House of War

by Victor Foia

  “Isn’t war ḥarām, forbidden, this month and the next?” Vlad said.

  “Not if the other party starts it,” Mehmed said. “İbrahim’s the one who opened hostilities with his ambush, so war against him is halāl, permissible, in any month.”

  “But that incident has yet to be investigated, before we know who—”

  “There’s no time for that, Vlad,” Mehmed said, annoyance giving an edge to his child’s voice. “İbrahim’s raving mad about Zaganos’s retaliation and is already marching on Bursa with an army forty thousand strong. We must deal with him, not waste our time talking about the ambush.” His face was hard, and Vlad read in it an unmistakable warning.

  While they picked their way slowly through the crowd, Mehmed said, “Don’t think war’s a bad thing. Look how happy everyone is.”

  Indeed, a jovial atmosphere pervaded the first court. From the loud chatter and frequent outbursts of laughter one might’ve inferred a great festival was taking place.

  “Animals need fodder,” Mehmed went on, “soldiers need flour, kumis, ayran, butter; saddles need mending, weapons sharpening, horses shoeing. Father hasn’t fought a war in Anatolia since before I was born, so merchants and craftsmen had to move to Edirne if they wanted to profit from war. Now war business is finally coming to them.”

  “The soldiers won’t have much to be happy about in this war,” Vlad said. “From what I’ve seen on our trip, Karaman’s too poor to yield meaningful plunder.”

  Mehmed chuckled. “Everyone knows this war’s just warm-up for jihād. That’s where the real plunder is: slaves by the thousands.”

  “And all this time I thought the jihād’s aim was to spread Islam.”

  Mehmed didn’t register Vlad’s sarcasm. “Of course it is. But the Qur’an makes it clear Allah also expects his sons to take war booty from the infidel.” He put on his self-important Hamil al-Quran pose and recited, “‘… Of the war booty you obtain one-fifth is for Allah, for the Messenger, for the orphans, the needy, and the stranded travelers …’”

  The second court was strangely quiet, after the tumult of the first. Vlad assumed that most functionaries were either engaged in writing contracts, or gathered in the council hall, listening to Murad’s plans for the war with Karaman.

  “I’ve got to wash up and rest,” Vlad said, eager to put distance between him and Mehmed after so many days in close contact. “I assume you’ll be taken with briefing your father on the ambush and the meeting with İbrahim.”

  “He knows all he needs about the ambush from Zaganos,” Mehmed said. “And now that war’s broken out, the peace talks with İbrahim are irrelevant.” He spoke with indifference, seemingly not hurt to see his diplomatic achievement overshadowed by events.

  “You’ve known all along that’s how things would turn out,” Vlad said.

  “For one so knowledgeable of history, you’re surely slow on the uptake,” Mehmed said with an air of superiority he hadn’t shown Vlad before.

  The corridor leading to Vlad’s chamber was deserted, except for three slaves in the uniform of the cleaning staff, busy mopping the floor. Vlad knew by sight the men responsible for the upkeep of this wing of the palace, but didn’t recognize this crew. It surprised him to notice the men were stouter than the typical household slave. As he passed them, he caught a covert glance in his direction from one of the men. He was about to turn for a better look, when a bag slipped over his head. Before he could react, a noose closed tight around his neck, and a pair of strong arms gripped him from behind above the elbows. He strained to reach for his weapons, but someone yanked them from his sash.

  “Not resist,” a voice hissed in his ear, as one man wrenched his arms behind his back and another bound his wrists. “I release noose if you not struggle and walk quiet.”

  Zaganos. The thought hissed in Vlad’s mind like embers touched by raindrops. The assailants’ broken Turkish told him his enemy had hired these oafs somewhere on the fringes of the empire. If caught, they likely couldn’t tell who their paymaster was. Nor would Mehmed suspect his lala was behind Vlad’s abduction.

  Since they could’ve killed him on the spot, but didn’t, he assumed Zaganos wanted him tortured first. Barely able to breathe, he let himself slip to the ground as a way of showing he was ready to comply. One of the men lifted him back to his feet, while another slipped a finger under the noose and loosened it. With the gulps of air Vlad drew in, he smelled the stink of men who spent their days on horseback. These were definitely not palace slaves.

