by Victor Foia
“Is that because the region you govern is smaller than his? Or because of your age?”
“Neither. It’s because there can be only one army of Anatolia, and only one beglerbeg in charge of it. And Father’s decided that beglerbeg should be his favorite son.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, with Mehmed looking at the ground and kicking the pebbles on his way.
“Don’t worry, Mehmed, your turn will come,” Vlad said when the silence became awkward.
“You know Aladdin’s going to have me murdered when he becomes sultan,” Mehmed said matter-of-factly.
“You like to dramatize, don’t you?” Mehmed’s penchant for fanciful pronouncements amused Vlad. “The only time cold blooded fratricide occurred in your dynasty was when Beyazid ascended the throne. But that was half a century ago.”
“Aladdin’s mother’s from the same murderous clan as Beyazid.”
“There is no certainty your brother will be the next sultan. You’ve told me the succession is left to Allah’s will.”
Mehmed gave a sarcastic chuckle. “But Allah acts through men. With Father, the Grand Vizier, the Agha of the Janissaries, and the kadıasker, all favoring Aladdin, don’t you think the scale might be weighted in my brother’s favor?”
“Accession to the throne is open to both of you equally,” Vlad said, in a willful show of naiveté. He knew well the difference between theory and practice in these matters. Hadn’t his own father chosen Marcus as his regent, poised to inherit power, when the law of the land charged the boyars with electing the next king?
Mehmed shook his head and gave Vlad a condescending look. “All Father has to do is leave instructions that Aladdin be notified first when he dies. By the time I get the news, Aladdin will have traveled to Edirne and had himself girded with the sword of Osman as the seventh Ottoman sultan.”
“You might outlive Aladdin and succeed him as the eighth sultan,” Vlad said, trying to lighten the conversation.
“Being the eighth sultan’s no good,” Mehmed said, petulant. “It’s the seventh sultan who’s destined to change the world. Don’t you know the significance of seven?”
“You’ve told me it’s your lucky number.”
“Seven’s the number of the ayah in al-Fātiḥah,” Mehmed said, impassioned. “And just as al-Fātiḥah is the Opening of the Book, the Mother of the Qur’an, so is the seventh sultan the key to ushering in a new epoch.”
“So if you can’t be the seventh sultan you’d rather not be one at all?”
Mehmed looked at Vlad searchingly, perhaps suspecting mockery. His nostrils quivered when he said, “The chance of changing the world will be wasted on my brother.”
The Janissary guards posted at the entrance to the camp greeted Mehmed with deference, and let his group pass through unchallenged. The same thing happened in front of Aladdin’s pavilion, a cluster of unadorned tents connected to each other with short, enclosed passages. A page led them into a tent that served as the audience hall then disappeared to inform Aladdin of their arrival. Mehmed sat on the carpeted floor, while his four slaves knelt behind him around the mahogany chest.
Vlad remained standing.
“How good of you to walk all the way from the castle just to greet me, Brother,” a cheerful voice came through the tent flaps leading to the inner quarters. The next moment a youth of about seventeen burst into the hall, a baby boy in his arms. “Come meet your youngest nephew and namesake.”
Mehmed sprang to his feet. “You’ve brought your children to the war zone?” he said in disbelief.
“There will be no war, Insha’Allāh,” Aladdin said with confidence. “Besides, I had to show you baby Mehmed after borrowing your name, didn’t I?” He laughed and tossed the child into the air. “And Father wouldn’t forgive me if I left the boys home. Though I do regret not bringing their mother along. This little lamb is too restless without her.”
An elderly man with a henna-dyed beard entered the tent holding the hand of a toddler. A girl with opulent breasts followed them. Her black hair, alabaster skin, and blue eyes gave her away as Circassian.
“Mehmed misses his mother because she suckles him at regular intervals,” the man said, in a scolding tone. “While he’s with you his schedule’s never—”
“I should’ve left you home, Lala Hızır,” Aladdin said and winked at his brother. “Hızır Pasha’s my conscience, so I can never stray from the right path as long as he’s watching over me.” He kissed the boy with much tenderness, then handed him to the Circassian woman. She promptly stuck one of her nipples into the infant’s mouth.
