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A cacophony of yells and curses filled the air.

It drowned out the slight gusting of the spring breeze.

That wind wasn't cool enough to halt the steady stream of sweat pouring down the men's

backs as they toiled, stripped to the waist.

Dozens and dozens of them were crowded around an enormous bronze tube.

It was 27 feet long.

The opening at the end was large enough for one of the sweating men to crawl inside

on his hands and knees.

The tube was a cannon, a bombard, to be precise.

Heaving on ropes, straining muscles and tearing tendons, one group of the men struggled

to pull it into place for a shot.

Another team lugged bags full of volatile gunpowder, very carefully ported in hundreds of pounds

were.

Still another team hefted a thousand pounds stone cannonball to the opening and slowly,

slowly pushed it back down the barrel toward the gunpowder.

Standing behind the great bombard was an aging man in a tall white cap.

He sighted down the barrel, peering out at his target, the great ancient walls of

Constantinople, big blocks of white stone threaded through with red brick.

Two walls, an outer and an inner, the inner studded with tall towers, stared back at

the master gunner.

...