The Fall of an Empire
Jamie Li
The people of the siege jumped for joy, even though this happiness only endured for a night. Night brought them endless dreams and hopes that Constantinople would at length be freed from Muhammad’s attack, for they have already tasted the flavor of the reinforcement of the four ships arrived from Genoa that had provided them with soldiers and foods. Constantine the Eleven had also witnessed the dreadful battle of yesterday, when the Greeks on the rampart were just a stone’s throw away from their assisting brothers, but all they could do was clench their fists in anger and shout, and there was nothing else. Constantine’s taut heart finally eased a bit as a tiny flame of hope existed, though. He hadn’t closed eyes for days since the aggressive Turks besieged the last city of Roman Empire and started the nightmare with cannons and fire, and he was drowsy in such unpeaceful life. All laid completely on the indestructible wall of the barrack now. ‘They cannot surpass the Golden Horn Bay,’ thought Constantine, ‘they shall not attack us face to face now. Aye. Only from the inner harbor near the territory of Genoa could they invade, but it is impossible for him to create a fleet without months or years.’ He comforted himself. In the next day the atmosphere was eerily quiet. No attack from the foes. Purely nothing. Constantine’s heart on the contrary was pinched again. ‘Only if I could go out and explore. I hate the feeling of unknown. But what can I do now? A lonely leader sinking step by step into endless dilemma! Oh god. Please bless my folks and the blood of our noble Romans!’
Yet things always went athwart and was a purely joke. The next morning when the sun with her rose-red fingers rose from the skyline, the young king was astonished by the most terrible scene he had ever seen. Unbelievable. There could be dreams of hopes, but this time the dream grew darker, into a swamp of desperation and surprise---an enemies’ fleet, as if with the assistance from gods or ghosts, in the heart of the bay, where they thought the enemy could never approach, the sails sailed, the flags flew, and the men were in order. Blood spilled from Constantine’s mouth, and he felt dazed by the dazzling sunlight. ‘How could it be!’ Yet no one knew why except Muhammad himself, who was too mind-washed with the will of conquering and came up with the genius method of fixing the ships on skidding and carrying them all the way over mountains and valleys under the support of thousands of workers.
Byzantine stopped to deceive itself as Constantine after a fall struggled to give the last strike. Twelve warriors in disguise paddled a boat quietly into the Aegean Sea in the dark to ask the other Christians countries for help. Yet days passed and the boat disappeared without a trace---the vast Christian world had forgotten Byzantium, a miserable relic of old days. Constantine alone stood in the brisk wind, and for the last time he looked into the boundless sea and land, which used to be the glorious realm of grand Rome! Yet the things were still there, but men were no more the same ones. He desperately closed his eyes. The general offensive was not far, for Muhammad had already lost his patience. Their horrible shouts “Jagma, Jagma!” are like a storm, covering the startled Byzantine, the last parclose of the east. With a shudder Constantine saw the plains and hills lit with lights and torches burning like a starry sky. And behold! All the light suddenly went out, and the cruel and noisy ritual came to an abrupt end. So it began. Constantine knew what laid ahead---the fall of the seas and mountains, the end of days, the fork of history. In the dim light of Sophia Cathedral, the last mass was hold. All the folks from all beliefs gathered together and sang high “Kyrie Eleison!” The vault of the church was shrouded in darkness, and candles struggled against it, and all the while the people prostrated themselves on the ground, praying with Byzantine souls. For the last time, the Christian belief lived in the church; for the last time, they were determined to defeat the grinch; for the last time, Constantine roused his folks despite the bleach…
Battle lasted for a whole night, yet at this time, as no one had ever expected, a tragic moment, suddenly changed the fate of history---not the cannons, not the ships, not the fire. Several Turks surpassed the outer gate and curiously wandered around the inner solid wall. They discovered there was a small door on the inner wall, surprisingly opened in this mid of the battle. It was only a small door, certainly, and it seemed like it was just a path for travelers during the good old times. On that last night, in the midst of all the excitement of the city, the little door in the fortified castle had opened to them. Byzantines forgot it. It was as simple as that. It was so peaceful, like a fine Sunday, like a fishing boat resting in the harbor out of which storms are reaching, right into the heart of the city out of foolish sake, the Turks’ aspirational goal. The city was raided, a disaster to the human spiritual wealth.
The Turks had the beaten king cornered. “Give up! Weakling of the east! All the wealth belongs to the ones who acquired it, including you, nothing but a captive. Surrender now, and you will live and follow us to our glorious capital of the Sultan! As he promised, you shall be the ruler of Mystras once you become our aide.” Their remarks were sinister and vicious, teeth clenching. He was scared and felt like he couldn’t do anything anymore, not even cry. ‘…I longed to die with my kingdom…Life isn’t meaningful for me anymore…God abandoned us…Constantinople is our home, the capital of the Roman Empire. Hahaha----’ He laughed out of his mind. He laughed out of fear. He lived as hard as he could because he was the last emperor of the Roman Empire. He dared not die. He could not let the dynasty fall into his own hands. But now he really could not live. He threw up his hands and put the longsword around his neck. If he couldn’t live well, he could at least kill himself. “I am the sinner of Rome, let me apologize to the ancestors of ancient times! I will never abandon this city, my people, and never fall into the hands of thieves again---”
The king died a martyr’s death. The crucifix fell, whose sound echoed among the European continent and announced a fatal doomsday. But regret could not recover the moment, an hour early neglected, a thousand years cannot make up the redemption.