Mehmed took the toddler’s hand from Hızır Pasha and said to Vlad, “This is my first nephew, Ahmed, named after our oldest brother who died before I was born.”
Aladdin seemed to only then take notice of Vlad. He stretched out his right hand in the manner of the Christians, and Vlad shook it, somewhat taken aback by the gesture.
“You must be Abdullah Emirzade,” Aladdin said with warmth. “Your fame has reached even my distant corner of the empire. I must hear every detail of your and Mehmed’s adventure in Constantinople. I can’t tell you how envious I am of you two.”
“My friend prefers to use his old Christian name, Vlad,” Mehmed said.
“I’ve found that to be common with new converts,” Aladdin said. “The use of their original names lessens their guilt for having abandoned their ancestors’ faith.”
Mehmed turned to Vlad with a mocking smile. “My brother has set up villages in the environs of Amasya, peopled with prisoners from all over Europe. There he studies their way of life, so he can mimic their customs one day. Perhaps that will come in handy when he becomes the Emperor of Europe.”
“Mehmed exaggerates both my accomplishments and my ambitions,” Aladdin said.
He was about Vlad’s height and had the stocky build of a wrestler. His amber-colored eyes sent forth a playful light that had a disarming effect upon Vlad. In Mehmed’s presence Vlad had the vague feeling of being watched by a cold, calculating creature: a serpent, silent and lethal. By contrast, next to Aladdin he felt enveloped in a reassuring warmth. Perhaps his exile to Amasya under Aladdin’s authority wouldn’t be as bleak as he’d feared.
Aladdin gave Mehmed a playful punch in the shoulder. “If Allah means for a Turk to rule Europe, I’d sooner have you in that role than myself.”
“Then why have you bothered to master so many Christian cultures?” Mehmed said.
Aladdin shook his head with an amused look. “Simple curiosity, Brother. But master? Far from it. I’ve barely managed to scratch the surface of what it means to be a Hungarian, or a German, or a Pole.” Then he turned to Vlad. “You were born in Transylvania, weren’t you? Father’s told me lots of stories about your land. Wine, food, women … you’ve got to tell me about those things.”
Vlad chuckled. “You’ll have to ask my friend Gruya. He’s an expert in all three.”
“I want you to help me set up a genuine Transylvanian village in the outskirts of Amasya.”
“I must remind you that only Lala Zaganos can authorize Vlad to leave the Amasya fortress,” Mehmed said with a hint of cruelty. “I don’t think he’ll want Vlad moving unsupervised about the countryside.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Aladdin said, dismissive.
Vlad noted the great contrast between the two brothers’ looks. Mehmed’s European mother had bequeathed him flat cheekbones, pale skin, and almond-shaped eyes. Aladdin’s Turkoman mother had given him high cheekbones, tawny skin, and downward-slanting eyes. The only common thing in their appearance was the aquiline nose they both inherited from Murad.
“I’ve got you a gift, Aladdin,” Mehmed said, and motioned to his slaves to present his offering.
Aladdin leaned over the open chest and peeled back a quilt covering its contents. “You remembered my craft?” he cried, astonished, when a variety of tools came into view. He lifted his oldest son above the chest. “Look at these marvels, A
hmed. I can hardly to teach you carpentry.”
“The boy needs to have his dinner now, Aladdin,” Hızır Pasha said, severe. “I’ve promised his mother I won’t let you upset the child’s schedule when he’s out of her sight.”
Aladdin ignored his lala and began to line up the tools on the floor where the boy could see them better. “Uncle Mehmed’s given us chisel-edged broadaxes—no, don’t touch them, they’re very sharp—adzes, open-hand saws, planes, augers—”
“I was going to surprise you with fresh figs from my greenhouse, but—”
“The workmanship of these tools is without equal,” Aladdin said and gave Mehmed a crushing hug. “Made in Damascus, no?” He was speaking fast, and his face shone with childish delight. “I’m going to spend the month of Ramadan building a house for someone with the greatest need. You and Vlad will help me.”
