The Emperor Awakes Page 4

  Elli was here to see Aggelos, the curator of the monastery’s library and treasures. She wanted to talk to him about her search for the Likureian icons. The monasteries of the Holy Mountain had been the depository of treasures, manuscripts and relics since the fall of Constantinople and their priceless collections were vast.

  If there was anyone who could help her, that was Aggelos. His prodigious study had given him unparalleled knowledge. Elli had great hopes that somewhere amongst those ancient manuscripts lay the information she sought. A young monk she had met before called Sotirios came to meet her.

  ‘Mrs Elli, welcome. It is good to see you again.’

  ‘It is good to be here again, Sotirios. I believe Aggelos is expecting me. Could you please take me to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid Aggelos is outside the monastery in voluntary isolation.’ Elli tried to hide her annoyance, but Sotirios caught the slight frown. ‘But he will be returning to the monastery tomorrow. Until then please allow us to offer you food and bed for the night in our humble lodgings.’

  ‘You are very kind. Thank you.’

  ‘You must be very tired after your long journey. Please allow me to show you to your room.’

  Sotirios led Elli through dimly lit corridors to a spacious room reserved for guests of the monastery. The view of the sea and the islands in the distance was breathtaking. The room was sparsely furnished, but comfortable. Strangely, the silence was deafening for someone used to the barrage of sounds of daily life.

  Elli forgot what it was like to be in an environment of almost absolute silence and it was a welcome respite from her hectic schedule. Sotirios paused at the door on his way out.

  ‘Please let us know if you need anything. I assume you would prefer to dine here.’ Elli nodded. ‘I will arrange for food to be brought to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sotirios.’

  Sotirios closed the door gently behind him and Elli was alone and feeling relaxed but more claustrophobic than ever. She could not wait to meet with Aggelos and get off this anachronistic rock however charming and peaceful it might be.

  She looked out of the tiny window at the sea and the distant land beyond and could not avoid being dragged into reflections on God and religion, the foundation and life-long sole mission of this revered place, and what God and religion meant to her, if anything at all.

  Elli had never cared much for the worship of God. She was a pragmatist, but understood that pragmatism and religion were not necessarily irreconcilable. The key was knowledge. She had devoted, though, a part of her life in studying and understanding Orthodox Christianity and the peculiarities and idiosyncrasies of monastic life on Mount Athos, other branches of Christianity and many others of the world’s religions. Because of its relative isolation, the Holy Mountain was a special place.

  * * *

  Within twelve hours she was on her way back home to Cyprus armed with a piece of the puzzle. She knew she had to find the Likureian icons, but where to start? She wondered about her family’s archives and whether they contained something useful, a clue perhaps. The archives were extensive, but they had been combed through in minute detail over the years and she doubted whether they could yield anything further. Unless there was something hidden.

  There were gaps in the story, especially pertaining to the journey of her ancestor Michael to Constantinople in 1453 A.D. and the reason behind it. And, of course, the events preceding her family’s escape from a burning Smyrna in 1922 A.D., away from the Turkish troops, and their finding of refuge in Cyprus.

  She knew there were secret compartments and passageways in her house, the product of two not unjustifiably paranoid ancestors who had barely got their family out of Smyrna alive. Antonios Symitzis and his sister Zoe planned for every eventuality they could think of and organised their lives in a way that, if anything happened in Cyprus, they could get out easily and quickly.

  As with the family’s sojourn in Smyrna, they and their ancestors had always taken precautions to protect their family and their assets, by simply not keeping all of their eggs in one basket. They had to leave a life, in a rush and thankfully alive, twice before. Smyrna in 1922 A.D. was the second time. Constantinople in 1453 A.D., as it fell to the Ottomans, was the first.

  As luck would have it, a long lost chronicle of her ancestor Michael Symitzis surfaced from the depths of the Symitzis archives. She hoped for a clue on the fate of the Likureian icons. She would not be disappointed. She sat in her study and began to read Michael’s account of his visit to Constantinople on 28th May 1453 A.D., the eve of the fall of the City to the Ottomans.

  CHAPTER 6

  Constantinople

  28th May 1453 A.D.

  (Eve of the Fall)

  The huge walls loomed on the horizon like a dark cloud descending to earth. The city was Constantinople, the capital of an empire that was built in the name of God and was once more in its history defended in the name of God.

  It was pretentious to even call what was left an empire when only the city remained. However, at this time God would not be knocking on this particular door. The writing was on the wall.

  Here was I, Michael Symitzis, riding at top speed to the, by all accounts, doomed city that had decided to make a final stand against the Ottomans led by the fearsome and ruthless Sultan Mehmed II and, if not defy, then delay fate.

  The city was asleep. I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched by thousands of eyes, and maybe I was, but was deemed too insignificant to be stopped. The city was on heightened alert, sniffing the enemy’s next assault on the walls.

  The Ottoman had surrounded the city and blocked all traffic to and fro. They were now lying in wait, and on a signal from their exulted leader, ready to pounce. The Ottoman was spread along the entire length of the city’s West and only landbound side, the Great Theodosian Walls, first built by the Emperor of the same name in the fourth century A.D. and reinforced and rebuilt over the centuries.

