Authors: James Shipman
“Please Sultan, let him fix the cannon,” whispered Zaganos. “If you do not, we have nobody skilled enough to maintain these weapons. We need him. Remember what we are doing here. We must stay focused. A few days will not make the difference.”
Mehmet turned back to the Hungarian. “I want it repaired in two days Orban! I’ll spare your life for now. Two days or I may not be so generous again!”
Mehmet sheathed his sword. He was still seething inside. Did Allah curse him after all? Would he again be the laughing stock of Halil and the council? He remembered facing his father when his power was taken away the last time. The disappointment in his father’s eyes, Halil standing by with that same knowing grin. No! He would not go down in history as a young fool who was removed from power before he had even begun. He would be the greatest Ottoman of all. It was his destiny. It was Allah’s will.
But he needed a victory now. What could he do? If he waited Halil might make a move against him now, or demand that they withdraw from the city before the siege had even properly begun. He dismissed the assembled men and returned to his tent.
It was too early to test his fleet against the sea chain. He needed a victory on land. He pulled out his maps and studied them carefully, considering what might be done. Should he attack the walls without waiting for the cannon? If he lost a large number of men immediately with no gain he would be worse off. He could set to work on filling in the Foss. That would certainly help the siege in the long run, but filling in ditches could hardly raise the men’s morale. He studied the map for several hours and then formed a solution. He smiled to himself. He knew just what to do.
Later that evening, Mehmet met with Zaganos in his tent over tea. The men did not discuss Mehmet’s outburst although the Sultan was sure his older friend would have liked to have lectured him on the topic. One of the benefits of being Sultan was not having to suffer rebukes, even if they were perhaps deserved. After they had drunk their apple tea and enjoyed some light refreshment, Mehmet got down to business.
“I have a task for you my friend.”
“What is it my Lord?”
“I want you to take some men and lay siege to the Greek castle at Therapia over on the Bosporus. I will do the same with the Greek castle at Studius.”
“Certainly My Lord, but may I ask why?”
“Of course. I cannot afford to sit idly by. So far our men lay helpless outside the city walls, like every army in the history of this city. My ships are stuck outside their accursed sea chain and my cannon cannot breach the walls or even be used until our primary cannon is repaired. I must have momentum. Halil will not give me the benefit of the doubt. He could move against me at any time. If we attack these two castles, we keep people occupied, and they should fall relatively easily yes?”
“I would think so My Lord.” Mehmet could tell by the look on Zaganos’s face that his friend was impressed by the suggestion. “As always, you surprise me. Just like the fleet, you have come up with a solution to a problem where I saw only difficulties.”
Mehmet enjoyed the flattery, although he wondered if it was fully genuine. He respected and trusted Zaganos, to a degree. But he had been betrayed already multiple times by those he trusted most. He would not make that mistake again. He would err on the side of caution, and if that kept Zaganos at arms’ length so be it. At least if Zaganos stabbed him in the back, he would see it coming and be prepared.
“It is settled then. Go tomorrow at dawn. I shall do the same. If Allah wills it, we shall both be quickly victorious, and we will have something to show for our efforts. By the time we are done, we will hopefully have our cannon repaired and be prepared for more extensive attacks.”
The following morning Mehmet rose early, gathered some of his guards and went to the Janissary camp nearby. The Janissary were the Sultan’s elite troops. The Janissary corps were a unique part of the Ottoman army, and in fact unique in the world. As opposed to the other armies he faced, and the bulk of his own army, which were formed by gathering retainers from local areas on a seasonal basis, the Janissaries were a standing army.
Mehmet’s father had first formed the Janissary corps. They were populated by men who had been captured as young Christian children removed from their families as a blood tax. They were forcibly converted to Islam and trained as a private brotherhood of elite soldiers, fiercely loyal to the Sultan and their own men and officers. They possessed the best training, armor, weapons, and were used by the Sultan for the most important and most dangerous attacks.
