May 21, 1453
Constantinople, Byzantium
“Your Imperial Majesty! A Turk ambassador comes under a flag of truce!” Constantine XI looked up from the map on the table. He was tired; this siege had weakened him greatly. He stared at the soldier for a few seconds.
“I will receive him.” Constantine walked stiffly towards the room he had appointed for receiving such ambassadors. This did not surprise him; they had repulsed the Turks so many times. He wondered how many thousands of troops they had lost. He decided that that did not matter- the Turks could replace their losses. He could not.
The door opened, and the Turk's ambassador entered. He was swarthy and bearded, the scabbard where his scimitar would be empty, per the policy of embassy. He bowed before the Emperor, showing that his white turban had flecks of dirt (or was that ash?) upon it.
“My Lord Mehmed II wishes you well.” Constantine waved a hand, and the Turk straightened up.
“What does the Grand Turk want?” The ambassador had a flash of anger on his face before it settled back into that of a studied diplomat.
“My Lord Mehmed II applauds your gallant and brave efforts to defend your city, and wishes to treat with you.” Constantine rose a heavy eyebrow.
“Really? What is Mehmed's terms?”
“First, he will lift the siege if you surrender this city to his rightful rule.” Constantine blinked, his face unmoved. The Turk looked for emotion for a moment before continuing on.
“Second, he will allow your Majesty and any inhabitants to leave this city with your possessions. Third, he will recognize your Majesty as the ruler of the Peloponnese. Finally, Mehmed will ensure the safety of any citizen who wishes to remain in this city after you surrender it. These are his terms. I suggest you think carefully on these.”
Constantine sat unmoving for a moment, before standing and walking towards a curtained window. What few attendants remained stepped aside as he approached. Reaching up, he opened the curtain gently. He gazed out over the city. Smoke rose from several districts; he could see the burial ground for his defenders in the distance. And of course, he knew that outside the walls were thousands of Turks, waiting for the order to storm the city and slay man, woman, and child.
“If I surrender, I will be remembered as a coward; if I do not surrender, I will die here, I know it. Where are the damn Venetians? Damn the West!” He shifted his weight.
“However, if I choose to die here, thousands will die. The knowledge of Rome will fall into the hands of barbarians; if I surrender, we can at least preserve some of our traditions. The Goths took Rome, and yet Rome survived. What difference is it if the Turks take Constantinople, and I am forced to retreat to Mystras? Rome will survive. Rome must always survive. We will rebuild. We will return.”
Constantine turned to the Turk.
“Your Lord's demands are hard, but I can accept them. Constantinople... is his.” A gasp came from the assembled crowd. The Turk himself looked shocked, but then grinned.
“As your Majesty says, so shall it be.” He then walked, restraining himself from breaking out into a run, out the door, to tell his Emperor that the Christians had surrendered.
All eyes upon him, Constantine dragged himself up the stairs, and sat upon the throne. He looked about the room, tears welling in his eyes.
“Have I done the right thing?” He whispered, audible to no one but himself.