by Victor Foia
Vlad rose to his feet but didn’t welcome his host’s embrace.
Kasim ignored Vlad’s reticence and squeezed him to his chest. “What made you help me break free?”
“I might have thought twice about doing it, had I known you’d have your men try to bury me under a mountain of rocks one day.”
Kasim took a step back, clearly offended. “You’re risking your life by accusing me of such a cowardly act.”
“I saw five men on the cliff-top.”
Kasim appeared taken aback, as if he’d truly believed till now the rockslide had been natural.
“If they weren’t yours, whose were they?” Vlad said.
Kasim’s look darkened, and he remained pensive for a few moments. “It’s Zaganos. That sack of camel dung never really wanted peace with Karaman, but couldn’t oppose his master openly. By pinning this false ambush on us, he’s left Murad no choice but to declare war on my grandfather.”
Vlad might’ve been inclined to doubt Kasim’s profession of innocence, were it not for Tulip’s warning: “Zaganos is committed to provoking war with Karaman by whatever means.”
“I believe you weren’t behind the ambush,” he said, “but if you take Mehmed prisoner, no one else will.”
“Whether I release Mehmed or not, war can’t be prevented now.”
“Then let the boy go as a gesture of goodwill,” Vlad said. “It will reduce Murad’s determination to crush you.”
“We aren’t afraid of him,” Kasim said with an ominous flash in his eyes. “Besides, I have my reasons for keeping Mehmed. I want Murad to feel the pain my father felt when I became hostage. An eye for an eye.”
It’s time for an appeal to honor.
“I believe a favor deserves a favor,” Vlad said. “I came to claim the freedom you owe me in return for the one I gave you.”
Kasim smiled. “My debt to you is great, Emirzade. But Allah has made it easy for me to repay it. You’re free to go wherever you wish.”
“I’ll trade my freedom for Mehmed’s. If you want a hostage, keep me.”
Kasim chortled. “You’re useless to me as a hostage.”
Vlad knew his case for transferring to Mehmed Kasim’s debt of honor was a weak one. But he’d pegged Kasim as being governed more by emotions than reason, so he pressed on.
“Since I can’t accept my freedom by abandoning Mehmed, your debt to me will remain forever unpaid. Can you live with that?”
Kasim bit his lip, troubled.
A quotation from the Qur’an should force your hand. “You surely remember sūrah 2, ayah 225,” Vlad said.
“You’re reminding me of another reason I hate Murad,” Kasim said. “He gave Mehmed the chance to become a Hamil al-Qur’an, while he kept me in near darkness with no access to books, or paper and ink.”
“‘Allah will not call you to account for unknowingly leaving a debt unpaid,’” Vlad recited. “‘But He will call you to account for a debt your heart ignores. And Allah is al-Ḥasīb, the Bringer of Judgment.’”
Anger and obstinacy swept across Kasim’s face, and Vlad feared he’d overplayed his hand.
“You’ve rejected my favor, Emirzade,” Kasim said, in a tone from which all previous friendliness had vanished. “That cancels my debt. As of now consider yourself my prisoner. You can sleep here tonight, then in the morning you’ll learn the fate I’ve chosen for you and Mehmed. Insha’Allāh.”
He tossed a blanket and a waterskin at Vlad’s feet. Then he left the tent with the heavy step and the bent back of someone carrying a great burden.
35
AMULET POWER
March 1443, Lake Beyşehir, Karaman
A cold wind, blowing sand into Vlad’s face, tore him from a pleasant dream to which he tried in vain to cling. Eyes shut, he summoned the image of the seductive woman he’d been holding close until then, only to see her dissolve into a murky background. He licked his chapped lips, then swallowed with difficulty, throat dry, teeth full of grit.
I’ll whip whomever has left the tent open in this sandstorm.
He struggled through the fog of his half-awake state to remember where he was. Recollection hit him like a cluster of bad news. Kasim, he thought and rose to one elbow, expecting to be surrounded by hostile Karamanids.
With a shock, he discovered he was alone, in the open, on a plain shaded only by tumbleweed and carved by dust devils like the face of a crone. There was no trace of the tents that had stood there the night before.
He tossed aside his sand-coated blanket and stood, dazed by the intense light of the rising sun.