“Thank you, but I have my own craft to practice,” Mehmed said in a sour tone.
“I’ve got nothing better to do,” Vlad said, “and learning a bit of carpentry wouldn’t hurt.”
Mehmed gave Vlad an icy look, then turned on his heels and left the tent.
26
RAMADAN
January 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
While his agents were searching the neighborhoods outside the city walls for a plot of land to buy on his behalf, Aladdin and Vlad scoured Bursa for a qualifying charity case.
“I want to find the poorest widow with the most children,” Aladdin said. “And she must have great faith in God.”
“If she doesn’t have to be a Muslim,” Vlad said, “Gruya can help. Lately, he’s become somewhat of an expert in this branch of charity.”
Gruya’s assistance was enlisted, and he immediately bonded with Aladdin.
“When you find the widow,” Aladdin said, playful, “will you teach her to cook us some Transylvanian dishes?”
“That’ll be easy, My Prince,” Gruya said, earnest. “All our recipes start the same way: ‘First, steal two eggs.’”
“I can see we’ll be having fun building the house together,” Aladdin said and slapped Gruya on the back, laughing.
The widow Gruya found was a young Christian whose Muslim husband had fought for Murad as an Azap and died in Serbia the year before.
“Six children and hardly a stick of furniture to her soul,” Gruya said. “And no relatives to help her.”
Despite her miserable condition, the widow’s face had retained its youthful bloom.
“She has the look of a martyred saint,” Vlad observed in Romanian. “If that’s a reflection of her faith in God, Aladdin ought to search no more.”
“All those children, yet God has let her keep her girlish loveliness,” Gruya said while Aladdin chatted with the woman in front of her cottage. “And despite her beauty, be assured she’s of an exemplary chastity.”
“Your testimony regarding any woman’s chastity is a ray of light in our dark universe,” Vlad said.
To Vlad’s surprise, Gruya insisted on helping with the building of the new house. He remained undeterred even when he learned that neither drink nor food were allowed at the worksite. The secret of Gruya’s unexpected fortitude was exposed when Vlad observed his squire would disappear at regular intervals, always returning refreshed.
“What the Prophet meant by ‘no eating or drinking before the sunset during Ramadan,’” Gruya explained when Vlad questioned his absences, “was that one mustn’t be seen doing those things.”
There was only a sprinkle of snow on the ground, and the sun bestowed a brilliant light on Bursa most days. But an icy wind descending daily from Uludağ numbed Vlad’s fingers and chilled his spine; by the end of the day he couldn’t feel his toes inside his summer boots. Hunger and thirst added to his discomfort.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait for warm weather?” Gruya asked Aladdin. “Why put yourself through this hardship, when a few weeks from now it will be a pleasure to work outdoors?”
“Only Allah knows if in a few weeks we’ll be still walking the earth,” Aladdin said, with an easy laugh. “We mustn’t waste the time al-Wahhāb, the Bestower, has granted us before we face His judgment. Besides, there is no better time to hone your skills than when conditions are adverse.”
Aladdin seemed unaffected by either cold or fasting. He remained cheerful throughout the day, whistling as he plied his new tools with skill and patience. He interrupted his work for the daily prayers, proffered in the courtyard of the new house. Then every afternoon he took a ten-minute break to play with his sons, whom Lala Hızır and the Circassian wet-nurse brought to the worksite.
Every night Aladdin hosted a modest meal in his pavilion, attended by his senior officers, as well as various town dignitaries. Vlad and Gruya were admitted as warmly as if they were members of the household. Even Mullah Gürani participated and displayed toward Aladdin a congeniality he withheld from everyone else.
Mehmed came regularly, accompanied by Hamza and Yunus. Affecting a jovial demeanor, he concealed his jealousy of Aladdin, who was always the center of attention.
The gatherings lasted late into the night, since most attendees were rested from sleeping in the daytime. Were it not for Aladdin’s need to work the next day, the chatting and laughing would have gone on until the sunrise. When he desired his guests to leave, Aladdin would give the signal by laying his head onto his lala’s lap. The old man would caress him like a doting grandfather, and soon Aladdin would be asleep. Then all would retire, and two slaves would carry Aladdin without waking him to his sleeping quarters.