Mehmet greeted their commander. “I am in need of 500 of your best men. I intend to lead an attack on the castle at Studius. I need archers and swordsman. I should be back in the next few days.”
“Yes My Lord, I will gather a force for you. Would you like assistance in the siege?”
“I don’t think that is necessary. I want to savor this attack for myself.”
Mehmet waited several hours for the men to be gathered and then to form ranks. They were superbly dressed in chain mail armor with high quality swords. They wore the distinct white hats that marked them as members of the elite Janissary corps. They lined up quickly and then remained silent and stone frozen, awaiting the next command. They were superbly disciplined. Mehmet admired them for a few minutes and then ordered them to follow him. He dismounted from his horse to lead them personally on foot.
He led them along the land walls of Constantinople up and down the several hills that formed the city and beyond to the Seas of Marmara and along the coast away from the city to the village of Studius. Studius was very close to Constantinople and one of the few territories still claimed by the Greeks. The village stood on the shores of the Sea of Marmara and was nothing more than a collection of huts that formed a trading center for the nearby farms.
A small castle stood near the village, overlooking the Sea of Marmara and serving as a rallying point for the village for protection at times such as these when hostile forces approached. As Mehmet came nearer he heard bells frantically pealing. He saw Greek peasants and a few soldiers running from the village houses into the Castle. He reached the castle walls within minutes, staying back about 50 yards. The castle walls, which constituted little more than a stone enclosure, were about twenty feet high but did not contain towers or any other intricate defenses. A reinforced wooden gate, closed now, guarded the entrance to the fortification.
Mehmet did not consider a small village subject to the same rules of surrender as a city like Constantinople. He would simply strike. He ordered his Janissaries to surround the castle and sent a messenger to hurry up the ram that was being brought up on wheels. While they waited, his men moved into place, completely surrounding the castle but remaining a distance away. They archers kept their bows partially drawn, ready to shoot anyone who might appear on the walls.
Mehmet sent a smaller force of Janissaries toward the village. He watched a woman run in fear from one house to another.
The Janissaries entered the village and began moving quickly from door to door. Soon the sound of screaming emanated from the houses as the Turks killed the inhabitants. Several soldiers carried torches which they threw on the roofs of houses, setting them ablaze. The cries of terror and pain grew into a steady thrum and then slowly subsided as the Turks completed the task. The entire village was put to the sword and was consumed in fire in less than ten minutes.
Mehmet watched as impassively as he could. He had to appear uncaring. This was war and his men needed a victory. The cries bothered him but a little. These were not only men but also women and children. He had ordered many deaths in his short life, and even killed because of anger, irritation or to prove a point. He did not relish the killing except when his blood was up. He saw it as a necessary evil in a harsh world. The destruction of this village and castle would appear a victory for his men. But he would also anger the Greeks and instill fear in them. He wished that Constantine had understood the wisdom of surrender. He truly would have welcomed him and his people and added them to his empire. Constantine was forcing this violence on his people. He must pay the butcher’s bill.
The ram was in place by noon. Mehmet ordered an immediate assault on the gate. The ram was a simple wooden log, twelve inches in diameter and twenty feet long. It was attached to a wooden cradle by a series of chains. The cradle was in turn mounted on a wheeled trailer. The tip of the ram was encased in a crude iron hood that was fastened to the wooden end with thick nails. The ram would not last forever in sustained combat but it would do tremendous damage even to a substantial city gate, let alone the primitive wooden structure attached to this enclosure. Mehmet had ordered dozens of these rams prepared for the main assault on Constantinople.
A group of Janissaries wheeled the ram forward. Others walked closely by, with shields tipped over the ram and supporting the men. Several Greeks attempted to fire on the ram from the walls above the gate, but they were driven back or killed immediately by a volley of arrows sent from the waiting archers below.
The Sultan’s men struggled together and pulled the ram back, then released it. The ram sprang forward on the chains and crashed into the gate. The gate shuddered but held. They pulled the ram back a second time and released it again. This time the gate splintered in several places. The Janissaries drew the ram back a third time, and shouting, drove it forward as hard as they could. The ram crashed through the wooden gate, leaving a hole the size of several men, although the bottom of the gate was still attached up to waist height.