  The three men whispered at each other in a language Vlad didn’t understand. Then the man holding Vlad upright said, “We go now.”

  Someone grabbed the back of Vlad’s tunic and shoved him forward. They took only a few steps before he heard a door open to his right. He couldn’t remember any opening extant there, so he assumed it was a secret passage.

  “Very narrow,” said the man holding on to Vlad’s tunic.

  Vlad didn’t wait to be pushed. He lowered his head and stepped forward; his elbows scraped the walls of the passage. They mean to kill me in here, to hide their crime. He braced himself for the sting of the blade he was sure would strike any moment.

  He heard footsteps in the front, as well as behind. About thirty feet farther the sound of a sliding bolt told him a door was being opened. A moment later he tripped on a threshold and stumbled blindly into a room where the air was heavy with burning tallow and damp decay.

  “Mjaft, enough,” said a deep, authoritative voice in a language Vlad assumed to be that of his abductors. “Na lënë, leave us.”

  There was a scuffle of hurried steps, the shutting of a door, the sliding of a bolt. Then silence, interrupted rhythmically by the breathing of one man. My executioner. Vlad said a hurried, silent Paternoster.

  When the breathing approached the back of his neck, Vlad bit his tongue to stifle a scream of terror. Was it going to be a slash across his throat, or a stab to his kidneys? But instead of the pain anticipated, he felt a tug on the cord that bound his hands, then a sudden release of the tension on his chest muscles.

  Unbound, but for what reason?

  He tore the hood off his head and pivoted on one foot to face his captor. Before he could register the man’s face, Vlad kneed him in the groin and gave him a chopping strike across the right forearm. The man, considerably taller and broader than he, doubled over with a deep moan and dropped the knife he’d used to cut Vlad’s bindings.

  Vlad swept the weapon off the floor then bounded backward, ready for a counterattack. Only then did he recognize his liberator. “Skanderbeg Pasha? You too are in league with Zaganos?”

  Skanderbeg straightened up slowly, face contorted with pain.

  “Nothing like the Wallachians’ sense of gratitude,” he said in a halting voice. “Set one of them free, and he’s sure to kick you in the nuts.”

  “There would’ve been no need for you to set me free,” Vlad said, “had your Albanian bullies not tied me up first.”

  Skanderbeg managed a lopsided grin. “Give me my knife and straighten up your clothes: you’re here to see the sultan.”

  Vlad looked around for anything that would tell him where he might be. The room was empty and windowless. Two lamps, dangling on rusty hooks on the wall, gave out more smoke than light. What would the most powerful man in the world be doing in an insalubrious hole like this?

  “And Zaganos?” he said, much relieved to realize his abduction had a less nefarious purpose than he’d imagined. At least for now.

  “I’ve got nothing to do with that ambulatory excrement,” Skanderbeg said. Then he led Vlad to the far wall and said, “The sultan’s waiting for you behind this door. I’ll stand guard here.”

  38

  THORNS AND SNAKES

  March 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  Vlad pushed open the rude plank door and stepped into a tunnel that became black the moment Skanderbeg closed the passage behind him. He felt the walls on both sides and advanced cautious
ly, his suspicions aroused once again. Was he meant to be buried alive in this cave that would conceal his remains for decades? Or fall into an underground drain that would take his corpse away to a distant swamp?

  He bumped into another door that blocked the passage and felt for a handle: there wasn’t one. Perhaps he should turn back, kill Skanderbeg, and find a way out of this trap.

  He pounded his fist onto the door. A few seconds later it opened with a grating of rusty hinges to a pleasant amber light and rosewater fragrance.

  “Come,” Tirendaz whispered and peered behind Vlad with an alert look. “I’m sorry I had to revert to such brutal tactics to bring you unobserved to His Majesty. But circumstances didn’t leave me a choice.”

  Beyond Tirendaz, Vlad spotted Murad seated on a carpet, working on something piled upon a sofra, low table, in front of him. He had an awl in one hand and a spool of silk thread in the other.

