Sweat trickled down his brow, as he stood atop the once-green hill. A horn was pressed tightly to his lips, and he sat atop a majestic black horse, sheathed, as he was, in a suit of metal.
The dust gathered in the plains below, approaching, ever-approaching. It had been doing so for hours. Pinpricks of blood trickled down his arms, and he ignored the urge to bat at a fly. It would do no good now.
His men were gathered around him, waiting for an order. An order, they all knew, that would have to be given. Yet there were only twelve-score, and against them, was arrayed all the forces of the Turk. A few kataphraktoi against all the might and fury an empire stretched from sea to sea could bring.
His face bore a sombre frown, underneath his helm. The squabbles in the east had brought them no respite, despite the groveling of the once-proud Emperor. Rome spat on their homage, and the heretic kings of the West, once honored merely to kiss the hand of any Roman, now looked on them with scorn and disgust.
Why should they not? For had they not squandered away the greatest empire the world had ever known? Had they not spent endless fortunes to forestall an end which had never been inevitable, sent armies against their own kind whilst enemies battered down the gates of the City?
Each prince had seen himself as a king in his own right, since the old defeats, and the lordship of the Emperor had diminished into nothing. A post which had once ruled all the world now ruled a single burnt-out City, a hollow shell of glories long past.
He shook his head in dismay. How had it all come to this? The beauty of Constantinople would be reduced to rubble, her women and children raped and enslaved. The old churches, the palaces, would be pillaged by men with no knowledge of beauty, merely lust for power.
God's benediction had been withdrawn from his people, he knew. What merciful lord would send two hundred to face their number in thousands? The walls had been battered down a hundred times, and now there was no hope to survive, nor even to win a peace.
A man rode in front of him, his bloodied mailed fist raised above his head. He lifted his faceplate. An ugly face, one made more so by the tarnish of years and combat. Scars and wrinkles littered his face in equal measure, and one of his eyes had been torn from its socket. Though it was covered with a bandage, the open socket wept tears down his face.
"Kataphraktoi!", he roared. "Today, we shall die. That is certain. But we shall die as men!"
He slammed his faceplate down, and gestured. The trumpeter atop his black horse blew. The signal was given. En masse, the horses began to trot, and, as they reached more open ground, to gallop.
Like a blood into a pool of water, they met the enemy. And it was their blood, not that of the Turk, that was spread through the pool. They were skilled men, but they held no hope against the cannons, the arrows, the spears and pikes of the Turk.
The trumpeter held tightly to his trumpet in one hand, fighting with his sword in the other. Many surrounded him, and he was torn from his horse, blades stabbing at him, finding chinks in his armour, bloodying him.
In defiance, he reached not for his dagger, but for his trumpet. He put it to his lips, and began to blow. One last note, for the fading Empire. Yet, before the note could be sounded, a spear was rammed through a joint, and his breath was lost.
He gurgled and died, his defiance unsounded.
The note was never heard, the last sound of resistance was quelled. In the shadows of dusk, the greatest light to be seen was the fire within Constantinople...
The dust gathered in the plains below, approaching, ever-approaching. It had been doing so for hours. Pinpricks of blood trickled down his arms, and he ignored the urge to bat at a fly. It would do no good now.
His men were gathered around him, waiting for an order. An order, they all knew, that would have to be given. Yet there were only twelve-score, and against them, was arrayed all the forces of the Turk. A few kataphraktoi against all the might and fury an empire stretched from sea to sea could bring.
His face bore a sombre frown, underneath his helm. The squabbles in the east had brought them no respite, despite the groveling of the once-proud Emperor. Rome spat on their homage, and the heretic kings of the West, once honored merely to kiss the hand of any Roman, now looked on them with scorn and disgust.
Why should they not? For had they not squandered away the greatest empire the world had ever known? Had they not spent endless fortunes to forestall an end which had never been inevitable, sent armies against their own kind whilst enemies battered down the gates of the City?
Each prince had seen himself as a king in his own right, since the old defeats, and the lordship of the Emperor had diminished into nothing. A post which had once ruled all the world now ruled a single burnt-out City, a hollow shell of glories long past.
He shook his head in dismay. How had it all come to this? The beauty of Constantinople would be reduced to rubble, her women and children raped and enslaved. The old churches, the palaces, would be pillaged by men with no knowledge of beauty, merely lust for power.
God's benediction had been withdrawn from his people, he knew. What merciful lord would send two hundred to face their number in thousands? The walls had been battered down a hundred times, and now there was no hope to survive, nor even to win a peace.
A man rode in front of him, his bloodied mailed fist raised above his head. He lifted his faceplate. An ugly face, one made more so by the tarnish of years and combat. Scars and wrinkles littered his face in equal measure, and one of his eyes had been torn from its socket. Though it was covered with a bandage, the open socket wept tears down his face.
"Kataphraktoi!", he roared. "Today, we shall die. That is certain. But we shall die as men!"
He slammed his faceplate down, and gestured. The trumpeter atop his black horse blew. The signal was given. En masse, the horses began to trot, and, as they reached more open ground, to gallop.
Like a blood into a pool of water, they met the enemy. And it was their blood, not that of the Turk, that was spread through the pool. They were skilled men, but they held no hope against the cannons, the arrows, the spears and pikes of the Turk.
The trumpeter held tightly to his trumpet in one hand, fighting with his sword in the other. Many surrounded him, and he was torn from his horse, blades stabbing at him, finding chinks in his armour, bloodying him.
In defiance, he reached not for his dagger, but for his trumpet. He put it to his lips, and began to blow. One last note, for the fading Empire. Yet, before the note could be sounded, a spear was rammed through a joint, and his breath was lost.
He gurgled and died, his defiance unsounded.
The note was never heard, the last sound of resistance was quelled. In the shadows of dusk, the greatest light to be seen was the fire within Constantinople...