Did Kasim set him free and go capture Mehmed? The thought enraged him. He felt bad not only for Mehmed, but for his own reputation, as well. People would think him a coward for abandoning his friend in time of need.
I can’t bring the news of Mehmed’s fate to Murad. Better to die fighting these honor-less goat fuckers.
He took off at a run toward the mountain. In his eagerness to join the fight he left his waterskin behind. Soon his throat became parched, his vision blurred. But he pressed on. Even when he remembered he was unarmed, he didn’t get discouraged. He’d pounce on one of the Karamanids lagging behind and take his weapons.
When he reached the head of the trail climbing up to İğnesinin Gözü, he stopped and listened for sounds of fighting. Only the gurgle of the nearby river broke the silence. Yet, the skirmish couldn’t have ended so soon. Mehmed’s soldiers should’ve been able to fend off Kasim’s attacks for a long time, if they built the defense wall Vlad had suggested.
He climbed at a moderate pace so he wouldn’t be out of breath when he reached the fight. He guessed Kasim had sent most of his riders to join İbrahim’s forces, in view of the war he believed imminent. Then, relying on his soldiers already on the mountain, Kasim would’ve taken only his bodyguards to apprehend Mehmed. That meant Kasim could be beaten, if Mehmed’s archers mowed his men down while Vlad wreaked havoc in their rear.
He looked for hoofprints to count Kasim’s horses, but the path was too rocky to show any. When he came upon mounds of manure here and there, he was surprised to discover none was fresh. As he got closer and still heard no sound indicating a skirmish, he concluded the Karamanids must’ve abandoned their blockade and left the mountain sometime in the night.
So my gamble has paid off, he thought with remorse at the ill thoughts he’d borne Kasim. No longer spoiling for fight, and light on his feet as if he’d been resting for days, he took off at a run. When he came to the Karamanids’ camp, he found it empty.
He stopped and gave a shrill whistle. The canyon carried the sound a mile up the slope, and seconds later he saw tiny figures standing and gesticulating on the pile of rocks that blocked the path.
“You haven’t left me,” Mehmed shouted, overjoyed, when Vlad was about a fifty yards away. The boy ran down the path and didn’t stop when his turban flew off. “Everyone said you were gone for good. But I told them—”
“You know me better than anyone.” Vlad returned Mehmed’s hug. “Your amulet has wrought a miracle. The Karamanids have vanished in the night as if swept away by Noah’s flood.”
“I knew my amulet had magic powers from the moment I first hung it around my neck,” Mehmed said, exuberant. “It will deliver Constantinople to me one day, you’ll see.”
“For now let’s hope it delivers us to Bursa, before Kasim changes his mind and comes after us.” Vlad picked up Mehmed’s turban and helped him tie the cloth around his kufi.
“You’ve met Kasim?” Mehmed said, astounded.
“He denies having anything to do with the ambush; says Zaganos staged it with the aim of forcing your father to declare war on İbrahim.”
Mehmed froze and gave Vlad an alarmed look. “You mustn’t repeat this to anyone. It could cost you your life.”
Ah, so you aren’t denying Zaganos’s culpability. “Do you think there will be war with Karaman now?”
Mehmed shrugged. “What do you care?”
&nb
sp; “Since war between your father and İbrahim was Norbert’s condition for starting the crusade,” Vlad said, “of course I care.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about from the crusade if your father maintains neutrality.”
“A king can’t prevent his subjects from fighting in foreign wars,” Vlad said. “So when your army captures Wallachians fighting for Norbert, Zaganos will say my father has broken his neutrality and ask for my head.”
Mehmed took Vlad’s hands into his and looked him in the eye. “Remember, you’re under my protection, as long as you don’t betray me or …”
Or Zaganos, Vlad thought, completing Mehmed’s unspoken caveat.
36
PARIS’S HEIR
March 1443, return to Bursa, Ottoman Empire
The people in Mehmed’s party weren’t familiar with the territory around Lake Beyşehir. As they searched for a way back to Bursa, all they knew was they needed to head north. Since the region was hilly, they couldn’t tell which valley would lead them in the right direction, and which one would be a dead end. Thus, the journey that took seven days from Kütahya to Lake Beyşehir turned out to be twice as long on the way back.
