House of War

by Victor Foia

  “Surely someone must recognize the corpses,” Vlad said. “The men wore the uniform of the Household Cavalry.”

  “We had the bodies exposed at the cavalry barracks, but no luck with identifying them,” Tirendaz said, “Whoever was their master must’ve brought them from far away.”

  Zaganos gave Vlad a scornful look. “We might’ve been able to find out who put them up to this infamous act if you had the smarts to capture one of the attackers unharmed.”

  “Don’t blame Emirzade, Zaganos Pasha,” Aladdin said. “None of us had the luxury of choosing how little to wound our assailants.”

  When Murad asked for a detailed description of the attack, Vlad gave him only a sketchy outline and left out Hızır’s involvement. “I had it easier than the others, since I happened to fall upon the rear of the assassins, while Aladdin and my squire took the brunt of their charge.”

  Murad let out a short laugh. “Aladdin’s warned me you aren’t one to claim credit for your good deeds. But the secret’s out. Without your quick reaction, we’d be crying now instead of rejoicing.”

  He stood and took Vlad’s hands into his. When he noticed Vlad’s wound, swollen and blackened with the hekim’s salve, he nodded with appreciation.

  “You’ve been a great friend to both of my sons, Emirzade,” he said in a voice quivering with parental emotion. “With your help, Mehmed’s study habits have taken a good turn. And Aladdin—” He swallowed then cleared his throat. “Well, we all know Aladdin’s story, don’t we?”

  “I’ve benefited more from your sons’ friendships than they have from mine,” Vlad said.

  Murad shook his head as if to say, “Enough self-effacing,” then grinned, mischievous. “It occurs to me you are the only one at the court who hasn’t yet asked a favor of me. Don’t you know granting favors is what being sultan is all about?”

  “Or denying them,” Mehmed said, and everyone laughed, including Murad.

  “You’ve earned the right to a royal favor,” Tirendaz said with good humor, “so ask away, Emirzade.”

  All eyes turned onto Vlad.

  The one thing that would’ve made him truly happy, Vlad knew not to ask. It wouldn’t take much to see the sultan turning from friend to foe, if he felt his kindness was being abused.

  Clothes? Weapons? Horses? Gold? He’d feel demeaned to ask for such trifles.

  Then a thought shot through him and he felt the glow of an unexpected joy. Yes, there was something meaningful he could ask for: a wish the sultan alone could make come true.

  “A man whom I know only by name was taken into slavery during Your Highness’s raid on Transylvania in 1438.”

  Murad’s eyebrows arched, and his face took on an expectant look.

  “I’ve inquired about him in Edirne,” Vlad said, “but he seems to have vanished into the bowels of the empire. You have the power to find him and send him home to his family.”

  “That’s a stupid favor to ask for,” Mehmed said. “You’ve thrown away your chance for something big to save a man you don’t even know?”

  Murad watched Vlad in silence for a few moments, grave, lips pursed and twitching. He seemed to be working on something to say but couldn’t find the words. Then he gave a subtle signal, and a page rushed to him with a slate tablet and an iron stylus in hand.

  “The man’s name is Thomas Siegel,” Vlad said, and the page scratched something on his tablet. “He is a master weaver from Kronstadt.”

  The page scribbled again, then looked up at Murad.

  “You’ve got all you need to find the man,” Murad said, and the page left the hall at a run.

  In the cooling room Vlad discovered his old clothes and boots had been replaced by new ones: soft cotton shirt, blue silk shalwar, worsted wool caftan, and yellow leather boots. His kiliç and dagger had been washed of blood and sharpened. A green sash, a red kufi, and a white turban cloth completed his outfit, which Aladdin declared worthy of celebrating Eid al-Adha.

  With the sun now two handbreadths above the horizon, Murad led a walking procession from the palace to Ulu Camii. Zaganos and the kadıasker strolled beside him, while Tirendaz trailed them by a few feet. Next came a group of town elders, including Mustafa Bey, Bursa’s governor. Aladdin, Mehmed, and Vlad brought up the rear.