  On the city’s sea-bound North side was the Golden Horn, one of the world’s greatest natural harbours, and the city’s jewel and gateway to the world’s trade, but recently closed to all sea-bound traffic by a great chain or ‘boom’ across its gaping mouth. On the city’s water-bound East and South sides, the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara respectively had already changed their colours to those dictated by the Ottoman fleet. The city was surrounded on all sides.

  The city’s legendary defences would normally have inspired terror in the hearts and minds of any enemy imprudently considering an opportunistic attack. The city was considered impregnable and countless attempts over the last one thousand years from Arabs to Seltzouk Turks to scale its walls and capture its riches had failed.

  The fall of 1204 A.D. to the crusaders was a blip, an aberration, and not the result of a proper siege. The crusader ships bound for the ‘Holy Land’ would not even had entered the waters of the Aegean let alone approach the city had it not been for the invitation and warm welcome into the city as a result of rivalry for the throne. Easy spoils were impossible to resist.

  On my way to the city I had come across masses of people fleeing the besieged city and stopped to talk to them. It was like pulling teeth. It was like trying to talk to the walking dead, sporting the fashionable look of the lost souls of Hades. It was eight weeks now since the siege had begun.

  The Ottoman blockade of Constantinople now in place had one consequence, beneficial in one sense, sad in another. It stopped any more people from leaving the city. There were now more defenders, but that meant that there were also more people at risk of losing their lives not just defending the city, but in the aftermath of its fall.

  The mass exodus from Constantinople had begun months ago as rumours were swirling that the Ottoman army was approaching the city on all sides. Many were in no mood to wait and get caught naked in the middle of that particular carnage.

  A caravan of people with their few precious belongings stretched for miles from the city and heading west, as far away fro
m the advancing Ottoman armies and the centre of the Ottoman Empire as they could.

  It was a sad spectacle. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked around. All forlorn faces stared dead ahead with the fear of death in their eyes. Their eyes betrayed the fact that they had witnessed death too. Luck was with them as it had not rained for weeks and progress was easier through the rough terrain.

  The advancing Ottoman armies simply watched, indifferent to this sad human column. It was the Sultan’s orders that dictated that they should be left undisturbed. Nobody was to be harmed or looted; mostly that was because there was nothing worth taking there.

  The city was the prize. No distractions would let them deviate from this single purpose. And there was another reason. The more people left the city the fewer would be there to defend it. Of course, depending on what those people were carrying, the less would be the loot when the city fell. So the Ottomans would stop and check people’s belongings, but would otherwise leave them in peace with no harm or physical violence befalling them.

  The Ottoman’s indifference to this mass of rudderless human specimens was not enough incentive to those still in the city to flout their sense of duty and their posts and flee. The exodus declined to a mere trickle and then it abruptly ceased.

  The air was heavy and it was difficult to breathe. But then my nostrils protested and flared up; the culprit was a putrid smell hanging in the air, the stink of rotting flesh, the leftovers of the most recent battle.

  The two sides had engaged and had drawn blood. The city still seemed from afar to have remained untouched. The Ottomans could taste blood and were taking small bites and retreating, wearing down the city’s defenders to break their spirit.

  Inside the city they knew their days were numbered. They resorted to prayer to a God that, surely, would not desert them in their dourest hour. But even as they prayed and hoped for salvation, they felt the flesh falling away, until for some only their bones were left and unable to stand on their own two feet and eaten away by hunger, they came crashing down, sinking into the sand and becoming one with their beloved soil.

  Maybe those were the lucky ones, the ones not to have to suffer the ravishing and humiliation of the rape of the city or their imprisonment away from their homes. The city’s defenders felt as if a bird of prey kept lunging at them, biting chunks off them. They were waiting for the final assault that would spell their doom, the end of one thousand years of glorious history and the dawn of a new chapter for the East.

  God, today though, was nowhere to be found. God forgot or decided not to show up for work on this inauspicious day and to take a long-overdue and well-deserved rest from the exciting entertainment of watching people’s squabbles. And yet the defenders prayed. They prayed that God did not crave their company just yet.

  I wiped my forehead with the back of my sleeve. The humid air was weighing me down. I felt as if I was going to melt; clothes, flesh, bones, horse and all, and seep into the ground. My horse was suffering too. I could feel it through her fur that hang limp from her glorious form. But she would not fail me. She never had before.

  I had a mission to complete. History would not be forgiving if I failed. I made a final push towards the city careful to avoid the Ottoman blockade. The darkness offered me good cover. It had been a long time since I last saw the Emperor and I wondered how I would be received, in view of past conflicts between the Order of Vlacharnae and successive Imperial dynasties. I ached for a warm welcome.

  The horse sensed my urgency and accelerated at my command with no further prodding. I saw the Western Gates growing ever closer and I was blinded at times by the reflection of the moonlight on the metal that gleamed and led my way like a beacon. Upon reaching the towering Western Gate complex, I suddenly felt tiny and overwhelmed by the walls rising high above me.