Traveling without the baggage train proved hard on Mehmed, accustomed to being pampered as he was. The seventeen riders pooled their food supplies and placed them at his disposal. The porridge they made with flour, powdered goat meat, and rancid butter repelled Mehmed the first time he tasted it. A day later he wolfed it down as if it were the best çullama the palace kitchen could prepare.
Vlad subsisted on the dry dates Lash had stuffed into his saddlebags. He shared the fruit with Mehmed, who found it too desiccated at first, but ceased complaining as time went on.
The soldiers fashioned poles from an olive tree and used their mantles as tent cloth to shelter Mehmed and Vlad at night. These sleeping accommodations were something Mehmed wouldn’t stop grousing about. The men, stiff with cold after a night spent huddled together on the bare ground, listened to his ranting with lowered eyes and grim faces.
The situation improved when, on the tenth day, they ran across an encampment of migrant Turkoman shepherds. Neither Mehmed nor Vlad had money, but the soldiers and their officer did, having received their stipends before leaving Bursa. With assurances that Mehmed would reimburse them, the soldiers bought cheese, milk, and a scrawny mutton they roasted for his benefit.
They also acquired a tent.
“You’re two days away from Kütahya,” the chief of the Turkomans told them. Then he sketched on the ground the route they should follow to the city.
Mehmed decided to halt his progress at this place, where he could be resupplied by the shepherds. He then dispatched one of his riders to Kütahya in search of Zaganos. Four days later, the rider returned with a page carrying a message from Zaganos. They had ridden hard, with little rest, and the youth collapsed of fatigue after handing Mehmed a scroll secured with Zaganos’s seal.
That evening Mehmed made no mention of Zaganos’s message. Instead he spoke with great animation about the Trojan War. He appeared intent on banishing the recent events from his mind.
“I’m thinking we should go visit Troy, before we return to Bursa,” he said. “We could be there in two days, if we pushed ourselves.”
“Your father must be eager to hear from your lips what’s happened on Lake Beyşehir,” Vlad said.
Mehmed ignored the comment and stuck with his pet idea. “I’ll have my genealogy researched one day. I know House Osman is heir to King Priam’s bloodline, but I don’t know who, Paris or Hector, is my ancestor.”
“My guess would be Paris,” Vlad said. “Like you, he prized beauty over brawn.”
Mehmed looked pleased. “That would explain my fondness for aesthetics. You’ve seen the roses and tulips I can grow.”
“They say Paris was effeminate.”
“A Greek calumny,” Mehmed cried. “He was suckled by a she-bear and inherited her strength. Don’t laugh, but sometimes I hear a bear growling inside me.”
“That might be gas.”
“I don’t like Hector,” Mehmed said. “Like my brother, he sought the love of his soldiers, instead of their fear.”
“And like your brother, he was his father’s favorite.”
Mehmed gave Vlad a reproachful look. “Thanks for reminding me of Aladdin’s fortune.”
Hearing Mehmed talk about his doubtful Trojan parentage always turned Vlad mischievous. “Paris, Hector—what does it matter? Both of their deaths at the hands of the Greeks are crying for vengeance, aren’t they?”
Mehmed looked into Vlad’s eyes and seemed reassured he wasn’t being mocked. With a confident grin, he took out his amulet and waved it in Vlad’s face. “You’ll be at my side when I teach the Greeks a lesson they’ve had coming to them since the fall of Troy.”
The next morning Mehmed summoned the page to his tent, where he and Vlad were having breakfast. When the youth arrived, Mehmed threw Zaganos’s scroll at his feet.
Vlad noted the seal was unbroken.
“Take this back to your master,” Mehmed said in a bombastic tone. “Tell him a descendent of Paris doesn’t accept a letter from his slave in lieu of his presence.”
The page, confused by the Trojan reference, stood mute.
“What the prince means,” Vlad said, “is he wants Zaganos Pasha to show himself here in person.”
“Yes,” Mehmed said. “I want him here, on his knees, so I might deal with his treachery.”
Zaganos showed up a few hours later, proving he’d been awaiting his turn nearby. With him was a small convoy of servants, a mule-drawn cart, and two overloaded camels.
Mehmed observed his lala’s arrival from the distance, but didn’t acknowledge him. “Let’s wait for him inside the tent. It will make him sweat harder.”
