House of War

by Victor Foia

  “I’ve heard Beyazid Khan is the ancestor you admire the most, Prince Mehmed,” İbrahim said.

  Mehmed brightened up at the mention of his great-grandfather.

  “This casket contains Beyazid’s kufi and turban he wore at the Friday Mosque, before leaving Bursa for his unfortunate encounter with Tamerlane.”

  Vlad admired İbrahim’s astuteness. He’d just given Mehmed a gift of inestimable sentimental value, while indirectly reminding him that even the mightiest of the Ottoman sultans could be brought down. If Mehmed got the hint, he didn’t show it. But the way he cradled the casket left no doubt over his appreciation for the rare keepsake.

  İbrahim’s gift for Zaganos was a golden goblet. “This drinking cup has been quenching my thirst for many years, Zaganos Pasha, and now it may do the same for you, Insha’Allāh.”

  Zaganos took the goblet without examining it and was about to hand it over to his servant when İbrahim stopped him.

  “Please observe the remarkable workmanship of the inner bowl. It’s been crafted from the skull of a camel thief I killed at the age of twelve. I thought such a unique object would speak to a man like you.”

  The old bey had managed to nest a threat inside an insult for the Third Vizier, and deliver both in a precious package.

  “Very brave of you, İbrahim Bey, to kill a man at such an early age,” Zaganos said then paused.

  İbrahim acknowledged the compliment with a smile.

  Zaganos watched him with narrowed eyes. “And quite audacious to drink out of his skull.”

  Another pause from Zaganos, another smile from İbrahim.

  “I say audacious, for it is known that people who do such a thing inherit the character of the dead man.”

  İbrahim absorbed the insult with nonchalance, though the quiver of his nostrils spoke of injured pride. The exchange between the two men appeared lost on the bey’s three sons. Only Kasim showed he understood Zaganos’s barb by biting his lip and clenching his fists.

  Mehmed must have sensed the proceedings were heading in the wrong direction, for he clapped once to summon his page. He whispered something at him, and the boy dashed out of the tent. A few minutes later, a string of slaves entered carrying a multitude of coffers, baskets, and bundles they deposited on the ground, occupying every empty square foot of space. In minutes, the tent was transformed into a miniature bazaar.

  For the next hour, as lids were opened, bundles untied, and covers removed, İbrahim and his sons watched with barely suppressed greed the unfolding of Murad’s bounty. They felt the cloth-of-gold fabric with childish fascination; marveled at robes of Florentine brocade; tried on German chain mail hauberks; passed from hand to hand rock-crystal beakers with solid gold bases; and handled with expert hands a pair of Transylvanian war axes, Murad had personally captured in battle.

  Only Kasim remained stone-faced, his gaze lost in the distance.

  “My father wishes these gyrfalcons to remind you of three things, whenever you go hunting, İbrahim Bey,” Mehmed said when birdcages were brought in.

  One of Mehmed’s slaves removed a white falcon from its cage and paraded it on his gloved fist among the Karamanids.

  “This bird embodies the peace between our peoples,” Mehmed said.

  İbrahim’s sons watched the bird with indifference. But the bey grinned with the delight of a passionate hunter. The old men behind him, no doubt hunters too, broke out into a chorus of admiring exclamations.

  Next came a black falcon.

  “The color of the Prophet’s turban, Allah’s blessings upon him,” Mehmed said, “stands for the brotherhood of the true believers.”

  This time admiration gave place to pious incantations showing respect for the sacred reference.

  The last falcon seemed to be made of chased silver.

  Mehmed stood and declared with conviction, “The silver color of this falcon portends the prosperity your beylik will enjoy as long as it is under my father’s protection.”

  “‘No person knows what he will earn tomorrow,’” Kasim said, “‘and no person knows in what land he will die. Verily, Allah is All-Knowing, All-Aware.’”

  “Sūrah 31, ayah 34,” Mehmed blurted as if questioned by Mullah Gürani. Then seemingly realizing Kasim’s dark meaning, he resumed his seat, face pale, lips tight.

  “So it’s true you’re a Hamil al-Qur’an, My Prince?” İbrahim said. It was the first time he showed warmth toward Mehmed. “The news has already traveled to our remote land, but I found it hard to give it credence.”

