to inspire humour.

And you could not deny that a little humour could go a long way to alleviating the fear, to at least give temporary respite from it. That was the way to go; down with the ship, in style, flying the flag of defiance to the bitter end.

Nothing was more courageous than to laugh at adversity and certain death. I had no doubt that there would not have been any time to destroy the costumes. And I knew where to look.

I ran down the grand staircase, turned right, and, through a small door, I found the stairs leading down to the cellars and storage rooms. At the bottom of the stairs, in half-darkness, I stopped for a moment and felt my way around, attempting to smell the spice room.

My nostrils captured the aroma and I started to run in the direction my nose was pulling me, as if by a leash around my throat. I turned the corner and found the door I had been looking for.

I feared it would be locked, and I tried it cautiously. It did not resist to my push and gave way, which was surprising, but I had no time to stop and think about it. I would face whatever, if anything, was on the other side. But, thankfully, there was nobody there.

I found the chest with the costumes from the previous night’s play. I rummaged through it like a madman. My fingers touched what I had been looking for: the linen bag. I allowed my fingers to wander and feel inside it. It all seemed to be there.

I changed quickly and put my normal clothes into the linen bag, tied it and threw it over my shoulder. I knew I would also need to hold a weapon to carry off the disguise, and I took hold of the sword that was inside the bag. It was not real, but it looked the part and it had a shining blade that in the chaos and semidarkness outside should fool all but the most audacious man who dared to challenge me and threaten me with a death sentence.

I went out of the room and back the way I came. As I started climbing the stairs, I heard a distant noise. I stood and listened. I could hear gurgling water. I turned back down and followed the sound to a crumbling door breaking the seemingly solid wall.

I was not sure whether it was the Lycus stream, part of the city’s water system or sewer water, but I did not care. I kicked it in. The gap was wide enough to go through. I did not hesitate. I threw myself into the rushing torrent.

I rode the foaming water and suddenly found myself in a huge cavern. There was a ray of light coming from a gap in the ceiling. But it was too high and I could not reach it. I could not afford to wait for the water to rise. There should be another way out of here.

My feet touched something that felt like a step, and I cautiously planted my feet on it. I then felt further up and there was another step, and then slowly a staircase was revealed to me. I climbed it and came to a barred opening blocking my way, seemingly fixed and locked.

I could see a door behind it. The metal on the barred opening appeared rusted and the surrounding frame had started to chip away. I pulled the bar and easily wrenched it off. Now for the door. Luckily it was unlocked. I opened it slowly and took a peek outside.

Strangely, the street was totally deserted. I could see fires in the distance. I walked to the end of the street and looked around the corner. Ayia Sophia was only a short walk away. The distance was short, but the leap would feel long through the fire and the lion’s den.

I could now hear the sounds of battle, looting and rape. I could see the glow from the fires spreading across the city. I held my sword firmly in my left hand and plunged into the burning streets.

My destination was the gardens on the hills spreading North-East of the old Imperial Palace, the hills where the acropolis of ancient Byzantium used to be.

I hardly met with any resistance as I briskly made my way to my temporary refuge. I did not stop running until I had reached the deserted area of scrubland, magnificent ancient trees and caves.

This was one of the few pristine and untouched areas in the densely populated city, where buildings were for the most part packed close together, stubbornly jostling for space, vying to inhale the smallest breath of fresh air, their impatience rising, and then ebbing away, sliding down the blessed and cursed uneven gradient of the city all the way into the waters of the Bosphorus and its murky depths.

There, away from the hustle and bustle of the great city, it was difficult to accept that you were in the centre of the greatest city on earth.

Only when I stopped and let myself fall, exhausted, to the ground, did I realise that I was soaking wet, water mixed with sweat dripping from every surface and every pore, my clothes and my hair, and forming shining paddles at my feet.

I felt as if I had been dragged backwards through a hedge. I tried to recover from my close brush with death. I sat down under a great plane tree and tried to remember how to breathe normally again and find some semblance of calmness, before I did what I urgently had to do: talk to my mother.

She appeared before me, as impressive as ever, her larger-than-life presence filling every nook and cranny of the rocks and the motionless vegetation around me and invading every pore of my skin.

Her voice sliced through the air like a blade. Her voice was a booming echo filling my brain, with copious blood rushing to engage the intruder, and almost giving me a paralysing seizure.

‘Finally, our sick lady has succumbed to her fate. It was sad to see her at her sickbed fading away. But history will take its course and we cannot change that. We should not change it at any case. Michael, there is much to do, but we must move with extreme caution. The identities and secrets of the members of the Order may have been compromised and it will be difficult to know whom to trust. It is imperative to find that child and the fate of the real Emperor. Have you found the Likureian icon?’

‘No, I did not get the chance to even properly conduct a search for it. Mother, have you heard anything from Mark?’

‘Not yet. I will let you know when I do.’

And with those final words, she was gone.

* * *

 

Before I could be on my way I had a strange vision.

There was a castle and a beautiful garden next to an old harbour and a child was trying to climb an ancient olive tree and kept failing to get a grip, and kept falling down, but persisted and kept scratching the trunk and pulling the branches.

A short distance away, a woman, most likely the child’s mother, was smiling, full of pride at her child’s exploits and persistence, her eyes twinkling in amusement, a matching pair of two flawless emeralds, reflecting the sun’s rays and the surrounding landscape in a myriad colours.

Her mind was plotting her child’s future. I was surprised to be privy to her thoughts. The boy kept calling his mother to join him, to help him. From somewhere I heard a male voice calling the woman’s name and a blurred figure started to appear into this picture of blissful oblivion to the horrors of the world.

I was fully absorbed by the scene and smiling with them. But then I was forcibly dragged out of that dream when the landscape suddenly grew dark, and a ferocious wind ripped through the castle, the harbour, the child and the mother, turning everything into rubble, piles of ash, the entire scene stained with purple splashes falling from the sky, indistinguishable fragments of stone, soil, plant, flesh and bone, all swiftly turning to dust and scattered far away by a terrible twister, as if they had never existed.

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