enemy. Mahomet has thought of everything but this unimaginable turn of events—that a single ship with twelve heroes aboard would dare such an Argo-like voyage through his own fleet.
But the disappointment is tragic: no Venetian sails appear on the Aegean. No fleet is ready to come to Byzantium. Venice and the Pope, everyone has forgotten the city; absorbed in parish-pump politics, they are all neglecting their honour and their oath. These tragic moments in history are repeated again and again: where the highest concentration of all united forces should be brought together to protect European culture, the princes and their states cannot abandon their petty rivalries even for a short span of time. To Genoa it is more important to outshine Venice, and Venice in turn feels the same about Genoa, rather than uniting against the common enemy for a few hours. The sea is empty. The brave crew desperately row their nutshell of a boat from island to island. But the harbours everywhere are occupied by enemies, and no friendly ship will venture into the war-torn area any more.
Now what is to be done? Several of the twelve, not surprisingly , have lost heart. Why take the dangerous route back to Constantinople? They cannot bring the city any hope. Perhaps it has already fallen; in any case, if they go back, either prison or death awaits them. However—and all credit to those heroes whose names go unknown!—the majority decide in favour of returning. They have been sent to deliver a message, and they must go home to report on the outcome, depressing asit is. So the little ship ventures on the way back through the Dardanelles alone, and then through the Sea of Marmara and the enemy fleet. On 23rd May, twenty days after setting out—by now in Constantinople all hope of seeing their ship again has been lost, and no one expects a message or their return—on 23rd May a few men on watch on the walls wave their banners, for a small ship, oars beating fast, is approaching the Golden Horn, and when the Turks, alerted by thunderous cries of joy from the besieged city, see in astonishment that this brigantine, boldly passing through their waters under a Turkish flag, is an enemy vessel they come up on all sides to intercept it just before it reaches the protection of the harbour. For a moment Byzantium, uttering cries of jubilation, still lives in the happy hope that Europe has remembered them, and this ship is sent ahead as a messenger. Only in the evening is the truth known: the news is bad. Christendom has forgotten Byzantium. The besieged citizens are alone, and if they cannot save themselves they are lost.
THE NIGHT OF THE STORM
After six weeks of almost daily fighting, the Sultan has grown impatient. His cannon have destroyed the walls in many places, but whenever he gives orders to storm the city the attackers have so far been repelled with much bloodshed. There are only two possibilities left for a military commander : either to raise the siege or, after countless attacks at single points, to order a full-scale operation to take the cityby storm. Mahomet summons his pashas for a council of war, and his passionate will triumphs over all reservations. That great storm, which will finally decide matters, is to take place on 29th May. The Sultan prepares for it with his usual determination. A festival day is proclaimed; 150,000 men, from the first to the last, are to carry out all the festive customs prescribed by Islam, performing their ablutions seven times in the day, reciting the major prayers three times. All the powder and shot they have left is brought up for an intensified artillery attack to make the city ready to be stormed, and separate troops are given their positions. From morning to night, Mahomet does not allow himself an hour’s rest. He rides all along the gigantic camp from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmara, going from tent to tent, encouraging all the leaders in person, inspiring the men. But as the good
But the disappointment is tragic: no Venetian sails appear on the Aegean. No fleet is ready to come to Byzantium. Venice and the Pope, everyone has forgotten the city; absorbed in parish-pump politics, they are all neglecting their honour and their oath. These tragic moments in history are repeated again and again: where the highest concentration of all united forces should be brought together to protect European culture, the princes and their states cannot abandon their petty rivalries even for a short span of time. To Genoa it is more important to outshine Venice, and Venice in turn feels the same about Genoa, rather than uniting against the common enemy for a few hours. The sea is empty. The brave crew desperately row their nutshell of a boat from island to island. But the harbours everywhere are occupied by enemies, and no friendly ship will venture into the war-torn area any more.
Now what is to be done? Several of the twelve, not surprisingly , have lost heart. Why take the dangerous route back to Constantinople? They cannot bring the city any hope. Perhaps it has already fallen; in any case, if they go back, either prison or death awaits them. However—and all credit to those heroes whose names go unknown!—the majority decide in favour of returning. They have been sent to deliver a message, and they must go home to report on the outcome, depressing asit is. So the little ship ventures on the way back through the Dardanelles alone, and then through the Sea of Marmara and the enemy fleet. On 23rd May, twenty days after setting out—by now in Constantinople all hope of seeing their ship again has been lost, and no one expects a message or their return—on 23rd May a few men on watch on the walls wave their banners, for a small ship, oars beating fast, is approaching the Golden Horn, and when the Turks, alerted by thunderous cries of joy from the besieged city, see in astonishment that this brigantine, boldly passing through their waters under a Turkish flag, is an enemy vessel they come up on all sides to intercept it just before it reaches the protection of the harbour. For a moment Byzantium, uttering cries of jubilation, still lives in the happy hope that Europe has remembered them, and this ship is sent ahead as a messenger. Only in the evening is the truth known: the news is bad. Christendom has forgotten Byzantium. The besieged citizens are alone, and if they cannot save themselves they are lost.
THE NIGHT OF THE STORM
After six weeks of almost daily fighting, the Sultan has grown impatient. His cannon have destroyed the walls in many places, but whenever he gives orders to storm the city the attackers have so far been repelled with much bloodshed. There are only two possibilities left for a military commander : either to raise the siege or, after countless attacks at single points, to order a full-scale operation to take the cityby storm. Mahomet summons his pashas for a council of war, and his passionate will triumphs over all reservations. That great storm, which will finally decide matters, is to take place on 29th May. The Sultan prepares for it with his usual determination. A festival day is proclaimed; 150,000 men, from the first to the last, are to carry out all the festive customs prescribed by Islam, performing their ablutions seven times in the day, reciting the major prayers three times. All the powder and shot they have left is brought up for an intensified artillery attack to make the city ready to be stormed, and separate troops are given their positions. From morning to night, Mahomet does not allow himself an hour’s rest. He rides all along the gigantic camp from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmara, going from tent to tent, encouraging all the leaders in person, inspiring the men. But as the good
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