by Victor Foia
“What’s your business here?” the soldier said. Before Omar could answer, the man began to pat him, hurried, eager perhaps to return to his companions.
“Edirne,” Omar said, voice a bit stressed.
Keep calm … he doesn’t suspect anything.
Next, the Janissary rummaged through the basket. “Why are you delivering laundry at this time of the night?”
“Clothes don’t know night from day,” Omar said. “I’ll be coming right out with another load of dirty linen. This is the best time to—”
“Get going,” the Janissary said. “All you geldings like to chatter like old women.”
The compound’s antechamber was lit by two lamps, and so was the next room, which appeared to serve as the prince’s reception hall. Omar expected to encounter a page or a eunuch before reaching Aladdin’s sleeping chamber and was prepared to kill him with a blow to the temple. But his luck held and he met no one.
The passage that opened at the back of the hall split into three directions. Omar prayed to Allah al-Wājid, the Finder, to help him make the right choice. He decided to proceed straight ahead, reasoning the passageways to the left and the right must’ve led to the chambers of Aladdin’s concubines and personal staff.
Upon lifting the flap draping the entrance to the next room, he saw a young man sprawled on his back on a mattress laid on the carpet. Omar had never seen Aladdin, but even in the feeble light of a single lamp he spied great similarities between this man and Murad. Al-Wājid had answered Omar’s prayer, and he paused to give Him thanks.
The excitement that until now had simmered beneath the surface of Omar’s consciousness, became a roiling sea that carried him with it. His arms felt alive with power, and the muscles of his legs twitched like those of a spirited stallion.
He removed his caftan and spread it over Aladdin’s body, ready to pounce upon him should he awake. Then he knelt beside the mattress and held his breath. He knew the next few minutes would be rushing by too quickly for him to enjoy, so he wanted to savor them by anticipation.
He took three deep breaths to steady himself. Then he gave Aladdin a chop across the throat with all his might. He felt the cartilage of Aladdin’s windpipe crumble under the edge of his hand. The next instant he straddled his victim and throttled him with both hands, thumbs driving deep into his shattered larynx.
Aladdin opened his eyes wide and rolled them from side to side, frantic, terrified, searching for a meaning to the outrage happening to him. His arms and legs, trapped under Omar’s caftan, wriggled ineffectually for a while, then acquiesced to the inevitable.
Omar felt a great elation as all signs of life departed Aladdin. With blood hammering in his own temples, he lingered astride the corpse for long moments, rueful the entire act had lasted so briefly.
Then he heard a child’s whimper behind him and jumped to his feet, as if Aladdin’s mattress had turned red-hot.
A boy of about two was kneeling on a pallet laid in a corner of the room. Next to him, an infant lay facedown, sleeping.
“Where’s Papa?” the boy said.
You did not slay them, but it was Allah Who slew them. The Qur’an words revealed by Jalāl’s puzzle blazed in Omar’s mind.
Now he understood why the ayah that had inspired his mission spoke of “them,” not of “him,” and knew his gift was worthy of the saint.
The Janissaries glanced at Omar when he stepped out of Aladdin’s tent, but didn’t break off their chatter. He walked briskly past them and returned to Azmir’s tent, the same basket of clothes on his shoulder. There, he pulled aside the flap and ducked into the tent, full of confidence.
The basket flew off his shoulder and he found himself thrown face to the ground. Someone stuck claw-like fingers into his eye sockets and forced his head back with excessive force.
“Tell me he’s dead,” Azmir hissed, his knee digging into Omar’s kidney.
Omar hadn’t considered the possibility he was a liability for Azmir. Now panic sent a shooting pain through his brain and set his cheeks on fire.
“You’re hurting my eyes,” he croaked, searching frantically for a way out of this trap.
Azmir eased up his grip. “Did you do it?”
Omar craned his neck in an attempt to make eye contact with Azmir and saw a blade hovering an inch from his throat.
“Couldn’t. He was playing with his children. I told the guards I have one more load of laundry to bring in, so they won’t suspect anything when I return to do the job.”
Azmir swore and stood up.
“You’d better finish him off next time, whether he’s sleeping or not.”
