Constantinople- the Last Great Siege, 1453

by Roger Crowley

  4 A nineteenth-century photograph of the Imperial Palace of Blachernae, Constantine’s headquarters during the siege, which is set into the single-layered land wall near the Golden Horn

  5 A section of the triple land wall showing first the line of inner towers, then the lower outer towers shattered by cannon fire. In the centre is the moat, now largely filled in but once bricklined and ten feet deep, that cost the Ottomans so much trouble during the siege. Having crossed it, would-be attackers had to rush the open terrace under heavy fire before they could tackle the outer wall.

  6 The great chain with its massive eighteen-inch links that was stretched across the Golden Horn. This nineteenth-century photograph shows that substantial lengths of it were still lying around in the city four hundred years after the siege.

  7 Orban’s great siege gun has long since disappeared but several slightly smaller cannon still survive in Istanbul. This massive bronze piece is fourteen feet long, weighs fifteen tons and fired a five-hundred-pound stone ball.

  8 A contemporary drawing by Bellini of a Janissary in his distinctive white headdress with arrow quiver, bow and sword. Mehmet is said to have been fascinated but also superstitiously frightened by the Italian master’s ability to conjure apparently living, three-dimensional figures out of the flat paper in defiance of Islamic law.

  9 A fascinating European version of the siege painted in 1455 that compresses many of the key events into one image. Constantinople has been transformed into a scene from chivalry but the picture has been created by someone who knew many details of the story.

  10 A French reworking of one of the great images of Turkish history: Fatih the Conqueror, enters the city through the Edirne gate, accompanied by the warriors of Islam. Dead Christians lie strewn in

  the foreground.

  11 A sixteenth-century picture of St Sophia, converted into the Aya

  Sofya mosque with the addition of minarets by the famous Ottoman architect Sinan

  12 Mehmet in Bellini’s famous late portrait, framed within an imperial arch bearing the legend ‘Conqueror of the World’ but looking somewhat

  gaunt and ill

  13 Constantine’s palace at Mistra in the Peloponnese, ‘little onstantinople’, perched high above the Spartan plain – a poignant memorial to the Byzantine spirit

  About the Sources

  There were so many events in this war that the pen can’t describe them all,

  the tongue can’t list them all.

  Neshri, fifteenth-century Ottoman chronicler

  The Fall of Constantinople – or the Capture of Istanbul – was a fulcrum moment in the Middle Ages. The news spread across the Muslim and Christian worlds with astonishing speed, and a hungry interest in the story has ensured the survival of a huge number of accounts, so that the event seems to be blessed with a unique assemblage of reports. On closer examination however, the sum of the parts is slightly less than the whole. The band of eyewitnesses is actually quite small, and largely Christian; many of their names will have become familiar to the readers of this book: Archbishop Leonard of Chios, the intemperate Catholic churchman, Nicolo Barbaro, the ship’s doctor who wrote the most reliably dated diary, Giacomo Tetaldi, a Florentine merchant, the Russian Orthodox Nestor-Iskander, Tursun Bey, an Ottoman civil servant, and one or two others, such as George Sphrantzes, whose chronicles have proved something of a headache for modern historians. Behind these participants come a tight group of immediate successors who lived close to the moment and who probably heard the story soon afterwards at second hand – Doukas, the irrepressible Greek chronicler, vivid, unreliable and full of apocryphal stories, who imparts a lively energy to the story – and another Greek, Kritovoulos, a judge on the island of Imbros, unique in writing a Christian but pro-Ottoman version. (One of his many ambitions for his work was for it to be read ‘by all the western nations’, including those who inhabit the British Isles.) Successive centuries see a wealth of further versions from both sides; some of these are straight retellings, others add hearsay, lost oral accounts, myth and Christian or Ottoman imperial propaganda to create a heady mix of unverifiable information. It is out of such a bag of narratives that this book has been fashioned.

