The Romans held out admirably (that's what, six months?), but in the end they can't escape their ultimate fate. The City will fall, sooner or later. A grim tale, with no heroism in it.
Indeed not. Though, as we will be soon(ish) seeing, there are plenty of acts of individual heroism on both sides.
The end draws near.
In game I’ve only seen the Ottomans defeated by the human player by blocking off the sea lane between Asia and the Balkans. In real life the Ottomans were just too powerful to stop.
Exactly, and apparently even that tactic doesn't work any more with the latest patch.
Book One: Romans and Emperors.
Chapter Five: The Fall of Constantinople, Part Two (from the Mind of Ivy).
Chapter Five: The Fall of Constantinople, Part Two (from the Mind of Ivy).
“Why should we be stuck with the names given us from birth? Bagatur called himself the Whisperer. Isra called herself Ivy. And Cobalt… Cobalt chose to name himself after a wound, a reflection of his own nature"- Khalid of Samarkand "Samarkand Chronicle”.
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The fleet drew near...
My name is Ivy.
I was born in the slums of Cairo. They gave me the name Isra, which means “night-journey”. My family name was El-Amin, which means “the truthful”. I dropped my surname when I was old enough to think for myself, as I delight in lies. Lies make the world spin. Lies are what all people crave, when it comes down to it. She loves me. I am good. I will go to paradise. All little lies, all being weaved into a tapestry of deception.
I do tend to travel by night, however, so perhaps my first name is apt. It is so much quieter at night. I don’t have to put up with dirty travellers, or leering old men who have never seen a woman as pretty as I. I can simply wander in peace, without the cares of the lesser folk worrying me. And should some bandit or wandering cutthroat seek to rob or harm me, I get some practice for my knife.
But my name is Ivy these days. Ivy, the creeper and the climber. I like it as a name. It was given to me by an English poet, who bought passage in a ship to Rome which I happened to be on. After I had tricked the Captain into diverting the ship to Tunis, where I had needed to be, he bestowed the name upon me, in the morning half-light as we dozed in one another’s arms. A pity, really, that he was killed. Pirates began to drag him off as we passed the western tip of Sicily, so I was forced to put a bullet in his skull. A mercy shot, you understand. A better fate than whatever would have become of him as a Barbary galley slave.
Now, though, I am on a ship again, but a different kind. This is not a merchant cargo ship, but a sleek galley of the Sultan’s navy. I am standing at the bow of the vessel, watching the water. Two similar vessels are behind me.
We fought hard to get here. Off the coast of Satalia, we were set upon by the heathen Greeks, spewing the filthy fire, the secret of which they hold so dear. I swear, one day I’ll find that secret and turn it against them. Then they’ll see what it’s like to watch your comrades scream and burn.
Despite the very small number of ships, it took a long time for the battle to be concluded, largely as a result of the immense tactical use of Greek Fire.
Some consider it strange, that a woman commands troops and sailors. Some consider that it goes against our religion. They say that the Qu’ran forbade it, that men inherit more than us, that we are their fields to be ploughed at their will, that we should be chaste and meek, that we must stay in our homes, avoiding lust and keeping our pretty heads down.
What do I say to that? I say that the ways of the world turn. I am not some meek housewife, I am a warrior! I spit at the man who tries to cut me down. I am Ivy! The Jezebel of Cyprus, the Blood-Soaked Princess, the Maiden of the Moorish Banner! Already my titles have cut their path across this island-filled ocean!
The sailors weren’t very happy with the appointment. They even tried to mutiny. It was a terrible bore. I and my officers had to cut down about twenty of them before they yielded. Twenty good men! Such a waste, particularly since we had to fight the Greeks only three days later.
Oh, yeah, the Greeks. A single ship tried to stop us. The Greek Fire was a pain, and it took us ages to board them. But we did, and though we couldn’t capture it, we made them flee back to the City. They won’t cause us any more problems.
I can hear shouts, whoops from behind me. I can see why; there is the city, and the army, up ahead. The land is frosted over, and the city walls and crumbling and bruised. But the standard of the Rum still flies! I grin with pleasure. The Emperor is still mine for the taking, then.
Don’t misunderstand my stance on dear Ioannes. I don’t want to kill him. I don’t want to torture him, as torture is the refuge of the weak and the coward, who enjoys to inflict pain but is terrified of receiving it. I want him as my slave, my pet. I want that Emperor, who dared to throw me from his palace, to be my footstool. I will put him in a mask so that none recognise him, and call him Doulos. And I’ll cut out his tongue, of course, so he can’t tell anyone who he is. And I’ll then have my own little Emperor to serve my food and brush my hair. And I’ll break his spirit, too, break it into little pieces, so he’ll do it all willingly. The Emperor of Rome, reduced to a house-servant.
We reach the shore. A little delegation is there to meet us- Cobalt, the Sultan, and his other closest advisors, Miroslav Shishman and Bayezid Piyale. The wind whips around the faces of the Whisperer and myself as we step off the ship.
The Whisperer is a curious oddity. In his character, he is ferociously intelligent, with a highly developed ability to spin webs and lies. I have seen him trick even the Sultan many times. He hails from the far East, spending many years travelling across the roads until he reached Samarkand, where he lived for a while. He told me, one fine evening as we hurried towards the City, tales of that place. A citadel, a bridge between east and west, the melting pot of the world. I would very much like to visit it, when all of this is over.
But the Whisperer has certain, duller parts of his personality. Like many men of his calibre, he desires me, seeing an equal in me. It might have been flattering, but after long lines of many such men with similar thoughts, such advances merely bore me. He is a little meticulous, and too involved in his work. But he has proved himself an intelligent and loyal friend, despite such flaws.
What errand the Sultan ordered him to accomplish, I do not know. We encountered him, in a small dinghy, shortly after the victory over the Roman fleet. He refuses to speak of it. I don’t think it was anything particularly important; probably just some service for the Sultan, which would explain why he attempts to be so honourable about the information. He doesn’t understand what is and is not important, yet.
We reach the Sultan, and make the customary greetings. He bids us rise. He is young, and full of fire. His face is, however, unusually cold. This does not bode well.
“Your soldiers were arrested. The City holds out”.
I had suspected as much, since the City was still Byzantine. But I do not correct the Sultan’s mistake. I simply smile brightly. “My apologies, sire. But I must point out that I was not to blame for the actions of the Emperor. I possess no powers of witchcraft or clairovoyance.”
The Sultan nods towards me, apparently satisfied. What had satisfied him, I cannot say. He asks the Whisperer in a low voice, “Is it done?”
The Whisperer nods. “Yes, sir. They will be here in fifteen days, by my estimates.”
The Sultan smiles broadly. “Then come! Come, both of you! We shall organise a feast for this fortuitous homecoming!”
We follow him into camp. I look up at the city walls, grey and forboding. Soon, my dear Ioannes. Soon.
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