The Dark Angel

Mika Waltari

Description

No other city in the world could compare with it in grandeur, splendor, and wealth. And when it fell to the Turks in 1453, it must have seemed like the end of the world to Christians. Famed author Mika Waltari takes us into the last months of this dying city as revealed in the diary of John Angelos, a strange man hopelessly in love with the daughter of an eminent Byzantine official.
In this powerful novel which closely follows actual historical events and personalities, Waltari explores the passions and follies of a civilization on the brink of disaster. With shrewd psychological insight, Waltari provides us with an unbelievable tapestry of false hopes, dogged determination, and fanatic Muslim religious faith as seen through the eyes of the 15th century Greeks and Italians who valiantly defended the city to the bitter end.
With chaos and despair deepening into a pall of gloom, the sultan's huge army surrounds Constantinople and assaults its massive walls. We peer over the shoulder of John Angelos as he dons his armor and plunges into the tumultuous events taking place amid smoldering suspicions of betrayal and assassination. But as always, the beautiful Anna Notaras lingers in his imagination.
"Today I am called a spy and the lover of the empires most desirable woman. But no one knows my true identity and no one ever shall. For it is the year 1453; and here in Constantinople a mighty Christian empire is dying brutally as the Muslim hordes storm its massive wall."
The sweeping, powerful story of the fall of Constantinople to the Ottoman Empire in 1453 and a hopeless love affair—these are the background for this intimate and exciting historical novel.

Sujets

• Romance historique
• Ancient World
• Historical
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 12 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773238913
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Dark Angel
by MikaWaltari

Firstpublished in 1952
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrievalsystem, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quotebrief passages in a review.






