  “Prince Mehmed will surely delight us further with his knowledge of the Qur’an,” one of the red-beards said. “It is rare that one so young—”

  “For now the mention of the hunt has reminded me that I’m hungry,” İbrahim said with good humor. “Allow us, Prince Mehmed, to share with you and your companions the meager fruits of our land. There is time for weighty conversation tomorrow. Insha’Allāh.”

  32

  STATUS QUO

  March 1443, Lake Beyşehir, Karaman

  “The sultan has done me a great honor by sending his son to beg for peace,” İbrahim said when they reconvened the meeting the following day.

  Mehmed’s reaction to the word “beg” was only a slight hesitation in answering. “House Osman shall never beg for anything, İbrahim Bey. Father has for you a peace proposal of mutual interest.”

  “The magnificence of his presents,” İbrahim said, “makes me suspect the interest is stacked higher on your father’s side than on mine.”

  “What makes the sultan think that peace between us is in danger without his proposal?” said the oldest of İbrahim’s sons. “Could it be the fact that many of our ancestral lands have been stolen by House Osman?”

  “Or, the fact that I was made to languish in Edirne for five years as your father’s ‘guest’?” said Kasim.

  “The lands that were once yours and now are ours,” Mehmed said, “have come to us in the form of dowry, or have been purchased at a fair price.”

  For the next hour they debated the rights each claimed to a number of beyliks and towns, some that Vlad had heard of, some new to him. Hamid, Teke, Germiyan, Eşref, Eretna, Ahi, Sâhib Ata, Kütahya, Ankara, Sivas, Amasya …

  Zaganos remained silent throughout the discussion, but guided Mehmed with his eyes and subtle body movements.

  Mehmed took pleasure in showing off his prodigious memory. He traced the provenance of some Ottoman holdings to marriages between various Ottoman princes and daughters of beys from the disputed territories. As proof, he recited the date of each wedding, the names of the principals involved and even the names of those who’d witnessed the marriage contracts. When İbrahim, backed by the red-beards, claimed ignorance of some of the marriages, Mehmed had Yunus produce copies of the corresponding dowry contracts, some dated more than a century ago. The red-beards perused these contracts and reluctantly conceded they now remembered the arrangements in question.

  Then İbrahim unfurled documents of his own that showed some regions presently in Ottoman hands had been given back as dowry to Karamanid princes. “When will your father restore those lands to me?”

  Mehmed looked at Zaganos for guidance, and receiving an imperceptible “no” pushed aside the bey’s papers. “I need not look at your proofs, İbrahim Bey. I assure you my father’s a just man, and if your claims are judged valid by his Imperial Council, he’ll give you satisfaction.”

  “How soon will that happen?” İbrahim said.

  “When the camel passes through the eye of the needle,” Kasim said.

  Mehmed seemed disconcerted by Kasim’s provocation, but regained his composure after glancing at Zaganos.

  “My father believes that as long as the danger of a Christian crusade is in effect, preserving the status quo in Anatolia is best for Dar al-Islam.”

  “Murad Khan wants us to forget what he and his ancestors have stolen from us,” Kasim said, heated, “so he can expand his emirate in Europe, untroubled
by our claims.”

  “Is this the ‘proposal of mutual interest’ you’ve brought?” İbrahim scoffed. “Maintaining the status quo might be of interest to Murad Khan, but it surely isn’t to me.”

  “To show good faith, my father will make you a large gift of land if—” Mehmed paused, and stared İbrahim in the eye long enough to cause the old man to raise his eyebrows, impatient.

  “—if you renounce the secret alliance you’ve made with the infidels and sign a peace treaty with him.”

  At the word “alliance” İbrahim flinched, and his face darkened.

  Before the bey could speak, Mehmed raised an admonitory finger. “Furthermore, if attacked by the Christians, Father expects your help, as commanded by sūrah 8, ayah 72: ‘If they seek your help in religion, it is your duty to help them.’”

  Silence spread like a noxious odor over the gathering. İbrahim chewed his lower lip, while his sons, mouths agape like chickens on a hot day, stared at him, helpless. Even Kasim, well composed until now, appeared stunned.

  Finally, İbrahim said, “Who accuses me of such an alliance?” He sounded indignant, but his look was that of an egg thief caught with a mouthful of omelet.

