29 May 1453: The City Has Fallen!
A Lamenting Synaxarion of Constantine Palaiologos
By Photios Kontoglou
(Excerpts from a manuscript text by Photios Kontoglou, 1949)
By Photios Kontoglou
(Excerpts from a manuscript text by Photios Kontoglou, 1949)
This King Constantine Palaiologos, whom I wish to recount, was not one who was fortunate, long-lived, and glorified in his life, but rather a man afflicted and sorrowful. As many days as he lived in this world, he never ate bread in peace. The water he drank was bitter as poison. He came into the world in a storm-tossed age, to become king over a nation that was in anguish and unceasing struggle from the time the inhabited world was formed, and which by then had become utterly exhausted, poor, and struck from both East and West. And he was the last of his line, a true Palaiologos, and he took upon himself the sins of his people and, instead of a crown, wore a crown of thorns. Worn and old was his royal mantle; humbled was his scepter. Sorrowful was his face, humble his appearance. His words were like hymns. He was raised among weapons, yet he seemed like a saint. Therefore, a synaxarion would be fitting for him rather than a royal history.
For him, Constantinople was not only the glorious city that had ruled the world for a thousand years, but also the revered Ark of Christianity and Orthodoxy, which preserved within its secret storehouses the dogmas of our spotless religion and every kind of sanctified art and wisdom. And after giving everything for her while he lived, keeping no joy for himself, at the end he also gave his life, which was the least thing, for in dying he gave rest to his wretched body, and his soul went into the embrace of Christ, who said: “Come unto Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
Yet, despite all that he did, he could not save our nation from what God had written for it. He was slain fighting at the Gate of Saint Romanos on the morning of 29 May 1453, as the sun was rising. The entire life of this ever-memorable, most serene king and martyr was forty-nine years, three months, and twenty days.
Who has a heart of stone and does not weep? I wipe my eyes and turn to look at the sea. Far away, dimly visible through the haze of the waters, are the mountains and capes of the East. In those lands this new martyr Constantine was born; there I too was born. And if someone were present where I sit, he would see that this paper upon which I write is wet with tears mingling with the ink. Wherever you go and wherever you stand, you see ancient foundations, ruins, and bones. In the fallen fortresses there still lie heaps of heavy cannons, green with rust; breech-pieces and cannonballs are scattered here and there. The marble shot, the maces, and the caltrops lie piled among the wild mint and thorn-bushes, while lizards walk upon them, and others lie forever in the waves along the shore.
Blood and tears nourish the grasses of the earth, and a silent lament rises from the countless graves. Among them is also the grave of Constantine, a grass-covered pit, humble like the man himself; yet no one knows in what place his sacred remains are buried. Nevertheless, throughout the whole East they have mourned him from the day he was slain until this very day. What other man has been lamented and mourned for five hundred years and will continue to be mourned forever? Yes, this humble man, this patient man, this meek man, this dearly beloved man, for “the righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.”
Source: (The complete text was first published in the magazine Kivotos, May–June 1953 issue. It was later republished in Kontoglou's book Suffering Romiosini. All images done by Kontoglou.) Translated by John Sanidopoulos.