THE DARK ANGEL


by Mika Waltari

In the spring of 1453, the last city of the Greek church is writhing in death-agony. The nights arehideous with bloodshed and lurking violence, each day brings some new stratagem of assault, toweaken the ramparts and their defenders until the death-dealing wave of janissaries shall sweepover them. Among the generals and leaders moves John Angelos, suspected and admired bythem all; a man of forty, who has wandered far and known much, and twice encountered theDark Angel of Death, his own image.
Constantinople possesses his heart; he knows that he must stay here, in the city of his mysteriousbirth, even in its sack and pillage. Amid the decay and vice of collapsing civilisation, therecomes to him Anna, of beauty to match her pride and wild valour to outmatch both. In her love heis to know as much torment as rapture.
This story is the chronicle of John Angelos.
December 1452
12 December 1452
To-day I saw you and spoke to you for the first time.
It was like an earthquake; everything in me was overturned, the graves of my heart were openedand my own nature was strange to me.
I am forty, and I believed I had reached the autumn of life.
I had wandered far, known much and lived many lives. The Lord had spoken to me, manifestingHimself to me in many ways; to me angels had revealed themselves and I had not believed them.But when I saw you I was compelled to believe, because of the miracle that had happened to me.
I saw you in front of the Church of St. Sophia, by the bronze doors. It was when everyone wascoming out, after Cardinal Isidor amid icy silence had proclaimed in Latin and Greek the Unionof the Churches. In celebrating the splendid Mass that followed he recited the creed, and whenhe reached the interpolation “and from the Son” many covered their faces, while from thewomen in the galleries could be heard bitter sobbing. I was standing in the press of people in aside aisle beside a grey column; when I touched this I felt that it was moist, as if even the chillstones of the temple were sweating out their anguish.
Then they all left the church, in the order prescribed many centuries ago, and in the midst ofthem walked the Basileus, our Emperor Constantine, erect and solemn, his head already greybeneath the golden hoops of the crown. Bach one walked in the appropriate clothes and colours:the officials from the Palace of Blachernae, ministers and logothetes, the senate in its entirety,and then the archons of Constantinople in order of lineage. No one had dared stay away and solet his views be known. On the Emperor’s right I recognised all too well Phrantzes, theChancellor, as with cold blue eyes he surveyed the people round him. Among the Latins Inoticed the Venetian bailo and many others whom I knew by sight.
But Megadux Lukas Notaras, Grand Duke and Commander of the Imperial Fleet, I had neverseen before. He was a head taller than the rest, and a swarthy, haughty man. His glance was keenand scornful, but in his features I read the melancholy common to all members of the ancientGreek families. When he came out he was agitated and wrathful, as if unable to endure thedeadly shame that had fallen upon his Church and his people.
When the chargers were led forward there was some disturbance among the people, who beganto cry out upon the Latins. There were shouts of “Down with unlawful interpolations!” “Downwith Papal rule!” I would not listen, for I had heard more than enough of it in my youth. But thehatred and despair of the crowd broke out like the roaring of the tempest—like anearthquake—until the practised voices of the monks led them into a rhythmic chant of “Not theSon, not the Son!” It was the feast of the holy Spiridon.
By the time the procession of the noble ladies started, some of the Emperor’s suite had alreadymingled with the crowds that were surging and waving their arms in time to the howling chant.Only round the sacred person of the Emperor was there space, and as he sat on his charger hisface darkened with sorrow. He was dressed in a purple, gold-embroidered mantle and purpleboots adorned with the two-headed eagle.
So it was that I witnessed the fulfilment of a dream cherished throughout many centuries: theUnion of the Eastern and Western Churches, the submission of the Orthodox Church to the Pope,and the abandonment of its original, unadulterated creed. Having dragged on for more than tenyears, the Union had at last gained legal force through the reading of the proclamation byCardinal Isidor in the Church of St. Sophia. Fourteen years before, it had been read in Greek inthe cathedral of Florence, by the great, round-headed, scholarly Metropolitan Bessarion. LikeIsidor he had been made cardinal by Pope Eugenius IV as a reward for his services in the greatwork of reconciliation.
That was fourteen years ago. That evening I had sold my books and cloth, distributed my moneyamong the poor and fled from Florence. Five years later I took the Cross. Now as the peopleshouted I remembered the mountain road to Assisi and the field of corpses at Varna.
But as the shouting suddenly died away I raised my eyes and saw that Megadux Lukas Notarashad leapt on to the ledge in front of the yellowed marble colonnade. With a wave of his hand heclaimed silence, and the biting December wind carried his cry: “Better the Turkish turban thanthe Papal mitre!”
At this defiant watchword people and monks burst intothunderous applause. Exultantly theGreeks of Constantinople roared and yelled, “Better the Turkish turban than the Papal mitre!”just as once the Jews had shouted, “Release unto us Barabbas!”
A group of distinguished gentlemen and archons gathered challengingly about Lukas Notaras toshow that they supported him and were not afraid to defy the Emperor publicly. Then at last themob gave way and allowed Constantine to pass on with his diminished following. The women’sprocession was still moving out through the great bronze doors, but scattered immediately andvanished among the turbulent crowd.
I was curious to see how the people would receive Cardinal Isidor, but he is a man who hasendured much for the sake of the Union, and is himself a Greek. Therefore he never appeared.He has not grown fat in his office of Cardinal: he is still the same lean little peppery-eyed manand looks even thinner since shaving off his beard in the Latin fashion.
“Better the Turkish turban than the Papal mitre!” No doubt the Grand Duke Notaras shouted thiswith all his heart, for love of his city and his faith, and hatred of the Latins. Yet however sincerethe feelings which gave fire to his words, I could not regard them as anything but a calculatedpolitical move. He had flung his cards on the table before a rebellious mob, to win the support ofthe great majority of the people; for in his heart no Greek approves this Union, not even theEmperor himself. He is merely forced to submit and to set his seal upon it, in order to concludethe treaty of alliance which in this hour of need will ensure for Constantinople the support of thePapal fleet.
This fleet is already being fitted out in Venice. Cardinal Isidor affirms that it will sail to therescue of Constantinople as soon as certain news of the proclamation of the Union reachesRome. But to-day the people shouted after Emperor Constantine “Apostata, apostata!” Theemptiest, most terrible and most destructive word that can be shouted at a man. That is the pricehe has to pay for ten warships—if they come.
Cardinal Isidor had already brought a handful of archers with him, recruited in Crete and otherislands. The gateways of the city are walled up. The Turks have ravaged all the country round,and closed the Bosporus. Their base is the fortress which the Sultan caused to be built lastsummer, in the course of only a few months, at the narrowest part of the Straits. The fortress lieson the Pera side, the Christian side. Only last Spring the Church of the Archangel Michael stoodon that spot, but now its marble columns serve to strengthen the thirty-foot-thick walls of theTurkish bastions, and the cannon of the Sultan stand sentinel over the Straits.
I thought of all this as I lingered by the massive bronze doors of St. Sophia’s. Then I saw her.She had contrived to break free from the mob and was on her way back into the church. She wasbreathing hard and her veil was torn to shreds. It is the custom for Greek ladies inConstantinople to hide their faces from strangers and to live in retirement, guarded by eunuchs.When they mount their horses or step into their litters, servants hurry forward with spread clothsto protect them from the eyes of passers-by. Their complexions are white and transparent.
She looked at me and time paused in its flow, the sun ceased to move round the earth, the pastmingled with what was to come and nothing existed but the instant—that single instant of lifethat not envious time itself can snatch away.
I had seen many women in my day. I had loved, selfishly and coldly. I had enjoyed and givenothers enjoyment. But for me love was no more than a contemptible lust of the flesh which,when gratified, left the soul disconsolate. Only from pity did I feign love, until I could feign nolonger.
Yes, I had seen many women, and in the end I renounced them, as I have renounced much else.For me, women were merely a physical experience, and I loathed all that bound me to my