Mehmet slammed his fist on Constantinople's map.

"The cursed walls still stand."

From the darkest chamber of his soul came the whisper:A concubine's son cannot be sultan.

Kicking cushions and divans out of his way, he confronted his Vizir Zaganos Pasha, who stood eyes downcast, forehead creased.

"My throne, your head, both are on the block."

"Patience, my Sultan. The cannon will do its work."

"When? A fortune spent on the Basilic, and so far, only cracks on the Theodosian walls."

"Indeed, Orban's cannon must talk faster."

Outside the royal tent, the earth trembled with distant thunder, cannon fire, rhythmic and slow, like the bellows of some captive god. Inside, Mehmet bent over the city's map again, the parchment creased from folding, its edges darkened by oil and sweat.

He wrinkled his nose. The air smelled of leather, ink, and the metallic tang of blood. His armor lay discarded in the corner; its plates streaked with soot. He had not slept since the last breach attempt failed and the Genoese mercenary captain, Giustiniani, the lion-hearted bastard, had repelled the Janissaries again.

Mehmet looked heavenward. Why wasn't Allah answering his prayers?

In Edirne, they whispered often enough that his mother, Huma Hatun, had been a passing fancy. A womb, nothing more.

In his twenty-first year, Mehmet, sultan of the Ottomans, found Constantinople barring his destiny. Though the Eastern Roman Empire had shrunk to one dying city, its emperors still called themselves gods. By taking it, he would steal divinity itself.

But the Theodosian walls would not yield. The rate of fire of the Basilic, his great cannon, the Hungarian Orban's monstrous child of bronze, was not fast enough.

He stood up, the map fluttering in the breeze. Somewhere behind the soldier's encampment, Orban's forge belched smoke into the sky. Mehmet's jaw tightened.

The city must fall and fall to fire. He would make it so.

"Come with me, Zaganos," he said as he strode out into the night, hurrying towards the cannon and the forge. In the surrounding darkness, the forge roared like a beast in chains as its fires reached heavenward.

Bellows wheezed. Sparks leaped from the crucibles. Orban's men toiled around the Basilic, thirty feet of cast bronze, its mouth wide as a man's chest, its flanks carved with Ottoman script and Christian curses.

Mehmet arrived unannounced, his boots crunching over slag and ash. The guards scrambled to bow, but Orban did not.

"Sultan," he said, wiping his brow with a rag that was once white. "You honor us."

Ignoring him, Mehmet walked the length of the cannon, running one hand along its flank. The metal was warm. He could feel it humming, alive.

"Too slow. The Basilic must fire three times faster."

Orban hesitated.

"It takes two hours to load, fire, swab, and then fire again."

"Unacceptable."

The forge quieted. Even the bellows held their breath.

Facing Orban, Mehmet said,

"You promised the wall's destruction and destroy it you must."

Orban's eyes narrowed. "Beware, Sultan. It will crack if pushed too far. Bronze is strong, not immortal. Do not demand a miracle."

"I want the city," Mehmet said. "And I will have it."

He stepped closer, his jaw tight. Lowering his voice, he said,

"Succeed and you save your head." Then, loudly for all to hear,

"Double wages if you succeed." Orban looked away, brows furrowed.

"Then we must improvise."

Orban drove his men to exhaustion, charges packed, swabs slammed, hands burned raw. Mehmet's eyes never left the Basilic, as Orban's warning rang in his ears. His fingers lingered over a fissure on the barrel. A flaw. A weakness. Like blood, not pure enough. He withdrew his hand. No one must see it.

The next day, the cannon fired four times and cracked a stone bastion near the Gate of St. Romanus, sending a plume of dust and screams into the sky.

The men cheered. Orban did not.

"She cannot last," he warned. "By heavens, you are killing her, Sultan." Mehmet replied,

"Then let her die with glory." Orban's fists clenched, but he looked away.

When he left the forge, something had shifted inside Mehmet. No longer just a weapon, the cannon was his herald, whose loud voice will drown out all dishonoring ones.

Let them say what they would.

Soon, the world would speak only one name: Mehmet the Conqueror.

#

On the opposite ramparts, Emperor Constantine XI walked the crumbling Theodosian walls, fog clinging to beard and armor. With each roar of the Basilic, he knew the wall's cracks were widening. He was aware that Giustiniani couldn't hold out forever, but he did not speak of escaping. Constantinople was no throne to abandon but a cross to bear. If the walls fell, he would fall with them.

The latest volley broke the wall at the gate of St. Romanus, where Giustiniani was desperately repairing the wall and repelling the Ottomans. But the cracks kept widening as even more Janissaries poured in. How long before they overwhelmed his mercenaries?

#

The mist cleared as suddenly as it had come, exposing the city like a bride stripped of her veil. In the clear air, one could hear the cries of gulls and the groans of wounded men.

Mehmet stood atop the siege tower, wrapped in a wolf-skin cloak, his breath steaming in the cold. Below, the city's ghostly mantle lifted as the domes, spires, and towers took concrete shape.

The defenders groaned. Was the Virgin Mary withdrawing her protection? The Ottoman gunners got busy, exhorted by Mehmet.

As Mehmet looked up at the dome of Hagia Sophia, he thought the dome went bright as it took light like a mirror, then gave it back and went dark. Mehmet said,

"My victory is foretold. "

Zaganos Pasha stirred beside him. "A sign?"

A chorus of despairing cries and groans from the Theodosian walls answered him. The Christians had seen the phenomenon and understood its portent.

Mehmet turned to the gunners. "Fire the Basilic."

The Basilic roared. Its shot vanished into the shimmer, followed by the crack of stone and the distant screams of men. Then silence.

Another, louder roar followed, and a towering fireball engulfed the Basilic. Flames, sparks, and smoke belched as the cannon split wide open and fell on its side, crushing Orban.

The Ottomans were in shock. Mehmet stared at a wide gap in the wall as time seemed to pause. Wide enough for ten Janissaries abreast. Ignoring the ruined Basilic and its dead builder, he ordered all other guns to open fire. Glory demanded sacrifice.

As the cannon smoke rolled away, the city re-emerged, piece by piece. Cracks had appeared on the walls. The towers listed. No banners flew. No reinforcements came.

Mehmet raised his arm. "Send the Janissaries."

The last assault began.

Soldiers on horseback and on foot surged forward, their boots pounding the earth. Arrows hissed. Ladders scraped stone.

By midday, the Gate of St. Romanus fell. By evening, the city was his.

Muslims and Christians alike expected Mehmet to fulfill his vow and convert the basilica to a mosque. But he did not enter the Hagia Sophia.

Instead, he summoned Zaganos again. "Rumors of a suicidal attack. Clear the area around the Hagia Sophia."

A runner arrived, breathless. "My lord—the attack by the Varangian Guards near the cathedral failed. Constantine is dead."

The dome, untouched by fire, blazed one last time and went dark: like a soul departing. In the silence, Mehmet heard a fading whisper: 'A concubine's son cannot be sultan. Turning towards the Hagia Sophia, his lips twisted as he said,

"Now let them whisper … if they dare." But no whisper answered.

The End

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