  Vlad stepped closer and said, “My Sultan.” Then he placed his right hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

  Unlike Tirendaz, who appeared much on edge, Murad was relaxed. He looked up and displayed polished teeth in a congenial smile.

  “Ah, there you are, Mehmed’s musahib,” he said in a tone of surprising warmth. He invited Vlad by a simple gesture to sit on the carpet in front of the sofra.

  Vlad complied, and Tirendaz sat next to him.

  “You must be thirsty after such a long journey,” Murad said. “Have a cup of Transylvanian wine with me. It might bring you pleasant memories of your native land, as it has brought me. A true Garden of Eden, that place.”

  Murad’s nostalgia for Transylvania appeared unhampered by the memory of the many dead left there in the wake of his 1438 raid.

  Vlad took the silver cup Tirendaz handed him and drained the greenish wine slowly. No bucolic scene of Transylvania flashed in front of his eyes. Instead, he recalled Katharina Siegel, the “snow Schmetterling” whose father was captured in that raid and sold into bondage. For a few moments he toyed with the idea of asking Murad to locate Thomas Siegel and restore him to his family. But then he dismissed the notion as dangerously presumptuous.

  “I’ve been told you and Mehmed lost your way somewhere in Germiyan,” Murad said.

  “Fortunately, Zaganos Pasha came to our rescue,” Vlad said and waited to see how Murad reacted to this untruth.

  Murad gave Vlad a neutral look, nodded a few times, then returned to his awl and thread.

  After a few minutes of concentrated work, Murad set his tool aside and held up a vellum leaf. Vlad recognized it as being from the copy of Shahnameh İbrahim had gifted the sultan.

  “This is the finest calligraphy I’ve ever seen,” Murad said. “My brother-in-law’s given proof of generosity in choosing such a treasure for my gift. I’ve heard he traded five Arabian mares for it.”

  “İbrahim Bey must’ve thought that peace with Your Highness deserved such a remarkable token.”

  “Ah, peace ...” Murad sighed and put the leaf down. “Such a sweet thought to hold; so daunting a thing to achieve. ‘They shall promise peace and safety, but then visit sudden destruction upon their brothers, as travail visits upon a woman with child.’”

  Vlad was unable to identify the ayah the sultan was quoting.

  Murad guessed Vlad’s thought and chuckled. “Those insightful words aren’t from the Qur’an, Emirzade. When I can’t find answers to my questions anywhere else, I go to the Book of the Jews.”

  Tirendaz shifted his weight in a sign of impatience. “Zaganos Pasha has submitted a written report on the peace talks. However, His Majesty wants an account of everything you saw and heard at the meeting.”

  Murad’s desire to have an independent view of the peace parley was something Zaganos must have counted on when he insisted Vlad should attend. The testimony of an outsider would have great weight with the sultan. Should Murad suspect that Zaganos had deliberately provoked İbrahim to commit an act of casus belli, a case for war, Vlad’s account would exonerate the vizier.

  Vlad gave Murad and Tirendaz a dry narrative of the events he’d witnessed over the two days spent in İbrahim’s tent. “If you are trying to assess Mehmed’s performance, I assure you it was masterful.”

  A smile lit Murad’s face. “The boy’s advanced for his age.”

  “Are you sure Zaganos did nothing to provoke the ambush you suffered on the mountain pass?” Tirendaz said.

  “Based on the amount of rocks that tumbled on us,” Vlad said, “it’s clear the attack was prepared in advance of our arrival. But I can’t see İbrahim Bey’s motivation for assaulting us. After learning the contents of the papal bull, he had to think he’d been deceived by the Christians and would gain nothing by warring with Your Highness.”

  “If İbrahim didn’t order the ambush,” Murad said, “who did?”

  The discussion was becoming perilous if it led to uncovering the possibility that Zaganos was behind the attack. Yet Vlad couldn’t let pass the opportunity to hint at the vizier’s culpability. “I’d be asking, Cui bono? Who’d profit from it?”

  Murad and Tirendaz exchanged glances.

  “Someone wanted the crusade kept alive,” Vlad added, hoping they would reach the conclusion on their own that Zaganos was that someone. But the two men refused to walk down that path.