Omar rose and straightened his clothes, casually, as if he’d just had horseplay with a chum of his.
“I will, for certain,” he said. “But I need a dagger in case he’s still up. The guards aren’t going to search my basket a second time, as they know me already.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Azmir said and handed Omar his dagger, holding it by the blade.
Omar gripped the handle and, with a jerky upward sweep, sank the blade up to its guard into the space between Azmir’s chin and his Adam’s apple. He guided the dead man’s body slowly to the ground, then peeked outside.
There was no one in the vicinity of the tent.
He replaced the eunuch’s caftan and headpiece with his own garments, then grabbed a handful of dirt and blackened his face with it. A close shave was an improbable look for a begging dervish.
No one challenged him at the exit from the camp.
He reached the tekke just as the adhān for the dawn prayer began to sound from various parts of the city. He took a lighted lamp off a hook behind the gate and used it to find his way to the sheik’s hall. He couldn’t wait another moment to announce his gift to the holy man.
From the threshold he noticed all the furniture, carpets, and lamps had disappeared from the hall. He advanced with hesitating steps toward the alcove and found it was no longer protected by a veil. There was nothing where the saint used to sit but the bare stone floor.
He supposed a tiny door at the back of the alcove led to the saint’s sleeping chamber. He walked through it and found a maze of hallways into which opened the doors of a dozen cells. All rooms were empty, and the entire quarter gave the impression it hadn’t been lived in for a long time.
He went to the kitchen and there too all signs of a recent occupancy had vanished. The walk-in fireplace where the soup cauldrons used to hang was empty and swept free of ashes.
The only familiar object still in place was the rainwater barrel in the courtyard. He made his ablution there, then, using his cloak as a prayer rug, showed his gratitude to Allah with a passionate recitation of al-Fātiḥah.
He wasn’t surprised to find his cell stripped of all objects as well. By now he understood the recent past had to be erased, so nothing would tie Aladdin’s murder to the Bektashi tekke and to Sheik al-Masudi. He wondered if the spike that had begun his initiation to the tariqa had also been removed. His joy was boundless to discover it hadn’t. Moreover, on it hung the coveted elifi tac.
He placed the cap on his head, removed his earring, and impaled the lobe of his ear onto the stub of the spike. Then he began his meditation, love of al-Haqq overflowing his heart.
You did not smite them, but it was Allah Who smote them, that He might confer upon the believers a good gift from Himself.
46
MOURNFUL DIRGE
April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
On the first night of Eid al-Adha Aladdin’s camp broke with the strict discipline Vlad so admired in the Ottoman army. The hushed, almost reverent silence that usually enveloped the camp following the last prayer of the day gave place to boisterous gatherings around campfires. The Sipahis, having been fed more meat in one day than during the entire campaign against the Karamanids, laughed and sang as if attending a wedding.
From his tent, where he kept vigil over Gruya, Vlad heard Aladdin’s name pop up fre
quently in the soldiers’ refrains. At one moment, a particularly loud outburst of laughter coming from nearby awoke Gruya.
“Can’t you folks give up?” he said in a hoarse voice then fell asleep again.
Vlad felt Gruya’s forehead and was shocked at the intensity of his fever. He thought about waking Lash and sending him for the hekim. But the Gypsy had gone without sleep since Gruya’s injury and had finally collapsed with fatigue.
I don’t need both of my men sick.
Would Gruya be ready to travel in two days, when Aladdin intended to strike camp?
Vlad changed his friend’s compress and tucked the blanket around his body. Then he lay next to him and, despite the continual din outside, fell into a dreamless slumber.
He felt as if he’d just closed his eyes when the noise outside dragged him back to wakefulness. But when he realized his throat was dry, his lips parched, and his injured arm stiff from remaining long immobilized, he concluded he’d slept through the night. He sat up, and a chill ran through him. I too must be feverish.
Then, with a start, he noticed the noise that had awakened him wasn’t the same as earlier in the night. Instead of being gay and celebratory, this noise was laden with sorrow, incomprehensible of origin and meaning. Was it a lament? A mournful dirge?
