By Harith Ubaidah
In the year 857 AH, on Tuesday the 20th of Jumada al-Awwal, corresponding to May 29, 1453 CE, at one o’clock in the morning, the command for a general assault on the city was issued. The mujahideen, whose instructions had been settled hours before, stirred from their positions. Then it began. The cries of Allahu Akbar and the rolling takbir seemed to shake the very ground as the army advanced toward the city’s fortifications.
Fear spread among the Christians. Men, women, and children rushed toward churches, while across the city a discordant clamor of bells erupted, and a deep unease settled over the population. Sultan Mehmed’s plan, a masterpiece of precision, demanded a simultaneous strike by land and sea. Against this orchestrated storm, the mujahideen advanced with resolve drawn from the depths of conviction, each heart pledged to martyrdom. Some charged so fiercely from the outset that they fell within moments, becoming the first to claim the crown of sacrifice that day.
The assault struck from several directions, but its greatest weight fell upon the Gate of St. Romanus. Sultan Mehmed II led his own detachment there, placing himself within arrow-shot of the walls. The forward ranks of the Ottoman army loosed volleys of arrows and shot that swept the battlements. The Byzantines scarcely dared to lift their heads, many already convinced the struggle had reached its end. Both sides fought with grim determination, like men who believed they would not leave the field alive, and the fallen soon carpeted the earth beneath the walls.
When the first wave of attackers grew spent, the Sultan did not relent. He ordered a fresh force into the struggle. The initial ranks withdrew while the city’s defenders, already drained and gasping, found no reprieve. New Ottoman troops surged forward like a tide striking a seawall. Hundreds of ladders, prepared in silence during the night, were raised against the stone, only to be hurled back down by desperate hands above.
What followed was brutal, close-quarters fighting. Defenders clung to their positions, laboring to block every ascent, their strength driven by desperation alone. After two unbroken hours of combat, Mehmed the Conqueror commanded a brief pause, then sent forward yet another rested body of troops to keep the pressure unbroken.
The Byzantines mistook the movement for retreat. That fleeting hope shattered when a new assault burst upon them from another quarter. Their weary ranks wavered. Panic spread once more through the defenders’ lines, while the Muslim soldiers pressed on with renewed fervor, their spirits lifted and their purpose hardened.
Fighting also raged at sea and soon intensified. Christian forces found themselves divided, drawn into scattered battles at several points at once. As the first grey light of dawn crept across the sky, enemy positions became clearer, and the besiegers sensed that the tide was turning. Attacks gathered speed, and confidence began to grow among the Ottoman ranks.
The Sultan ordered a short withdrawal to give the artillery time to resume its work. Cannons thundered again against the walls, hurling shot through the stone defenses. The Ottoman troops had remained awake throughout the night, their endurance matching their courage. A little later the guns were silenced.
The army then advanced again under Sultan Mehmed’s direct command, releasing such dense flights of arrows that defenders struggled even to raise their heads. On that day the Ottomans displayed exceptional bravery. Three soldiers managed to climb the walls despite fierce resistance. Several men, including their leader, were martyred in the attempt, yet near the Topkapi Gate a breach was opened and a path into the city appeared.
The sight of the Ottoman banner rippling above the ranks stirred fresh fire in every heart. Each soldier pressed forward with the hope of seizing the city. Under the weight of the renewed assault the defenders’ strength faltered, and the blow struck against them was decisive.