  Mehmed held out his right hand, but didn’t take his eyes off İbrahim. Yunus dashed over with a soiled sheet of paper.

  “This missive is written in Latin and signed by the King of Hungary,” Mehmed said.

  İbrahim reached out to take the paper, but Mehmed withheld it.

  “Though it has no addressee, the messenger on whom we found the letter said, under torture, it was meant for you.”

  Mehmed handed the paper to İbrahim.

  The bey squinted at the text for a few moments, then handed it back to Mehmed. “I don’t correspond with the unbelievers.”

  “Two messengers were dispatched from Buda with copies of this letter,” Mehmed said. “One of them has eluded us and arrived at your court in the month of Rajab.”

  İbrahim and Kasim didn’t react, but the bey’s sons gasped in unison, confirming Mehmed’s claim.

  Vlad converted the date to the Christian calendar. Rajab was November, the month Gruya arrived in Bursa.

  “But if you haven’t received your copy,” Mehmed said, with a note of sarcasm, “allow my musahib to read you the most relevant paragraph.”

  İbrahim raised his hands in protest, but changed his mind and let them drop onto his lap.

  Vlad took the sheet from Mehmed and noticed with a start it bore crease marks, as if it had been folded repeatedly for easy concealment. He cursed silently. Gruya and I had to convert to Islam because of this piece of paper. He found an underlined paragraph and read it aloud in Turkish.

  “‘We’ve chosen the end of May for the beginning of our campaign against Sultan Murad. As per our agreement, we expect you to launch your attack against the Ottomans no later than the end of March and not to conclude a truce with Murad for at least six months. In exchange for pinning down his army for this duration, all Ottoman lands in Anatolia shall be awarded to you, upon Murad’s defeat.’”

  “Bah,” İbrahim said. “The unbelievers are known to write letters like this just to cause dissension among the sons of Allah.” His demeanor was calm, but the sheen of sweat on his brow spoke of an internal torment.

  “How do we know this letter was written in Buda and not in Edirne?” Kasim said.

  “And how can you be certain the messenger didn’t lie?” İbrahim said, regaining some of his old belligerence. “The letter could’ve been meant for Uzun Hasan, bey of the White Sheep Federation. He hates the Ottomans as much as I—” İbrahim stopped and cleared his throat to erase the incriminating word that had escaped him. “As much as the infidels do.”

  “You are right, İbrahim Bey,” Mehmed said, conciliatory. “We don’t have proof you are in collusion with the infidels. If we did, Father would have the Sheikh al-Islām issue a fatwā denouncing you to all of Dar al-Islam as being a traitor to jihād. It would then be every Muslim’s duty, according to the Sharia, to destroy the Karamanids.”

  “How dare you threaten me in my own tent, Prince Mehmed?” İbrahim thundered. “If it weren’t for your diplomatic immunity I would—”

  “Since you haven’t made an alliance with the infidels, İbrahim Bey, the point’s moot.” Mehmed spoke with complete self-confidence. He and Zaganos must’ve practiced this scene a few times. “Still, my father’s offer of a territorial gift stands, if you’ll sign the peace agreement.”

  Mehmed’s obnoxious effrontery and his control of the situation must’ve galled the old bey. He pressed his lips into a thin, dark line and closed his eyes.

  Vlad could imagine İbrahim weighing his limited options. Refuse to sign the treaty and risk the effects of the fatwā. Or sign and be left out of the distribution of Ottoman lands, should the infidels defeat Murad without his help.

  “The gift of land you spoke of,” İbrahim finally said, “what is it?”

  “The Hamid Province,” Mehmed said.

  The bey’s three sons drew in sharp breaths and broke into celebratory grins.

  Kasim made a dismissive gesture and wrinkled his nose.

  “That’s a puny fraction of what Karaman has lost to the Ottomans,” İbrahim said. “My signature on a peace treaty is worth a lot more. However, if your father returned to me Germiyan as well, I’d consider—”

  “Before you reject my father’s offer in favor of promises from the infidel,” Mehmed said, “there is another letter you should see.” He signaled to Yunus, and the secretary brought him a velum leaf from which dangled a seal on a braided cord of white and gold silk.