Ten minutes later two of Zaganos’s slaves entered the tent laden with parcels. Cowering under Mehmed’s cold stare, they spread a leather sheet in front of him and placed their load on it. Next, they opened the parcels, and out came mounds of candied fruit, honey-soaked pastries, sugar-powdered cookies, and jars full of colorful candies. Vlad remembered these delicacies from Şeker Bayramı, the Sugar Festival: aşure, güllaç, şeker kurabiye, helva, kadayıf, lalanga … Weakened by the deprivations of the past two weeks, he fought hard to conceal his craving for the sweets.
“Send Zaganos Pasha in,” Mehmed ordered the slaves, who withdrew from the tent walking backward.
Mehmed waited, his demeanor stoic and resolute, while he contemplated the unexpected bounty lying in front of him.
“Zaganos thinks he can soften me up with sweets, as if I were a child,” he said. “I’ll show him.”
But when Zaganos failed to appear Mehmed’s resolve melted, and he pounced on the pile of sweetmeats like a hawk on a field mouse. He filled his mouth to overflowing, and when he’d swallowed everything he filled it up again. Unable to speak, he invited Vlad with gestures to eat as well.
“I don’t care for sweets,” Vlad lied and swallowed involuntarily.
That was the moment Zaganos entered the tent. He threw himself to his knees in front of Mehmed, touched the ground with his forehead, then remained on all fours. “What happiness to find you alive and well, My Prince.”
“No thanks to you,” Mehmed hissed, venomous.
Zaganos steepled his fingers in supplication and glanced sideways like a dog expecting to be kicked. “Allah al-Ghaffār, the Repeatedly Forgiving, has brought your slave to you so you might forgive him, worthless as he is.”
Mehmed, cheeks smeared with honey and powdered sugar, regarded him with disdain. “What’s taken you so long?”
“Your father’s declared war on İbrahim and has charged me with the defense of Kütahya.”
“What’s Kütahya got to do with me?” Mehmed shouted. He produced a stick from under his caftan and began to strike Zaganos over the shoulders with every word he spat at him. “Didn’t you wonder what happened to me? Was I killed?
Taken prisoner?”
Zaganos cringed, but took the blows in silence.
Mehmed turned to Vlad. “Kütahya. Can you believe my father’s priorities? He worries about saving a shitty town, when it’s his own son who needs saving. I’m sure he’d sing a different tune if Aladdin were in my place.”
“I sent men to look for you the next day,” Zaganos said, plaintive. “But they found no trace of you. And I’ve already paid İbrahim back for his infamy by burning ten of his villages and killing nine hundred of his peasants.”
That, Vlad realized, was the last move Zaganos needed to make if he wanted to ensure nothing would stop the war.
How right you were, Tulip.
Mehmed forced a large cube of helva into his mouth and began to struggle with chewing the sticky paste. He tried to speak, but the helva thwarted him. Frustration showed on his face in purple blotches. Unexpectedly, he flipped the leather sheet into Zaganos’s face and finally managed to shout, “Why did you cross through İğnesinin Gözü without me when you knew what was about to happen?”
Sugar and bits of pastry lodged in Zaganos’s beard. He darted a panicked glance at Vlad, then said, “Mehmed, you mustn’t ever speak about—”
“I’ve got to piss,” Vlad said and stood.
It was one thing to suspect Zaganos and Mehmed of having conspired to trigger the war with Karaman; quite another to hear them discuss their collusion in the open. Being a witness to their machinations could be lethal to him.
Unaccountably, Mehmed appeared bent on drawing Vlad into his intimate secrets. “Sit down and listen,” he ordered, imperious.
Vlad ignored him and left the tent.
“The rockfall was supposed to catch only the rear guard on the wrong side of the pass,” Vlad heard Zaganos say in a muffled voice.
37
BLESSINGS OF WAR
March 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Bursa had been afflicted with war fever by the time Vlad and Mehmed reached the city. The sultan’s four-horsetail tuğ had been raised on a high pole in front of the palace, drawing hundreds of curious onlookers. The palace’s first court was crammed with suppliers of all sorts, vying for contracts to provide Murad’s army with materiel and services necessary for the campaign.