  A handful of solak archers formed a cordon ahead of the sultan, while others followed the convoy walking backward. Murad didn’t show the caution a ruler threatened by a conspiracy should. Now and then he broke away from his group to greet an old friend on the side of the road; or waded into the crowd of onlookers to pinch the cheeks of curious boys riding on their fathers’ shoulders. Vlad inferred Murad was trying to quell the populace’s concerns following the preceding day’s attack on Aladdin.

  “At his pace it’ll take us half a day to reach the mosque,” Mehmed said.

  Aladdin threw his arm around Mehmed’s shoulders. “It’s not the eagerness to pray that’s making my brother impatient, but the roast mutton that comes after.”

  “I’m on his side,” Vlad said, to appease Mehmed’s simmering jealousy. “We pray five times every day, but rarely see roast mutton.”

  Mehmed looked up at Vlad with the beginning of a softening in his eyes. “There will also be mountains of sweets—”

  His voice was drowned by a shout of, “Amasya Kaplan, Amasya Tiger,” that came from a Sipahi who’d climbed on a fence for a better view of the procession. Immediately, the isolated shout became a chant issuing from hundreds of throats. Military and civilians, young and old, men and women joined in a deafening expression of admiration for Aladdin. “Kaplan, Kaplan, Kaplan …”

  The tumult continued for the duration of the walk and ceased only when Murad stepped onto the iwan of Ulu Camii and raised both hands to quiet the crowd.

  The sultan’s face was bathed in tears he didn’t bother to hide.

  Despite the thorough cleaning they all had received at the palace hamam, Murad’s entire party performed the ablution anew at the marble fountain inside the mosque. To the astonishment of the crowd, İbrahim Bey appeared, escorted by two çavuşes, and was invited by Murad to sit next to him on one of the marble stools girdling the fountain.

  “Why’s Father showing such respect to that old fool?” Mehmed said.

  “Would you have him use İbrahim as a footstool, instead?” Vlad said.

  The allusion to Beyazid’s fate drew a reproachful stare from Mehmed.

  The Eid prayer was followed by a khutbah that Vlad found interminable. But the congregation filling the gigantic hall to capacity was riveted by the words of the imam and listened to him in raptured silence. When he finished with the obligatory mentioning of the sultan’s name, the mosque burst into a loud humming, as the worshipers began to wish each other, “Eid Mubarak, Blessed Eid.”

  43

  BLACK RAM

  April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  The Ulu Camii meydan had been transformed into a bazaar swamped by thousands of Eid celebrants. In the cypress grove that flanked the meydan to the south, pens had been set up to corral a multitude of sheep, goats, cows, and camels that were to be sacrificed over the next four days.

  Murad, walking arm in arm with İbrahim, headed for the center of the meydan where a kadı awaited the sultan’s permission to signal the beginning of the sacrifice period. A symbolic scene had been staged there with a thicket of acacia branches on one side, and a pyre of faggots on the other. The crowd parted to give Murad’s entourage access to this crude rendering of the place where Abraham intended to sacrifice Ishmael.

  A boy lay flat on his back upon the pyre.

  Commotion in the thicket caught Vlad’s attention. A black ram, horns caught in the thorny branches, was straining to get free. A man dressed in a shepherd’s cloak and wearing a waist-length false beard appeared to be invoking the sky, as he brandished a dagger over the boy.

  “My son, Aladdin,” Murad said to İbrahim, choking with emotion. “It’s his first time to open the Feast of the
Sacrifice.”

  İbrahim, eyes rimmed with dark circles of fatigue and dejection, nodded, polite.

  The meydan, only seconds before buzzing like a swarming beehive, became hushed.

  “‘O, my dear Son,’” intoned Aladdin-Abraham, “‘I have seen in a dream that I should sacrifice you: consider, then what would be your view!’”

  “‘O, my father,’” the boy-Ishmael said in a thin voice, “‘do as you are bidden. You will find me among those who are patient in adversity. Insha’Allāh.’”

  The kadı raised his arms in a majestic gesture and declaimed, “‘You, Abraham, have already fulfilled the vision of your dream. Behold, all this was indeed only a trial. We have ransomed Ishmael with a great animal sacrifice. Thus, verily, do We reward the doers of good.’”