  “This is a bull issued by Pope Eugene last fall and distributed to all royal houses in Europe. Once again, a single paragraph will suffice to help you understand the gist of the letter.” He turned to Vlad and pointed to the paragraph he wanted translated into Turkish.

  The silk cord had been threaded through two holes pierced in the bottom of the leaf. The loose ends of the cord had then been encased inside a lead disk the size of a Venetian ducat, on which was stamped the Vatican’s device. This seal of authenticity couldn’t be removed without destroying its integrity, or damaging the velum leaf.

  “‘The Most Serene Republic of Venice,’” Vlad read in Turkish, “‘has pledged its navy to the service of the holy crusade against the godless son of Satan, Murad the Turk. The Venetian ships shall blockade the Straits of Dardanelles to prevent the infidel Murad from ferrying his Anatolian army to Europe, and from escaping to Asia when pursued by the armies of Christ. The Most Serene Republic of Genoa has made the same pledge regarding the blockade of the Bosphorus. As a reward for this inestimable service all Ottoman lands in Anatolia shall be distributed to the Republics of Venice and Genoa at the conclusion of the crusade.’”

  As he read, Vlad had to conceal his surprise at realizing the letter was a fake. True, the seal appeared genuine. On the obverse, he recognized the bearded images of the apostles Peter and Paul. On the reverse, the author of the document was identified as Eugene IV PP, or papa. And the workmanship of the dies used to impress the device was beyond reproach. But the Latin of the text was that of a barely literate friar, not of Christ’s Vicar on earth.

  Taken with examining the letter and seal in detail, Vlad had missed the Karamanids’ reaction to his read. When he lifted his gaze, he noticed İbrahim’s torso had shrunk and his face seemed to have suffered a dusting of ground chalk. His eyes were slanting more than before, as if their corners were drooping under an invisible weight.

  The bey’s three sons busied themselves with cleaning their fingernails with thorns.

  Kasim remained still, eyes lost in the distance, no doubt intent on portraying indifference and detachment. But his clenched fists and enlarged nostrils told a different story.

  “Father has signed two copies of the peace agreement,” Mehmed said in the patient tone one might use addressing an ailing grandparent. He held out two documents for İbrahim’s perusal. “Y
ou see here the signatures of his witnesses: the kadıasker, the Sheikh al-Islām, the Grand Vizier, the Second Vizier, and Zaganos Pasha.”

  İbrahim took the documents and let them drop onto his lap, defeated.

  Mehmed stood and cast a cold look upon the assembly. “Sign both copies and have five witnesses do the same.”

  33

  EYE OF THE NEEDLE

  March 1443, Lake Beyşehir, Karaman

  “I will grind this old man into the dirt one day,” Mehmed said in a casual tone. He was standing outside his tent, squinting at a tiny piece of paper.

  “Why the rancor?” Vlad said. “You’ve got what you came for.”

  Around them the camp was being dismantled with great urgency, but in silence and in an orderly fashion. Zaganos, mounted on his horse, supervised the operation with a stern look, now and then giving an order without raising his voice.

  “I was forced to be nice to a man not fit to tend to my camels,” Mehmed said. “Worse yet, I had to tolerate for two days his brood of imbecile mouth breathers.”

  “His grandson seemed sharp,” Vlad said.

  Mehmed gave Vlad a reproachful look that said, “On whose side are you?”

  A page approached them with a carrier pigeon in one hand, a silk string in the other.

  “Wait a moment, Abdullah,” Mehmed said. Then he handed Vlad the note he’d been examining. “Read what I wrote Father.”

  “‘ Veni, dixi, scripsit,’” Vlad read, unable to suppress a chuckle. “You meant to say ‘subscripsit.’ But all the same, the message is pithy. ‘I came, I spoke, he signed.’ Your brevity would make Caesar envious.”

  Mehmed beamed. “You see why I must have you as my musahib? None of my other companions would recognize my allusion to Caesar’s, ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’”

  In a short time, the tents and provisions were loaded onto the draft animals, and the riders lined up in formation, ready to take off. Zaganos gave the order for the departure, then rode over to where Mehmed and Vlad were saddling their horses.

  “I’ve sent a çavuş ahead with our copy of the treaty,” Zaganos said. “The sultan will have it in five days.”