  Many of the difficulties that arise from handling the sources are of course endemic to history, particularly history before the age of science. Eyewitnesses at the siege are notoriously prone to large round numbers when estimating army sizes and casualty figures, hazy on dates and times, given to the use of infuriatingly local systems of weights and measures and keen to exaggerate for a receptive audience. The chronological sequencing of events is usually a convention waiting to be invented and the distinction between fact, story and myth is a fine one. Religious superstitions are so deeply intertwined with events that the city’s fall is a narrative about what people believed as well as what actually happened. And of course the notion of an objective account is entirely alien throughout.

  Every writer has an angle and a motive for his version and it is necessary to pick carefully through the claims and special interests of each one. Judgements are routinely made on the basis of religion, nationality and creed. Venetians will automatically talk up the valour of their sailors and denigrate the treachery of the Genoese – and vice versa. Italians will accuse the Greeks of cowardice, laziness and stupidity. Catholics and Orthodox will hurl insults at each other over the parapets of schism. Within the Christian camp the search for an explanation, either theological or human, for the loss of the city is a prime motivation and the blame culture rings loudly through the pages. And of course all the Christian writers hurl routine abuse at the blood-drinker Mehmet – with the exception of Kritovoulos, who leans over backwards to ingratiate himself with the sultan. The Ottomans naturally return these insults in kind.

  The tale that these witnesses tell is always vivid – they were conscious that they had witnessed, and survived the most extraordinary event – but the versions are full of strange silences. Given the huge significance of 1453 to the history of the Turkish people, it is surprising that there are so few contemporary Ottoman accounts of the capture of the city, no eyewitness narratives, almost no personal reports of the feelings and motivations of the Muslim soldiers, apart from Sheikh Akshemsettin’s letter to Mehmet. The society was predominately preliterate; transmission of events was largely oral, with no tradition of recording individual stories. What does exist is in the form of terse chronicles, later reworked to serve in the creation of an Ottoman dynastic legend, so that the Ottoman perspective often has to be constructed by reading between the lines of Christian accounts: 1453 is unusual in being history largely written by the losers.

  Almost as surprising is the shortage of testimony from Orthodox Greeks. Perhaps because many of the leading Byzantines were killed in the final sack, or were possibly too traumatized, like George Sphrantzes, to dwell on the details, the Christian story is largely relayed by Italians or pro-unionist Greeks who give the Orthodox defenders of the city, with the exception of Constantine, an unstintingly bad press.

  As a consequence the story contains a large number of mysteries that will probably never be resolved. How the Ottomans transported their ships remains a lively subject for debate amongst Turkish historians, whilst the death of Constantine is maddeningly elusive – the competing versions divide neatly along party lines; indeed Constantine himself remains a shadowy figure beside the impatient, irrepressible person of Mehmet, who seems to be omni-present in the siege.

  My aim in retelling ‘the tale of Constantinople’ has been to construct out of these conflicts and difficulties a robust central version of events – as close to certainty as I can make it. I have picked my way through the sources, awkwardly at times, trying to square accounts and seeking the most likely explanations. Dates are notoriously uncertain, despite Barbaro’s diary that does narrate the siege day by day. Every account chooses a different line in the detail of the sequencing and dating of events and many who have studied the subject will disagree with me on
fine points. A forensic study of this book will reveal some small mysteries in the timing of events. I have let these stand as a record of what is unknowable and cannot be reconciled. I have decided in general to choose the chronology that seemed to me most likely and to limit, as far as possible, the dreaded words ‘perhaps’, ‘possibly’, ‘might have’ from my narrative. The alternative was to bog the general reader down in variant source versions, which would have added little to the overall dynamic of a story whose outlines are strong and brilliantly coloured. At the same time I have drawn straight lines to deductions that I feel are justifiable from the physical evidence of geography, landscape, weather and time.