  I looked up for signs of the guards on the posts above the gates. Nothing, not even the normal gleam of light emanating from a torch. I had to gain entry to the city. I called for the gates to open. But the gates remained steadfastly closed and the city shut to me; so close and yet so far out of reach. I did not want to camp outside for the night and wait till morning. I had to find another way in.

  Then I suddenly caught a glimpse of a faint light coming from some point near the walls at ground level. Was it friend or foe? I decided to take a chance. I reluctantly went closer. I nearly missed the shadow silhouetted against the walls and almost merging with the shadows around it.

  But then I smelled its foul breath and its radiating warmth hit me like a slap even in the heat around me. I could just about make out the silhouette of a person. I wondered whether it was an illusion, a play of the shadows thrown by the moonlight. I blinked, in case my eyes were deceiving me.

  Yet there it was; a hooded figure was standing in front of me. I tried to say something. I thought I said something, but as my ears registered nothing, I soon realised that it was all in my head and any words I wanted to say died on my lips, my vocal chords shuddering to a grinding halt; or had the hooded figure magically removed them?

  And then, as suddenly as I saw the figure, a voice came out of that dark blotch against the sky blocking my way.

  ‘My name is Ioannis. We have been expecting you. His Majesty has sent me to escort you to the palace. Please, follow me.’

  I could not see his face and did not know whether I could trust him, but his voice had authority and, involuntarily, I instantly became his slave and would follow him anywhere like a dutiful lamb. I was tired from my long journey and following this stranger seemed an attractive and easy option to my predicament of how to enter the city.

  Ioannis touched a stone on the walls and a doorway appeared. Beyond it opened a pitch-black chasm. Ioannis lit a torch and went in. He was immediately swallowed by the darkness. I hesitated. Then I saw Ioannis stop in his tracks and half-turn to me.

  I obeyed his call. I passed under the doorway and into the eerie space beyond. The torch was throwing sparks of light and shadows and half-illuminated the space, and once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw a tunnel leading away from me and disappearing into the far darkness with no hint as to its length.

  I knew this tunnel was only one of many. The builders of this city’s defences must have really provided for every eventuality. I wished I had the time to explore this great city’s closely-guarded secrets. Secrets that had prevented its fall for more than a thousand years. Secrets that a selected few kept close to their chest. And, no doubt, there must have been other secrets that had been forgotten over time.

  The long tunnel led into the city’s grandest underground reservoir, the Basilica Cistern. Walking through the forest of giant columns I felt I was an intruder to the home of hundreds of forms frozen in time and stone. At the far end of that huge space, we came face to face with a wall and no obvious way out.

  Ioannis then pointed to stairs I had not noticed before that rose up and I followed. We soon came to a door which Ioannis quickly unlocked with a key he had hidden in an inside pocket.

  We emerged in a large square. After the coolness of the Basilica Cistern, the heat that hit us even at this hour knocked the wind out of my lungs and I had to take a second to steady myself and get accustomed to the stifling air of the city before we could proceed.

  Of course during my recovery time, I could sense, in the darkness, my guide’s amusement at my inability to adjust straight away. It did not take long, however, for my guide’s amusement to turn to impatience and I could smell his annoyance and his silent instruction to rush me along.

  In front of us, the magnificent, imposing and forbidding mass of Ayia Sofia rose to the sky topped with its huge dome that seemed to float in mid-air. The square was empty, implying that the city had already been deserted. Yet the air was not devoid of signs of human existence. I could smell the foul breath of an overcrowded besieged cauldron slowly simmering with the faint perfume of near eruption.

  A distant chant reached me and I turned towards the great church. Faint lights blink
ed through the many windows. I could see in my mind’s eye a full to bursting church pulsating with the desperate prayer of numerous souls carried upwards and threatening to smash the giant dome to smithereens in their despair to reach the heavens and God’s seat of power.

  If you looked closer, you could see the sweaty vapour rising from every pore of the steaming home of God on earth. If the faithful did not exit soon they would be cooked alive.

  I wondered why we had made such a long detour from the Western Walls and the Vlachernae Quarter of the city where the Palace of Vlachernae stood. I had no time to waste. I had to meet with the Emperor. Where was this man taking me? Was I to meet a fate of death by traitors, by my sworn enemies? Was I being led to a trap? Could I trust this stranger who purported to have been sent by the Emperor to lead me to him?

  My guide had not uttered a single word. I dared not question him, as the slightest murmur could carry far in the stillness of the night. There was danger lurking in the shadows and I saw my guide’s eyes dart in all directions, searching for ghosts, alert at the tiniest movement and sound.

  Though suspicious, I kept my own counsel and resisted the impulse to break the silence. My questions stayed on my lips and, as I sensed my companion’s pace progressively quickening, I increased my pace to keep up.

  We walked briskly across the faintly-lit square and through the deceptively deserted city, turning through twisting lanes and alleys that made me feel disorientated and queasy.

  I could not say how long we had travelled, but we seemed to be going around in circles and when Ioannis stopped we were almost back where we started, but on the far side of the outer perimeter of the courtyard of Ayia Sophia on the point where it touched the forbidding dark wilderness of what used to be the acropolis of the ancient Megareian colony of Byzantium.