A thought he wanted to repress sprouted against his will, rebellious and violent. It’s Murad. They’ve killed him.
Vlad’s windpipe tightened, and a stitch lodged in his breast. Struggling for breath, he stood with difficulty and felt his way in the dark to the tent opening. Outside, the sound acquired a higher pitch, and now he could tell it was coming from the direction of Aladdin’s tent. A huge mass of soldiers stood there in the light of a few torches, a dense pack of men linking arms, swaying and moaning.
“What’s going on?” he whispered when he reached the back row of the mourners.
No one replied.
He would’ve liked to join Aladdin inside; his affinity for the prince had grown to rival that for his own brother. But Aladdin didn’t need a stranger in his tent at this moment of grieving. He needed Mehmed.
As Vlad stood alone shivering in the predawn breeze, the implications of Murad’s death began to thrash in his mind. Kalıcı Cihad, the mastermind of Murad’s murder, was bound to seize the power. Aladdin and Mehmed would find themselves hunted and would be lucky to escape with their lives. The Anatolian army was, no doubt, loyal to Aladdin and would support him in a civil war. But if the conspirators controlled the stronger Rumelian army, the two brothers were doomed.
And with them, Vlad would be lost as well.
He wondered where Skanderbeg’s loyalty lay. If loyal to House Osman, he’d give the two princes a hand in the fight against Kalıcı Cihad. On the other hand, if he sided with the conspirators, his five thousand Sipahis would be holding Bursa for KC until fresh forces arrived from Europe.
As for himself—the only thing to do for now was to stay close to Aladdin and hope he’d prevail upon his father’s killers.
Vlad was about to return to his tent when a commotion rose from the town side of the camp. The clanging of armor and weapons, the snorting of horses, and the shouting of torchbearers indicated the arrival of someone important.
“Make room for Prince Mehmed,” someone shouted.
A few moments later Mehmed appeared at the head of a company of Albanian Sipahis.
So Skanderbeg stands by Osman’s dynasty, Vlad reflected, immensely relieved. With Aladdin’s army reinforced by the general’s five thousand Sipahis, Anatolia was secure. In the impending civil war Skanderbeg’s allegiance to Aladdin and Murad was certain to lead them to victory.
The Sipahis blocking access to Aladdin’s tent ceased their lamentations and pulled aside, leaving a path open for Mehmed.
He surveyed the crowd with weary eyes. When he spotted Vlad, he dismounted in a flash and threw himself at his friend like a lost child reunited with his father. “Glory to Allah al-Mu’min, Granter of Security,” he sobbed. He held Vlad in a desperate hug and buried his face in his chest. “I was afraid you’ve been killed too.”
Vlad stood in silence, unable to summon consoling words. “Allah al-Muntaqim, the Avenger,” he finally said, “will punish the murderer.”
Mehmed took a step back, eyes blazing. “Allah has already squashed him like the worthless worm he was.” He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his caftan and took Vlad by the hand. “Come, I’ll show you the mark of Allah’s justice.”
Aladdin’s antechamber was crammed with the elderly men of his entourage, gathered in a circle, glaring at something on the floor. They were weeping, faces writhen with pain and anger.
Vlad searched in vain for Aladdin.
“Where’s your brother?” he whispered.
Mehmed gave him a quizzical look. “In his sleeping chamber, of course.”
47
MISDIRECTED VENGEANCE
April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
“Behold al-Muntaqim’s vengeance upon the murderer,” Mehmed said when the mourners moved aside to make room for him and Vlad.
A heap of bloody clothes concealed in part a naked corpse whose limbs had been hacked off and scattered around. The dead person’s skull had been cleaved with a sharp object, rendering it unrecognizable. Yet, the henna-dyed beard told Vlad the murderer was an elderly man.
He looked at Mehmed for an explanation.
“Hızır Pasha,” Mehmed said. “The viper my brother has been sheltering in his bosom.”
“What?” The exclamation escaped Vlad before he could fully process Mehmed’s pronouncement. Perplexed, he searched the scene of carnage with his eyes and located a left hand. As he expected, he didn’t see a right hand.
