Do Not Cry, Our Lady
The prison guard gave me another shove and this time I hit the ground.
"Move, street scum! Get in here!" He growled, while he opened the door of a cell, "The dog in this cell can use some company!"
"But I am innocent!" I demanded, as he pushed me into the cell, "I have never stolen anything in my life!"
"The Kadi′1 will decide!" The guard retorted as he locked the iron door and walked away.
The cell was dimly lit through a small window secured with iron bars. The building had once been a monastery and had since been converted to a jail. I stood there waiting for my vision to clear and started to think about how I had gotten myself into this. Earlier that day, I had been at the market standing in front of a store, looking at the display when someone came running out and knocked me to the ground. Everyone was screaming, "Thief! Thief!" and I quickly realized that it was the thief who had knocked me to the ground. I ran after him to catch him, but the next thing I knew, it was I that was thrown to the ground and arrested for the theft. They had mistaken me for the thief and wrongfully accused me for the theft; so much for trying to help.
Slowly my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I was able to look around. The cell was rather small with an iron bed attached to the wall. I was able to distinguish a figure lying on the bed. It was an old man and seeing me looking at him, he stood up. Surprisingly, there didn't seem to be much effort in his movements. He had gotten up with the agility of someone in his twenties. He was over six feet tall and despite his raggedy old clothes, with every movement he made, a whole series of muscles could be seen through the tear in his clothing. He looked as if he had been through many battles as he was scarred on his face and arms. Getting into a fight with him would not be advantageous. His hair was thick and long with the color of silver. He was smiling, but there was a hardness in his face that made clear he was not someone to be taken lightly. He had a thick but short beard, the same silver color as his long hair.
"Greetings," I said with a friendly smile, "I am Lambros. May I ask sir, what is your name?"
"Dorotheos." He answered with a deep voice.
When I heard the name, I cringed. While growing up in Constantinople we were told stories of all the soldiers who gave their life during the fall of the City to the Turks. We were also told of a Captain Dorotheos who had not died, despite his many wounds. He had survived, but had been thrown into jail and no one knew where. The Sultan had been so impressed with his fighting that he had spared his life. Apparently, he had even tried to convince Dorotheos to join the Ottoman army. When Dorotheos refused, the Sultan had him thrown in prison, hoping this would change his mind.
"Are you the Dorotheos Makarios, Captain of the Emperor's Imperial guard?" I asked with astonishment.
"Yes… yes, I am," he answered indifferently.
I felt my heart jumping with excitement. I was in the presence of a legend; one of the few great men who stood with the Emperor Constantine Paleologos when the city of Constantinople had fallen 25 years ago.
"Captain Dorotheos," I said, as I sat down on the cold floor, "I was born nine years after the fall of the City and I never heard the true story from anyone. Everyone tells the story differently. Would you be so kind to tell me how it all happened?"
Captain Makarios smiled with a sadness running through his eyes. He cleared his throat and began…
For over two months we had been fighting them. Their cannons continued to pound our walls day after day. Although we were able to repair most of the damages between their firing, the sound was horrifying. Before the fighting started, Emperor Constantine Paleologos and I, along with a handful of the Imperial guard, had ridden out to meet Sultan Mehmet and a handful of his guard. The Sultan, sitting on a white Arabic stallion, demanded our surrender. He promised in return to spare our lives and respect our properties. This apparently was an Islamic tradition to do so before a battle. How faithful he would be to his promise, no one knows, but to surrender the City in the hands of the Muslims was out of the question to us. When the Emperor refused to accept the Sultan's demands, the attack began.
Their cannons were firing against specific sections of our walls and not too long after, they succeeded to break through near the Gate of Charisius. But thanks to the hardworking and courageous people of Constantinople the damaged wall was soon repaired. We used anything we could find to reinforce the wall. But the repair of the wall did not daunt the Ottoman troops. They filled a part of the moat, outside our walls, and continued the attack. That part of the fortress wall had been weakened some time ago, from the crusaders in 1204.
The City had only once before been humiliated. It was done, from within the city, by the crusaders. In 1204 our Crusaders "friends" had been welcomed and given quarters in Constantinople to rest and prepare for their holy mission, but they instead shamefully destroyed and sacked the City. Then they proceeded to take over the political and military control of the empire. They ruled ineptly for sixty four years causing very serious degradation everywhere. The empire was regained, but never again recovered its previous glory. A thought kept coming unrelentingly back to my mind; our sins had brought about the destruction of the glorious Eastern Roman Empire by the Crusaders and now it seemed that the time had come to be lost forever.