  “İbrahim’s grandson’s a hotheaded youth with a legitimate gripe against me,” Murad said. “I suppose he could’ve planned the ambush to get back at me for holding him hostage. What better way to avenge his grievance than by capturing Mehmed?”

  “But Mehmed was caught on the wrong side of the rock avalanche by accident,” Vlad said and told them about the laming of his own horse.

  “So it was a case of luck for Kasim to have my son placed in his power?” Murad said, unconvinced.

  “Yet, Kasim let Mehmed go,” Tirendaz said, “as if the son of the man he hates the most meant nothing to him. That’s hard to understand.”

  Both he and Murad observed Vlad intently, brows furrowed, lips pursed.

  “You met with Kasim,” Tirendaz said. “How did that come about?”

  It had been naive of Vlad to think his initiative to contact Kasim wouldn’t stir suspicions at Murad’s court. Only the year before, Hunyadi had labeled King Dracul the “architect” of the alliance between Hungary and Karaman. And now Dracul’s son simply walks into Kasim’s camp and obtains Mehmed’s freedom?

  “I asked Kasim’s men to take me to him so I could present our case for diplomatic immunity.”

  “I would’ve kept Mehmed if I were Kasim,” Murad said, “immunity or not. How did you persuade him to let my son go?”

  “Do you know about Mehmed’s amulet?” Vlad said.

  Tirendaz squirmed; Mehmed’s adventure in Constantinople happened on his watch, and he naturally would prefer not to revisit that subject in front of the sultan.

  But Murad’s curiosity had been piqued. “The one he fashioned out of a brick from Hagia Sophia?”

  “He believes it has magical powers,” Vlad said. “So do I.”

  Murad looked keenly interested.

  But Tirendaz was bent on changing the subject. “Did Kasim deny organizing the ambush?”

  Murad raised a hand to silence Tirendaz. “Zaganos told us you had the amulet on you when you saw Kasim.”

  “Mehmed and I believe it was the magic in that chip of brick that made Kasim let us go.”

  “I can’t see Kasim acting contrary to his interests because of a trinket,” Tirendaz said.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Murad said. “My murshid also believes the amulet did it.”

  So the rumor about Murad being a dervish is true. “It’s also possible Kasim let us leave unharmed to prove the Karamanids weren’t responsible for the ambush.”

  “That would be a powerful argument in favor of their innocence,” Tirendaz said.

  A door Vlad hadn’t noticed before opened silently and a page came in. He knelt and whispered into Murad’s his ear.


  “We’ll chat again soon, Emirzade,” Murad said and stood. “I want to hear all about Mehmed’s and your foolish adventure in Constantinople. And next time we shan’t talk of my enemies.” He switched to Persian. “‘When you talk of enemies, thorns and snakes will fill your heart’”

  “The sultan has recently fallen in love with Mevlana’s poetry,” Tirendaz said with a trace of a smile, after Murad left the room.

  “I can surmise that something’s threatening His Majesty’s safety,” Vlad said. “But why’s he hiding in this unsavory place?”

  “This refuge served his father effectively as a hideout during the civil war. Only people the sultan trusts know its location, and every entry point is being secretly watched by them. From now on he’ll seldom venture out, until the danger blows over. When he does, he’ll be surrounded by my handpicked solak archers.”

  Tirendaz stared into the distance for a few minutes, contemplative. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Your own safety’s at risk too, so I might as well explain what’s happening.”

  39

  PERMANENT JIHĀD

  March 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  This was the first time Vlad had found himself alone with Tirendaz. They were sitting close enough to each other for Vlad to see specks of copper dot the hazel of his eyes. On all prior occasions Tirendaz’s appearance had been impeccable. Now, however, a slight air of shabbiness clung to him, as if pressing matters had interfered with his fastidious grooming. And while in the past he’d always displayed an unshakable self-control, now he was as tense as a bowstring.

  “The sultan has received an anonymous note,” Tirendaz said, “warning of a conspiracy being hatched by a secret society called Kalıcı Cihad, Permanent Jihād. It seems KC was formed last year, when His Majesty declared for a peaceful coexistence with Dar al-Harb.”

  “What is KC’s aim?” Vlad said.

  “As its name implies, a state of permanent war with Europe.”