  At this moment two attendants wrested the ram from its entanglement and dragged it to the pyre. With the men immobilizing the animal by clutching at its thick wool, Aladdin straddled it, grabbed one of its horns, and forced its head toward Murad.

  A white, crescent-shaped blaze ran along the bridge of its nose, from the base of the horns to the muzzle. Murad bit his lip and turned pale.

  With a powerful pull, Aladdin bent the ram’s neck backward and slit the exposed throat with one decisive stroke. At the sight of the blood gushing in spurts, Murad raised his eyes to the sky and murmured something inaudible. Then he rushed to Aladdin and embraced him, as the crowd burst into cheers.

  44

  THE NIGHT OF EID AL-ADHA

  April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  Omar spent the night before Eid in the cemetery attached to Ulu Camii, alternating between praying and sleeping in short bursts. Both hunger and cold prevented him from getting much rest, so by morning he felt exhausted. At the same time, owing to fast and prayer, all reticence he might’ve felt for killing Murad had vanished.

  After making his solitary dawn prayer, he walked away from the Ulu Camii area where thousands of Bursa inhabitants were already assembling for the Eid celebrations. Being recognized by one of his former associates would complicate things for him at a time when he needed complete freedom of action.

  He found a mosque in a poor neighborhood where only old worshippers congregated, the young ones having left to join the Eid festivities in the center of the city. He ate breakfast at the imaret then swept the precinct of the mosque and repaired a fence.

  He learned from the imam that Aladdin had defeated the Karamanids the day before and captured İbrahim Bey.

  Here’s solid proof of Murad’s enmity to jihād, Omar thought, with bitter anger. He’s waging war on brothers Muslim, while Dar al-Harb’s thriving in filth and inequity, under the sun of a peace it doesn’t deserve.

  In the afternoon a large quantity of roast mutton was brought to the imaret, the donation of a wealthy family in town. He ate the meat with relish and felt his strength return. With a bit of rest, he’d be ready for what he was expected to do that night.

  On his return to the cemetery he congratulated himself on having met Azmir the day before. With someone else guiding him to his target, the risk of being exposed was minimal. He marveled at the way Allah arranged the things meant to glorify Him.

  He reached the cemetery just as the muezzin began to sing the adhān for Salah al-Maghrib. There was still enough light to enable his search for water, and he found some in a bucket near a toolshed. He made his ablution, then spread his cloak on the ground in lieu of a prayer rug. When he’d completed his prayer he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay on some discarded boards beside the shed. He’d enjoy a few minutes of rest before meeting with Aziz.

  The last thought he had before drifting into slumber was, I mustn’t fall asleep.

  “Check to see it’s him, Mustafa,” a voice said.

  Omar opened his eyes to see two Janissaries leaning over him, one holding a lantern.

  I’ve been sold out, he thought and felt weakness melt his limbs.

  Mustafa jabbed two fingers into Omar’s mouth. “It’s him, all right. Missing his front teeth.” Then he proceeded to tie Omar’s wrists in the front with a leather thong. “Get up.” But instead of waiting for Omar to obey his order, he yanked him to his feet.

  The thong cut into Omar’s skin. “What do you want with me?”

  Instead of answering, the Janissary with the lantern headed for the cemetery gate. Mustafa followed him, towing Omar like a tethered sheep. When they reached the empty Ulu Camii plaza Omar realized with a surge of remorse he’d slept past the Isha prayer and missed his appointment with Aziz.

  “Where are you taking me?” he said in a fear-laden tone. But again the Janissaries ignored him.

  He hoped his arrest was the result of Azmir’s betrayal, not related to the arson. As an arsonist he’d be hanged quickly. But if Azmir had denounced him as a would-be assassin, Omar could deny everything. Azmir was a crazed beggar who’d talked nonsense to him, and listening wasn’t a crime. They’d rough Omar up a bit, but then they’d let him go. He could still pursue his plan the following day.

  Although these thoughts reassured him somewhat, his legs remained wobbly, his chest tight.

  They walked across the town, still noisy with the chants of Eid celebrants despite the late hour. No one paid attention to the two Janissaries escorting a prisoner.