It was the fateful year of our Lord 1453, and I, Dorotheos Makarios, was a captain of the Imperial Guard of the Emperor Constantine Paleologos. It was May andwe had been fighting Sultan Mehmet's forces since the beginning of March. Although our men, with the grace of God, fought with great courage, it was apparent that we would not be able to hold out much longer. We all hoped, prayed and waited for help to be sent from the Pope, but the days passed without anyone coming. We had with us two thousand courageous men from Venice and Genoa. Their help was welcomed and valuable, but not enough. Despite our plea for help to our fellow Christians from the west, they did not respond. Our Emperor had even forced our Orthodox Church leaders to sign the unification with the Roman Catholic Church but to no avail. The West remained unsympathetic.
Almost everyday we went for confession and received communion. We felt that the moment of our death was at hand. The time was nigh for the once great Eastern Roman Empire to fall. Already most of our learned men and artists had abandoned the City and had moved to Italy. They sensed that the fall of Constantinople was imminent. We heard how they were becoming successful there. They were creating a stir in the arts and the sciences in the West. They were setting up schools and a renaissance was brought about there, but we felt abandoned and betrayed. Our military force barely reached seven thousand men including the two thousand soldiers from Venice and Genoa. But what could this small amount of soldiers do against the over a hundred thousand troops of the Ottomans?
A few weeks earlier, a ship had been sent out to find the Venetian fleet, but it had returned with the horrible news that nothing had been in sight. There were no ships coming. We were to face the wrath of the Ottomans alone. When the Emperor heard the heartbreaking news, sadness touched his face. He knew what the outcome would be. I unnoticeably followed him as he went off by himself and collapsed on the steps of a small chapel nearby. There with his face on the ground, he cried and prayed asking for God's help. I too prayed silently for divine intervention.
It was in the middle of May when I stood with our Emperor at his command center next to the Gate of Charisius. His advisors urged him to leave the city and seek help as his father Manuel II had done when Sultan Bayazid blockaded the city in 1399. But Emperor Constantine sternly refused. He declared that he wanted to stay and fight, and if necessary, die with his men. We all felt very honored and we were even more willing now to give our life for him having heard him say this. He could have left and no one would think the least of him, but he wanted to die with his men.
Another day had passed. That day there was no fighting. The cannons stopped their battering against our walls and the Ottomans rested in their camps. Emperor Constantine ordered once again the walls to be repaired with what materials could be found. A light drizzle of rain started to fall on us and I heard one of the priests saying that the Mother of the Lord was crying in heaven. The church bells rang throughout the city. Those who were not busy repairing the walls could join in a procession around the city with icons and relics of the Saints with the Clergy and the Emperor leading them. I would have liked to join them, but I chose to stay and help to repair the walls. In my mind came images of other processions I had partaken in the past; such as the procession of the Holy Thursday when the whole City would be on the streets celebrating. Those were the carefree days.
Later that day, Emperor Constantine assembled his ministers, officers and soldiers and addressed us: "Gentlemen, illustrious captains of the army, and our most Christian comrades in arms: we now see the hour of battle approaching. I have therefore elected to assemble you here to make it clear that you must stand together with firmer resolution than ever. You have always fought with glory against the enemies of Christ. Now the defense of your fatherland and of the city known the world over, which the infidel and evil Turks have been besieging, is committed to your lofty spirits.
Be not afraid because its walls have been worn down by the enemy's battering. For your strength lies in the protection of God and you must show it with your swords and weapons brandished and flailing against the enemy. I know that this undisciplined mob will, as is their custom, rush upon you with loud cries and ceaseless volleys of arrows. These will do you no bodily harm, for I see that you are well covered in armour. They will strike the walls, our breastplates and our shields. So do not imitate our Roman army, when the Carthaginians went into battle against them, allowed their cavalry to be terrified by the fearsome sight and sound of elephants.
In this battle you must stand firm and have no fear, no thought of flight, but be inspired to resist with ever more Herculean strength. Animals may run away from animals. But you are men, men of stout heart, and you will hold at bay these irrational brutes, thrusting your spears and swords into them, so that they will know that they are fighting not against their own kind, but against the masters of animals.
You are aware that the impious and infidel enemy has disturbed the peace unjustly. He has violated the oath and treaty that he made with us; he has slaughtered our farmers at harvest time; he has erected a fortress on the Propontis as it were to devour the Christians; he has encircled Galata under pretence of peace.