  My second aim for this book has been to capture the sound of human voices – to reproduce the words, prejudices, hopes and fears of the protagonists at first hand – and to tell something of ‘the story of the story’, the versions that they believed to be true as well as the verifiable facts. The sources are often personalities in their own right, almost as exotic and mysterious as the tale they tell; some, such as Barbaro, exist only in their telling and vanish back into silence. Others, such as Leonard of Chios and Isidore of Kiev, are more deeply embedded in the church history of the period. Among the most fascinating and problematic of the accounts is that of the Orthodox Russian Nestor-Iskander, who seems to have come to Constantinople as a conscript in the Ottoman army. By deduction it appears that he escaped into the city early in the siege, witnessed and participated in its events – he is particularly vivid on the subject of bombardment and events on the wall – and survived Ottoman retribution afterwards, possibly disguised as a monk in a monastery. His mystical and often fantastic mixture of legend, hearsay and first-hand observation is so confused about dates and sequence that many writers have been inclined to dismiss it altogether, but it contains a mass of convincing detail – he is uniquely concrete about the struggle for the wall and the process of disposing of the dead, a task in which he was probably involved. Almost alone amongst the sources, Nestor-Iskander also gives us reports of the Greeks actually fighting, for example in the incident that leads to the death of Rhangabes. The Venetians and Genoese would have us believe it was an almost exclusively Italian affair, with the Greek population at best passive and at worst, because of religious differences, obstructive, profiteering and cowardly.

  Two other chronicles destined to a colourful afterlife are those of George Sphrantzes and Doukas respectively. Sphrantzes is famous for having written two versions of the story, known as the Lesser and the Greater chronicles. For a long time it was assumed that the Greater was just a later expansion of the Lesser, which says almost nothing about the siege – the most significant, if traumatic, event in Sphrantzes’ long life. The Greater, which is vivid, detailed and highly plausible, was for a long time widely used as a major source of information about 1453. However, it has been conclusively shown to be an ingenious work of literary impersonation, written over a hundred years later by one Makarios Melissenos, taking on the first-person guise of Sphrantzes. His credentials do not inspire confidence: Melissenos was a priest known to have forged an imperial decree to win an ecclesiastical dispute. Consequently all the contents of the Greater chronicle have been thrown into doubt. Historians now tiptoe around the work in various ways – anyone who wants to write about the siege must decide how to tackle it. A case has been made, based on close textual analysis, for believing that it does rest on a longer version of Sphrantzes, now lost, and the sheer specificity of some of its content would argue for a historical novelist of a very high order if it were a complete invention. Melissenos is responsible for the incident in which Sphrantzes stands in the dark on the tower before the battle with Constantine; he is also the source for an iconic moment in Turkish history: the tale of Hasan of Ulubat, the giant Janissary who becomes the first to plant the Ottoman flag on the walls. The second at least seems to be too detailed to be invented.

  Just as exotic is the chronicle of Doukas – a long-range history of the fall of Byzantium. Doukas witnessed many of the events surrounding the siege, if not the siege itself. He probably saw the test firing of Orban’s great cannon at Edirne and the rotting bodies of the sailors impaled by Mehmet after their ship was sunk at the Throat Cutter. His vivid, intransigent account comes to a strange end: abruptly, in mid-sentence, during its description of the Ottoman siege of Lesbos in 1462, leaving the fate of its author, like so much in this story, hanging in the air. The vivid account of events on Lesbos gives a strong impression that the author was there, and prompts the speculation that he was stopped pen in hand by the final collapse of the Greek defence. Did he undergo the terrible fate of the defenders – sawn in two to fulfil a promise that their heads would not be cut off – or was he sold into slavery? He walks out of the room in mid-phrase.

  Telling the story of Constantinople has an immensely rich history of its own. The present book rests on the shoulders of a long tradition of versions in English; there is a line of succession that runs through Edward Gibbon in the eighteenth century, via two English knights, Sir Edwin Pears in 1903, and the great Byzantine historian Sir Stephen Runciman in 1965, and a host of accounts in other languages. As to the difficulties of getting it right, Kritovoulos of Imbros, a man with a good line in historical awareness, spotted the problem five hundred years ago, and provided himself with a neat disclaimer in his dedication to Mehmet – a prudent measure when addressing the World Conqueror when you were not actually present yourself. Any subsequent version might wish to invoke his words: ‘Therefore, O mighty Emperor, I have laboured hard, for I was not myself a witness of the events, to know the exact truth about these things. In writing the history I have at the same time inquired of those who knew, and have examined exactly how it all happened … And if my words seem inferior to your deeds … I myself … yield in the matter of historical record to others who in such things are far more competent than I.’