Mehmed stepped around the corpse and headed for the inner chamber. “Let’s go see Aladdin.”
Vlad’s mind rebelled at the notion that Aladdin’s gentle lala was Murad’s killer. Yet, the desire to see his pupil on the throne might have robbed the old man of reason. But how could he be capable of murdering the sultan in the state of shock caused by his injury?
They passed through the audience hall and entered a dark passage that opened into a well-lit room. There, on a white shroud stretched on the floor, lay Aladdin flanked by his two sons.
Purple blotches on their throats contrasted strongly with the pallor of their faces.
Vlad felt the ground sway and dropped to his knees to steady himself. A throbbing pain that burst in his left temple spread quickly to the side of his neck. He became nauseous, his vision blurred.
“Hızır strangled them in their sleep,” Mehmed said and burst into a convulsive sobbing. “Father’s dream of the sacrificial ram that shed no blood was prophetic, after all.”
“Impossible,” Vlad shouted. Hızır’s loss of his right hand made Mehmed’s accusation preposterous.
Mehmed knelt beside Vlad and took his hand, consoling. “That’s what I said: impossible. Tirendaz and Zaganos felt the same way. Yet, Hızır has undeniably murdered my brother and his children.”
“I’m telling you it can’t be,” Vlad groaned. “Hızır’s right hand—”
“The Janissaries guarding the tent found Hızır straddling Aladdin’s body, hands on his throat,” Mehmed said. “He’d already strangled my two nephews. It was those Janissaries who killed Hızır and chopped up his hands and feet.”
Vlad gritted his teeth to control the anger unleashed in him by this blatant untruth. “Where are those men now? They’re lying. You must question them yourself.”
“They’ve been questioned already by Zaganos.”
Vlad flinched, as if he’d been kicked in the face. “Then there is nothing else to do.” Hatred and dread coursed through him at the realization that Aladdin’s murder had to be Zaganos’s handiwork.
“Even under torture they maintained their story,” Mehmed said. “Zaganos had them executed for failing to prevent Hızır’s crime.”
So Zaganos has assured his pupil’s succession to the thr
one of Osman, then discarded his faithful instruments. Whoever else knew that Hızır couldn’t have been the killer would be equally eliminated. By now surely the hekim and the slaves attending to Hızır will have been murdered.
Vlad’s heart raced at the thought that he’d nearly tipped his hand to Mehmed. “I need fresh air,” he said and staggered out of Aladdin’s pavilion as if in a trance.
Outside Vlad was surprised to discover the crowd had begun to disperse. Drumrolls of various patterns coming from the periphery of the camp told him the Sipahis were being directed to form their respective units.
“İbrahim Bey escaped last night,” Mehmed said, “and is on his way to join the remnants of his army. War with Karaman’s on again, and Father has placed Skanderbeg at the head of the Anatolian army. It seems the general’s not wasting any time in assuming his duties.”
Vlad’s capacity for being shocked was blunted by Aladdin’s murder; he took in Mehmed’s news with near indifference. Zaganos must’ve had the busiest night of his life. He eliminated Mehmed’s competition for the throne; got rid of potential witnesses to his crime; and freed up İbrahim, to reactivate the Anatolian front. All in about five hours.
And through Zaganos KC had won a major victory: jihād was alive once more.
“I would’ve thought you’d be given Aladdin’s tuğ,” Vlad said. “With Zaganos as your field commander you’d have no trouble dealing with İbrahim.”
“Don’t you realize that now the crusade is once again the main event? As the sole heir to the throne my place is at the head of the Rumelian army. Zaganos and I are leaving for Europe in a few hours.”
Mehmed had regained his composure so quickly that Vlad couldn’t help asking himself whether the boy was involved in his brother’s murder. That Mehmed benefitted from Aladdin’s death was evident. But could he be so vile as to partake in such a sickening affair?
He looked into Mehmed’s eyes but found no answer there.
“You’re leaving before the funeral?” Vlad said.
“There won’t be a formal ceremony. Father wants to be alone with Aladdin and my nephews tonight. He’s left already for Muradiye and Tirendaz will bring the bodies there later today. You see, even in death my brother has to have special treatment.”