Now he threatens to capture the city of Constantine the Great, your fatherland, the place of ready refuge for all Christians, the guardian of all Hellenes, and to profane its holy shrines of God by turning them into stables fit for horses. Oh my lords; my brothers; my sons; the everlasting honor of Christians is in your hands.
You men of Genoa, men of courage and famous for your infinite victories, you who have always protected this city, your mother, in many a conflict with the Turks, show now your prowess and your aggressive spirit toward them with manly vigor.
You men of Venice, most valiant heroes, whose swords have many a time made Turkish blood to flow and who in our time have sent so many ships, so many infidel souls to the depths under the command of Loredano, the most excellent captain of our fleet, you who have adorned this city as if it were your own with fine, outstanding men, lift high your spirits now for battle.
You, my comrades in arms, obey the commands of your leaders in the knowledge that this is the day of your glory -- a day on which, if you shed but a drop of blood, you will win for yourselves crowns of martyrdom and eternal fame."2
Hearing these words of our beloved emperor, it filled our hearts with gladness and courage. We loved him as if he was our father and we were ready to die for our fatherland and for him even more.
The fighting continued and we kept losing more and more men. Our only hope was God. Only a miracle could save the City. But God had not decreed for the City to be saved. Our sins were to bring the paideia3 we deserved.
It was that fateful day, May 29, 1453, when we heard the screaming of thousands of our people,
"The Turks are in the City! They have come in through the Gate of Kerkoporta!"
Our hearts froze. I have heard many people say that someone had forgotten to lock the Gate, but I swear to this day, that someone made sure it was left unlocked. Betrayals are not unknown in our history. The 300 Spartans at Thermopylae were destined to die, it was just a matter of time, but there was someone willing to betray them, "Ephialtis." Money for some people is worth more than the lives of their fellow human beings.
Many of us left our posts, and with the emperor leading us, ran towards the Gate of Kerkoporta. When we arrived, we saw the Turkish troops were pouring in and only a handful of our men, fighting the oncoming horde. The battle that ensued is painful to describe. The Turks were attacking not only us, but also the women and children. Continually we had to stop our fighting to go to their aid. Slowly we retreated towards the church the Holy Wisdom. Hundreds of women and the children poured into the church, screaming for God to save them as myself and my men fought outside. I had lost sight of the Emperor. Earlier, I had seen him throwing off his cloak and running, brandishing his sword into the army of the Turks. I assumed him dead. Many times was I wounded, but I did not feel it. It was as if I was a spectator, watching someone else fight. Slowly I was pushed back towards the entrance of the church. I was alone and surrounded from all sides.
The Turkish soldiers just stood there with their spears aimed towards me. I held up my sword and clenched my teeth, glaring my eyes. I do not remember much after that. It is all a blur. I later woke up in a prison cell, similar to this one where I was offered a chance to be in the Sultan's army. He felt that I was a great warrior and my abilities should not be wasted. I refused and brought me here to rot.
"And what happened to Emperor Constantine, Captain?" I asked.
Captain Makarios paused. "His body was never found. They say an Angel of the Lord carried him away to a cave where he now sleeps and waits. He waits the for day when he will be awakened and will open the bricked-up Golden Gate of this city to fight the Ottomans back to the red apple tree!"
"The red apple tree?" I asked, puzzled. I had never before heard of this.
As the Captain was about to answer, heavy pounding on the door interrupted him. The guard opened the iron cell door.
"Get over here, street scum!" The Turkish guard yelled, "The Kadi doesn't have all day!"
I did not know if I was going to be set free or not, but I felt sad that I would probably never see the Captain again. I wanted to hear everything he could tell me of how things were before the fall.
I was given a light sentence and only spent a few months in prison. Apparently, I helped the real thief get away. I never saw Captain Makarios again, but his story will live on. All the people I told his story to gave them hope. Hope that one day we will be free from our oppressors and the East will rise again. Two or three years after the fall of the city, a poet from the island of Rhodes wrote a poem that I have learned and often repeat to myself,
'Stop singing the Cherubim Hymn and bring low the holy banners,
For it is the will of God the City to become Turkish,
Priests take the Holy things and you, oh candles go out.
……
Our Lady is troubled, she cries and sheds tears.
Do not cry, our Lady, do not shed so many tears,
Again with times and seasons, again all these shall be ours.'
The End
Footnotes:
1 Translation: Turkish for judge.
2 Donald M. Nicol, The immortal Emperor-the life and Legend of Constantine Palaiologos, last Emperor of the Romans. (Cambridge Univerisity Press, 1994), 67-68.
3 Translation: Greek for instruction, education and punishment