  Source Notes

  About the Sources

  1 ‘There were so many …’, Pertusi, La Caduta, vol. 2, p. 261

  2 ‘Therefore, O mighty Emperor …’, Kritovoulos, History of Mehmet, pp. 4–6

  Bibliography

  Collections of Sources

  Jorga, N., Notes et extraits pour servir à l’Histoire des Croisades au XVe siècle, 6 vols, Paris and Bucharest, 1899–1916

  Legrand, Emile, Recueil de Chansons Populaires Grecques, Paris, 1874

  Lewis, Bernard, Islam from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of Constantinople, 2 vols, New York, 1974

  Melville Jones, J. R., The Siege of Constantinople 1453: Seven Contemporary Accounts, Amsterdam, 1972

  Pertusi, Agostino, La Caduta di Costantinopoli, 2 vols, Milan, 1976

  Individual Sources

  Barbaro, Nicolo, Giornale dell’ Assedio di Costantinopoli 1453, ed. E. Cornet, Vienna, 1856; (in English) Diary of the Siege of Constantinople 1453, trans. J. R. Melville Jones, New York, 1969

  Brocquière, Bertrandon de la, in Early Travels in Palestine, ed. T. Wright, London, 1848

  Camariotes, Matthew, ‘De Constantinopoli Capta Narratio Lamentabilis’, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeco-Latina, vol. 160, ed. J. P. Migne, Paris, 1866

  Chelebi, Evliya, In the Days of the Janissaries, ed. Alexander Pallis, London, 1951

  Chelebi, Evliya, ‘Le Siège de Constantinople d’après le Seyahatname d’Evliya Chelebi’, trans. H. Turkova, Byzantinoslavica, vol. 14, 1953

  Comnena, Anna, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, trans. E. R. A. Sewter, London, 1969

  Doukas, Decline and Fall of Byzantium to the Ottoman Turks, trans. Harry J. Magoulias, Detroit, 1975

  Doukas, Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, vol. 5, Paris, 1870

  Gilles, Pierre, The Antiquities of Constantinople, London, 1729

  Gunther of Pairis, The Capture of Constantinople: The Hystoria Constantinopolitana of Gunther of Pairis, ed. and trans. Alfred J. Andrea, Philadelphia, 1997

  Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah, 3 vols, trans. Franz Rosenthal, London, 1958<
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  Ibn Taghribirdi, Abu al-Mahasin Yusuf, History of Egypt, Part 6, 1382–1469 A.D., trans, W. Popper, Berkeley, 1960

  Khoja Sa’d-ud-din, The Capture of Constantinople from the Taj-ut-Tevarikh, trans. E. J. W. Gibb, Glasgow, 1879

  Kritovoulos, Critobuli Imbriotae Historiae, ed. Diether Reinsch, Berlin, 1983; (in English) History of Mehmed the Conqueror, trans. Charles T. Riggs, Westport, 1970

  Leonard of Chios, De Capta a Mehemethe II Constantinopoli, Paris, 1823

  Mihailovich, Konstantin, Memoirs of a Janissary, trans. Benjamin Stolz, Ann Arbor, 1975

  Nestor-Iskander, The Tale of Constantinople, trans. and ed. Walter K. Hanak and Marios Philippides, 1998

  Ovid, Tristia, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1989

  Procopius, Buildings, London, 1971

  Pusculus, Ubertino, Constantinopoleos Libri IV, in Ellissen, Analekten der Mittel- und Neugriechischen Literatur III, 1857

  Spandounes, Theodore, On the Origin of the Ottoman Emperors, trans. and ed. Donald M. Nicol, Cambridge, 1997

  Sphrantzes, George, The Fall of the Byzantine Empire: A Chronicle by George Sphrantzes 1401–1477, trans. Marios Philippides, Amherst, 1980

  Sphrantzes, George, A Contemporary Greek Source for the Siege of Constantinople 1453: The Sphrantzes Chronicle, trans. Margaret Carroll, Amsterdam, 1985

  Tafur, Pero, Travels and Adventures, 1435–1439, trans. Malcolm Letts, London, 1926