  When, instead of heading for the Janissaries’ barracks, they began to descend toward Ordu Alan, confusion joined fear in tormenting Omar. He knew the Anatolian army was camped in the flatland, but couldn’t see a reason for him to be taken there. Unless his captors knew of a kadı in the camp who could sentence him in the middle of the night.

  This time the forces of evil seemed to be working faster than those of good. If Allah had abandoned him to the hands of jihād’s enemies, it could only mean he’d failed to live up to the requirements of a true murīd.

  “Khorasan,” the Janissary carrying the lantern said to a camp guard when challenged for the password.

  “What have you got there?” the guard asked, pointing at Omar.

  “We’re taking this riffraff to Prince Aladdin for questioning,” Mustafa said. “He’s suspected of being involved in a conspiracy against the sultan.”

  So you did betray me, miserable beggar, Omar raged silently at Azmir’s memory. Ya Mujību, Oh, the One Who Answers, give me one more chance to prove I’m worthy of following Your tariqa. Set me free and tomorrow I shall strike down the greatest enemy of jihād.

  The camp was unusually noisy for that time of the night, with soldiers gathered around campfires, singing, talking, laughing. Omar and his two escorts walked past rows upon rows of identical white tents, each capable of accommodating ten Sipahis. Next they came upon a district of brown tents where grooms, cooks, and other camp attendants slept. Finally, they stopped in front of a conical, camelhair tent Omar recognized as typical of those used by Janissaries between their guard-duty shifts.

  Without an explanation, Mustafa lifted the tent’s flap and pushed Omar inside. Another Janissary stood there, fists raised.

  Before Omar could ask why he’d been arrested, the Janissary punched him in the stomach, leaving him doubled over, gasping for air.

  “Why were you late?” a voice growled.

  Omar straightened up with difficulty and through tears of pain recognized Azmir. Despite the shock of his reception, the vise that had been gripping his chest since his arrest unclenched its jaws.

  “So—I’m not—under arrest?” he said between shallow intakes of air. “You’re a Janiss—?”

  “No time for chitchat,” Azmir said with military brusqueness. “Take off your cloak and put on this caftan. The headpiece, too. It’s the uniform of Aladdin’s eunuchs.”

  That explained why Omar had been asked to get a close shave; but not why he’d have to dress like Aladdin’s staff.

  “Am I to kill the prince instead of the sultan?” Omar said, dumbfounded. “Isn’t Murad jihād’s chief enemy?”

  Azmir glowered. “Who are you to questio
n the decision of higher powers?”

  “I was just wondering if the gift of Aladdin’s life was good enough to satisfy the saint?”

  Azmir made fists again, and Omar decided to accept the new target without further questions.

  “The prince returned to his compound an hour ago and should be asleep by now. Take this basket of clothes to his tent.”

  “Are his guards part of—?”

  “No, we don’t have anyone in that squad,” Azmir said. “But all Janissaries on guard at his compound are accustomed to eunuchs coming and going on their errands. The password for the household staff is, ‘Edirne.’”

  “I need a dagger,” Omar said.

  “No, you don’t. Use your hands. Aladdin’s eunuchs don’t bear arms, so if the guards found a knife on you it would be all over.”

  “What do I do after …?”

  Azmir shook his head, exasperated. “Another stupid question. Return here, of course, and I’ll take you out of the camp.”

  45

  OMAR’S GIFT

  April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  The thoroughfare that passed through the center of the camp was lit with burning rags stuffed into iron lanterns every twenty feet. Omar encountered, again and again, groups of boisterous soldiers, singing about Amasya Kaplan, Aladdin Kaplan.

  So nowadays you can wage war on Muslims, in the month of Dhu al-Hijjah no less, and be hailed as a tiger?

  Omar quickened his pace.

  What if the Tiger of Amasya wasn’t able to sleep because of this racket? He’d call the guards and Omar would be slaughtered on the spot. He wished he’d been able to take a dagger with him.

  I’d sink it into his heart with a throw from twenty feet away, before anyone could touch me.

  Omar had no trouble finding Aladdin’s tent, distinguished by the two-horsetail tuğ raised in front of it on a lance. Four Janissaries stood guard nearby, chatting and laughing. On seeing Omar, one of them detached himself from the group and intercepted him.