Vlad and Gruya slept in a small tent reserved for overnight company.
One unexpected guest, who came on the last day of Ramadan, was Zaganos. He ate with relish and was full of praise for Aladdin’s efforts on behalf of the poor widow, whose plight was known to the entire town by now.
“If only more of us knew how to make things with our hands,” Zaganos said, “instead of just tearing them down with our weapons.”
“I can make flowers bloom and fruit grow year-around,” Mehmed said, and received approving nods from all in attendance.
“I envy your talent, Brother,” Aladdin said. “Anyone can learn to use an auger or a hammer, but to subdue nature is surely a gift from al-Qahhār, the Subduer.”
Zaganos seemed to have been waiting for this opening. He snapped his fingers, and one of Mehmed’s greenhouse slaves appeared with a large basket of fresh figs. The first to taste the fruit was Aladdin, who rolled his eyes and raised his palms to the sky, as if transported by an unexpected delight.
Then Zaganos surprised everyone by asking to see Aladdin’s sons sleeping. “I want to put figs on their pillows, so when they wake up the first thought they have is of their uncle Mehmed.”
“I never imagined you having such a tender side, Zaganos Pasha,” Lala Hızır said, and everyone laughed. “I can see you melt like a ball of sheep tallow on a hot grill when Mehmed has his own sons.”
That night the guests didn’t leave; instead they slept where they sat. When the muezzin’s call awoke them at dawn, Ramadan was over and Eid al-Fitr was ushered in with the first sunrise of Shawwāl.
“I expect this festival to make up for my self-denial of the past thirty days,” Gruya said, when Vlad told him the holiday was also known as Şeker Bayramı, the Sugar Festival.
27
SUGAR FESTIVAL
February 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Murad arrived in Bursa the last night of Ramadan, escorted by Skanderbeg and his five thousand Sipahis. Following the dawn prayer, the sultan visited the palace hospital with Aladdin and Mehmed. A retinue of about fifty people trailed them at a respectful distance.
The buoyant mood Vlad had enjoyed during the Ramadan deserted him now. He knew that with the sultan’s arrival the days left until his departure for Amasya were coming to an end. He turned down Mehmed’s invitation to stay close to him and chose instead to observe the family ritual from amidst the followers.
From the h
ospital, the sultan and his sons walked to Yeşil Camii Complex to visit Mehmed the First’s mausoleum. Murad’s father was buried in a domed, hexagonal building clad in green tiles that stood alone on a rise, surrounded by majestic cypresses. From near the entrance, Vlad saw Murad standing, head bowed, in front of his father’s sarcophagus; he had his arms draped over his sons’ shoulders. When they emerged into the open, Murad had tears in his eyes. He gathered the boys to his bosom, then gave a deep sigh. “My father spent more than a decade battling his three brothers for the throne and ended up killing them all. For the next ten years he greatly expanded his realm, yet could never find happiness.”
“Mehmed Khan was a great ruler, My Sultan,” an octogenarian retainer said with feeling. “I served him from the day he was born until he died.”
“But did he ever tell you, Lala Mustafa, that he would’ve given up all his power to bring back to life at least one of his brothers?”
“You don’t have to worry about my brother and me after you’re gone, Father,” Aladdin said. “We’ll never wage war on each other.”
Mehmed looked up at his father and said with great feeling, “There is place enough in your empire for ten sons, should Allah bless you with such a bounty.”
“At Father’s last moments I promised him a splendid türbe, mausoleum, whose fame would spread around the world. He looked at me with sad eyes and said, ‘You’ve understood nothing.’ Then he expired.”
“People from as far as Cairo, Baghdad, and Marrakesh have come to visit Mehmed Kahn’s türbe,” Lala Mustafa said.
Murad gave the old man an indulgent smile then turned to Aladdin and Mehmed. “You boys must swear to bury me in the simple türbe I’ve built for myself at the Muradiye Complex. Don’t add any embellishments to it.”
