Recovered extracts from the writings of Byzantine officer, Alexios Pantechnes, found and published by Medieval siege historian Zak Casey in October 2016.
25th October 1452
The heralds were proven untrue.
Sultan Mehmed II was meant to be a welcome respite from the looming threat of his predecessor, the militarist Sultan Murad from across the Bosporus, who, when he was not smashing his fellow Turkish lords in Anatolia, had sailed in a great rage across the strait and laid siege to our Eternal City in the year of our lord 1422. I myself was only a young boy at the time, just past five years of age, but I still remember. The panic, the fear and the shouts; my mother coddling myself to her bosom and whispering comforts in my ear as a man clad in mail told my father to grab his sword, mace, axe or broom and come with him immediately. “To the defense of the holy city!” was the cry, and it sung from street to street. The church bells ringing from the Hagia Sophia could be heard across the entire city, not ringing now for the glory of God but rather a ringing of warning and war. The smell of fire on the wind. The hellish falcon cannons blasting against those ancient stalwart defenders of us Romans, the Theodosian Walls. My father took me once to see over the walls and upon the vast armies of the Turks, encamped surrounding the entire city. Tired, scared men on the walls and tired, scared men below. The smell of sulfur, blood and sweat was overwhelming.
By the grace of God the siege was lifted when our beloved Theotokos herself came before the men; though being tired and battered, the soldiers gave up a great cheer and sang hymns, glorifying her from the depths of their hearts, and sent the heathens fleeing back across the sea in shame. My father did not speak of much else asides from this apparition of the virgin mother before he died three weeks later of an infected wound.
Yet now, after a tenuous period of peace, the Turks come again, led by Murad’s own son. Twenty-one years of age and yet thinking to make himself a conqueror. Nay, an iconoclast. A destroyer. A destroyer of an empire that has endured for millennia. His men have landed in the Peloponnese; reinforcements from our Basileus’ brothers in Morea cannot come. The terrible fortress of Rumelihisarı has been completed, blocking sea access from our Genoese allies to the north. Another attack on Constantinople seems inevitable now. But when?
7th January 1453
Today a Genoese soldier from the isle of Chios named Giovanni Giustiniani arrived with 700 companions. He had come on his own initiative, his men with him being fed and clothed but not paid, his charisma the only persuasion. That and the trueness of our cause, for if Constantinople falls and the Empire of the Romans is undone then the whole of Christendom shall be threatened. The basileus Constantine XI, recognising the young captain’s martial ability, proclaimed him protostrator and has put him in command of the land defences. Venetian sailors who were sailing in the Golden Horn have also joined our cause, defying orders from their doge. Pope Nicholas has reportedly sent three ships of provisions which are expected to arrive in March. We Romans have not forgotten the treachery of the Latins but we will not refuse their aid regardless; the situation is too dire for pride. Others have arrived from across the sea, some on their own, most in groups. The men are heartened by the unexpected reinforcements. Surely more will come.
Emissaries sent to the Sultan to engage in diplomacy were executed. Warfare is the only means by which this will be settled. Our 7,000 versus their hundreds of thousands. We will be ready.
6th April 1453
The Sultan has arrived and the siege has begun. Thousands of refugees from the surrounding countryside huddle beneath the walls, walls which we have too few men to even properly man. Fortresses in the nearby area have already been seized; seemingly the men who were garrisoned there who think to call themselves Roman did not even fight, unless you count the struggle to lift the gates a fight. The Ottoman cannon – the very same offered to us by the traitor engineer Orban before his betrayal – now fires on our walls and the men do their best to repair. Aid from the western realms must come.
28th April 1453
A remarkable example of Roman ingenuity and engineering; a great golden chain stretched across the mouth of the harbor. No ship that was not on God’s graces could pass. With this, we had hope of maintaining the defences until help arrived. Eight days prior a small flotilla of Christian ships managed to evade the Turkish blockade and sailed into the harbour. When the heathens pursued, the great chain went up and cut off the forward ships from reinforcement. The sailors were killed and the ships taken. The men were greatly cheered.
Five days ago, the Turks rolled their ships up onto the hill on greased logs and slid them into the harbour, bypassing the chain entirely. Are we cursed?
We are preparing fire-ships in the hopes of destroying their fleet. I am to lead the operation. I will write again soon, I hope.
29th April 1453
Failure and treachery. Treachery and failure. The Ottomans had been forewarned. The attack was a failure and two score of our men were captured. I see them now, twitching. Impaled and screaming. Just below our walls. The smells of acrid smoke and the sounds of battle are still with me. By Christ I cannot allow this to continue. I will send for our own prisoners, all 280 of them, and execute them one-by-one for the heathen to see.
How can I write after what I have seen? I must focus on my duties now.
We cannot let this city fall.
21st May 1453
Dozens of Turks have died by my hand in the labyrinth of tunnels they have built beneath the city. A dark, stiflingly warm pit where it is rarely possible to fight in anything but a line. We have found black powder only minutes away from being primed. Do the Turks mean to destroy rather than conquer? Most of the sappers are Christian. These traitors are worse than the mousoulmános.
Earlier today an emissary arrived from Mehmed himself. He offered our basileus peace in return for the city. The basileus refused, stating it was not within his rights, nor anyone’s, to give away our most holy of cities. It seems the final assault is inevitable now. Help is not coming.
28th May 1453
Six days ago, the moon blotted out the sun. Two days ago, fog like I have never seen strangled the streets and that evening the Holy Spirit left us, seen as a sparkling of lights on the dome of the Hagia Sophia. The Doom is upon us.
A small Venetian flotilla arrived yesterday. How I do not know. Perhaps the Turks let them pass. They confirmed that no relief was coming. Why should I even bother writing these words? The Venetians agreed to take my wife and children. They will be safe with an old friend of mine in Venice. As for myself, I owe the basileus my life; my only purpose now is to die in defence of the basileia. There was a ceremony held in the Hagia Sophia today. A solemn thing, sad and tired. Like myself. Perhaps it will be the last time I enter a church, and perhaps this will be the last time I write.
The final assault began on the next day. Alexios Pantechnes and Constantine XI were killed in the attack, the emperor stripping his imperial regalia and leading the charge alongside his soldiers. Giovanni Giustiniani was wounded and died of his injuries three days later. The fate of Alexios’ family is unknown.