Constantinople
Early morning, 29 May 1453
After seven long weeks of bitter siege, the end is near. The terrible Turks have launched their final assault, attacking relentlessly throughout the night despite horrific losses. The bravery of the city’s badly outnumbered Greek and Italian defenders was simply not enough, and now densely packed columns of Ottoman soldiery are pressing through fallen sections of the great Christian city’s once formidable land walls. The surviving defenders fall back in disorder, throwing down their weapons, abandoning the fight. The long dreaded sack of the city has begun.
The streets fill quickly with panicked citizenry, fleeing their homes, making toward the city center with whatever they can carry. An unruly Turkish host follows close on their heels. The Sultan Mehmet has granted his victorious soldiers the unfettered three-day-period of pillage, murder and rape that, by tradition, befalls the helpless civilian populace of any besieged city. Their bloodlust up, the Turkish troops rampage through the stricken city, breaking into homes, burning, looting, killing and raping at every step.I gather up my skirt as I step out into the crowded street to join the fleeing throng of frightened citizens, glancing fearfully over my shoulder as I run. The Turks are coming on very fast. Many unfortunates have already been overtaken by our pursuers. Male citizens are cut down mercilessly in the streets. The women are dragged down and set upon, or rounded up and bound together as slaves to be sold. The air is filled with screams and pleas for mercy.
I continue to flee and as I turn a corner, the immense dome of Hagia Sophia, the city’s great church, looms up ahead, its tiled surface glinting in the early morning light. I am swept along by the crush of frightened families and young women seeking refuge inside, and soon find myself huddled, along with many hundreds of others, on the cold marble floor beneath the church’s great flat dome. Our numbers grow by the minute until the great space is filled to capacity.
Eventually, the few Greek soldiers inside the church swing the great doors shut, but the Turks outside are soon hacking away at the barred doors with axes, and then battering them with makeshift rams. The doors groan on their hinges, and shudder with each and every blow. All around me there is much wailing, mixed with frantic praying. It’s clear that the protection provided by the walls and doors of the church is only temporary.
The battering continues and soon the sound of splintering wood echoes through the vast interior of the church. The doors give way and are broken open. Hordes of wild-eyed, heavily armed Turkish soldiers burst into the sanctuary. The few Greek defenders who step up to confront them are quickly dispatched.
Moving swiftly amongst the huddled masses, the infidels begin to systematically kill the old and the very young while separating out the women, especially the younger and more attractive ones. I recoil in shock as a man’s severed head bounces past me on the floor. As more and more Turks come running in the mass slaughter and rape of the fugitives intensifies. The place is a madhouse now. Everyone is screaming. The noise under the dome is deafening.
Horrified, I am frozen in place, unable to move, but the light-haired girl next to me, whom I have scarcely noticed until now, suddenly grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I hesitate; look around with revulsion at the mayhem that surrounds me, and being to follow her lead. “My name is Varvara,” I whisper to her, “it’s from the Greek for barbarian.” She nods, and continues to tug on my wrist.
But before I can take two steps a very large Turk steps between us. He grabs me by the hair and spins me around, pawing at my breasts and pulling me to him. I recoil from the smell of his putrid alcohol-tainted breath and begin to pummel him on the chest with my fists. Enraged, he sweeps away my ineffective little blows with his mighty arm, grabs the front of my gown and with one violent downward movement rips the fabric away, stripping me naked to the waist.
He has fire and lust in his eyes as he forces me to my knees, jerks my head back by the hair, and twists one of my nipples painfully between his thumb and stubby but powerful fingers. I know what is coming next, but as I look up at him imploringly, his eyes suddenly bug out and an expression of absolute surprise crosses his swarthy face. He shudders and stiffens, holds perfectly still for several seconds, then falls forward to the floor. The jeweled handle of a dagger protrudes from the Turk’s back, surrounded by a very dark and rapidly widening blood stain.
I stare incredulously at the prostate form of my dead assailant, and then at the light-haired girl who stands over him, defiantly straddling his body, hands on her hips. I cannot speak. I feel nauseous. She reaches out to me. I startle, then grasp my torn garment against my bare chest with one hand, extend my other to her and pull myself to my feet. Together we back cautiously away from the dead man.
Keeping a low profile, we duck behind and scuttle past some Turks who are busy stripping and binding together into coffles the hapless young women they have taken as slaves. A few are engaged in heated arguments over possession of their half-naked charges. My new-found friend and savior tugs at my hand and together we make for a small alcove at one side of the sanctuary. Once there, we crouch down, hoping not to be noticed.
After a while we edge slowly along the wall, watching and waiting for what seems like an eternity. And then our moment comes. We take a chance; moving swiftly we step around fallen bodies, clamber over the jumbled shattered remains of the church’s great doors and slip outside. In all the chaos and confusion, no one seems to have noticed our escape.
“Quick,” she yells in my ear to be heard above the surrounding din of a great city being sacked, “head for the harbor on the Horn, it’s our only chance for escape!”
TO BE CONTINUED