Arrows flew out of the hole, striking three of the Janissaries who fell back dead or badly wounded. The rest drew their swords and, shouting to Allah, began climbing through the hole, fighting the Greeks. The fighting at the gate was furious for a few minutes but soon enough of the Janissaries had battled through that the fighting moved into the inside. Eventually the shattered gates were ripped open from the inside, allowing more of the Janissaries to rush into the castle. The clash of battle grew louder, as the Greeks tried desperately to defend their keep against the rush and press of Mehmet’s elite forces.
The Sultan’s blood was up. He drew his own sword and was preparing to join the fray but the sound of battle was already unfortunately beginning to dim. He motioned for his guards to follow him and he entered the castle, stepping over the bodies of Turk and Greek. The sandy castle grounds were washed over in blood and bodies. A few Greeks remained alive but had dropped their weapons and surrendered.
As Mehmet walked among the bodies he felt a sharp burning pain in his leg, he turned and saw that one of the wounded Greeks had plunged his dagger into the Sultan’s shin. The blade had been deflected by the bone and slipped along the skin line, causing a long superficial cut. Mehmet drew his sword again and hacked the head off the soldier. His men cheered and Mehmet looked around in elation. The burning pain felt good among the approval of his men. He tore a strip of fabric from his cloak and tied it around the wound, then continued on.
Further on, he found a group of Janissaries surrounding a group of Greek prisoners. The Greeks were disarmed and on their knees, their heads bowed. Mehmet counted the prisoners. There were 36 of them.
He smiled approvingly. He had his victory. The Janissaries were smiling too, and cheering their Sultan. He ordered the prisoners to be chained and also that the castle be burned to the ground like the village before it. He then ordered his men back into ranks and began the march back to his headquarters area, with the prisoners in tow. He was limping a little but he hardly noticed as he basked in his victory.
As they marched, the men encamped before the city realized what had happened. They could see the smoke behind the column, and the prisoners with bent heads. They banged their weapons to their shields and against their armor, shouting the Sultan’s name. Mehmet had a hard time containing himself. He had been cheered before, but really more out of fear than anything else. This salute was something different. The men were cheering him as a victor. In the Ottoman world, the leader who brought victory was the leader worthy of love and respect. He had always known this fact, but never really experienced it. He thought he would burst from pride. This is what Allah intended for him. Not to be humiliated and killed. Not to be the laughingstock of Halil and his cronies. He was born to conquer. And before him was the greatest conquest of all. Constantinople. Islam had dreamed of capturing the city for almost a millennium. He would fulfill that dream and take his place as the greatest military leader in the history of his people. Let them doubt him. He would prove it to them all, and then he would punish the doubters.
He arrived back at his tent in the late afternoon. He had no word yet from Zaganos and assumed the siege might still be ongoing. The cheers continued for some time and then faded slowly away, still music in his ears.
The Janissary captain reported on overall casualties, which were few, and asked what should be done with the prisoners. Mehmet thought for awhile. Would Constantine trade these prisoners for the city? No. He already was gambling with the entire population inside. Could anything be gained by turning the men over to Constantine? They would certainly tell about the castle falling, which might spread fear. But castles came and went. Constantine would only compare the feeble walls of Studius to the impenetrable walls of Constantinople. Should he hold the men and possibly exchange them later? But exchange them for whom? If Zaganos or someone else important was captured, it would likely mean the Sultan had failed in taking the city. He would not want to free anyone who had let him down in the first place, and likely he would not be alive to consider the issue. He would think on this question and see how things developed.
As the sun set, the Sultan enjoyed the sights and sounds of his camp as the soldiers made fires and dinner, the light of the campfires flickering off the land walls of Constantinople, so near his grasp. He ate his own meal in the quiet. Soon he was asleep, feeling more satisfied than he ever remembered, and dreaming of capturing Constantinople as he slipped into the darkness.