by Victor Foia
“What happens to me?”
“Oh, it slipped my mind. Father wants you at Muradiye. I suppose he’ll take you with him to Edirne when he decides to return there.”
48
MURADIYE
April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Vlad found Tirendaz reading the Qur’an in his Spartan office, where the only decorations were his beloved ancient bows. Murad’s musahib sounded listless, and his face had a sallow hue.
“I’d like to entrust you with a grave secret for the sultan,” Vlad said.
Only a day before Tirendaz would’ve welcome Vlad’s confiding in him. Now he looked up, blank, and said, “You’ll see His Highness tonight. He might prefer to hear it from your mouth.”
They rode mules out of Bursa following the wagon that carried the three corpses, hidden from view under a canvas tilt. Tirendaz had changed his uniform for a djellaba and traveled with the hood pulled over his face. The small, indistinct convoy drew no attention from the immense crowds jamming the streets, lamenting Aladdin’s death.
Tirendaz remained silent during the three-hour journey. He spoke only when they’d reached the Muradiye Complex and Vlad commented on the apparent lack of security there.
“The sultan’s left his bodyguard in the city,” Tirendaz said. “Sadly, His Majesty’s decided not to care for his safety anymore.” He indicated with a sweep of his hand the cypress grove that housed the complex: mosque, hamam, madrasah, imaret, and türbe. “Not a single guard on duty here. It’s as if he had a death wish.”
Since Aladdin’s burial was being conducted in private, Vlad spent the afternoon in the madrasah. There he discovered Murad’s library, endowed with manuscripts in Persian, Arabic, Latin, and Greek. The books were expertly bound and stacked on tall shelves, watched over by an ancient librarian.
“His Majesty has taken twenty years to collect and bind these manuscripts,” the librarian said, his toothless diction and Persian accent challenging Vlad’s ability to understand him.
“But the sultan’s seldom here, is he?” Vlad said, only to humor the old man.
“True, he does his bookbinding wherever his business takes him,” the librarian said. “Even on war campaigns. When I was younger he’d drag me along, so I might catalog his books and curate his collection. Sometimes I’d tease him, ‘My Sultan, if your reading were as prolific as your binding—’”
“Has His Majesty been reading this book recently?” Vlad said. He indicated the Shahnameh manuscript that lay half-bound, half in disarray on a workbench.
The librarian nodded and wiped his eyes with a rag. “He’s been weeping over those pages all morning.”
Vlad knelt in front of the workbench and noticed wet bumps on the velum leaves where Murad’s tears had fallen. He recognized the chapter Murad had read as the one in which King Zal received the news of his son’s death. Vlad recalled how his own heart had ached for Rostam, when as a boy he first read about his hero’s murder. He also remembered how touched he was by King Zal’s suffering.
He reread the passage in which Zal strewed his body with earth and clawed his face until he bled as if mauled by a bear.
Would Father do the same to learn of my death? Vlad asked himself.
How did Murad douse the fire of his own agony?
Vlad imagined him substituting Rostam’s name for that of Aladdin, when voicing his despair, as Zal had done:
“Who would’ve thought that fate could leave
“My hero dead, and me alone to grieve?
“Death sends thy soul to a world beyond the cloud,
“And all that’s left of thee, Aladdin, is your shroud.”
Murad must’ve had Hızır in mind when he read Zal’s anguished cry:
“My curse on him whose vile treachery
“Has ripped up by the roots our royal tree.”
Did Murad, like Zal, ask himself what comfort his throne and glory could give, now that his favorite son was gone?
“His Majesty requires your presence at his türbe,” a page whispered behind Vlad.
Evening shadows had already fallen over the complex. The April air hinted of melting snow on the slopes of Uludağ, visible in the mid distance through a bluish haze. Vlad gathered the front of his caftan against a fine mist that threatened to turn into a drizzle. The page led the way on a path meandering among the cypress trees, and when they reached the türbe, he bowed to Vlad then left.
If this was Murad’s mausoleum, neither its modest size nor its architectural simplicity commended it as the future resting place of the most powerful monarch on earth. While the porch of his father’s Yeşil Türbe was festooned with marble honeycomb niches, the entrance to Murad’s mausoleum was sheltered only by a modest wooden roof. Nor were this structure’s walls clad in the lustrous green tiles that brought Yeşil Türbe fame. Instead, they were built in the humble pattern of alternating rows of brick and hewn sandstone typical of Orthodox churches.
The interior, a rectangular hall crowned by a dome resting on four porphyry columns, was whitewashed and featureless. Light from three oil lamps suspended on cables from the ceiling threw whimsical shadows that danced on the walls.
Vlad found Murad seated cross-legged on the floor in the center of the hall, beside an oblong, earth-filled marble frame. No one was in sight to defend the sultan against a would-be assassin; Tirendaz’s fear that Murad had lost his will to live might have been founded.
“Take your leave of Aladdin, Emirzade,” Murad said without turning his head, “then come sit next to me.”
Vlad looked around in vain for Aladdin’s tomb. He noticed a narrow opening in a corner of the room and stooped to walk through it. At the far end of a short passage a small chamber opened, unadorned and lit by oil lamps like the main hall. A large sandstone sarcophagus and two miniature ones stood in a row in the center of the room. They all bespoke a recent tragedy through fresh chisel marks on their headstones, and all bore similar inscriptions:
Murad ın oğlu Aladdin, Aladdin, son of Murad
Aladdin ın oğlu Ahmed, Ahmed, son of Aladdin
Aladdin ın oğlu Mehmed, Mehmed, son of Aladdin
In peace sons bury their fathers; in war fathers bury their sons. Vlad believed Herodotus’s words would have resonated with Murad, had his son been killed in battle. But how is a father to cope with the murder of his offspring?
Vlad retraced his steps to the main hall, trying in vain to blot out Aladdin’s memory, so as to dull the pain lodged in his breast. But the image of the young prince’s smile lingered stubborn in his mind’s eye; his mischievous laughter rang in Vlad’s ears as if he were next to him.
“Years ago I left instructions for Aladdin to bury me in this complex,” Murad said when Vlad sat next to him. “I couldn’t have imagined he’d precede me here.” His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Vlad observed Murad from the corner of his eye and noticed purple streaks marking his cheeks.
Zal clawed at his face in his grief.
“I asked him to place my corpse in this grave and cover me with nothing but earth, so I might enjoy Allah’s rain.”
Vlad looked up and saw fine rain droplets fall onto the grave through an oculus in the dome.
“Who will respect my wishes now? People want their rulers laid in magnificent mausoleums that speak to the world of the power and glory of their land. What fools …” He shook his head imperceptibly. “Yet, I too was such a fool once.” Murad stretched out his arms, palms facing the sky. “‘He sends down water from the sky and raises to life therewith a land that is dead,’” he intoned in Arabic. “‘Even so will you be raised from the dead.’ Oh, to forget all pain and lay forever still….”
“You are too young to be thinking of death, Your Highness,” Vlad said. “Mehmed told me you’re on a quest for long-lasting peace in Europe. Even the Christians will pray that you may live to attain your goal.”
Murad turned sad eyes upon Vlad. “Name one king, besides your father, who’d choose
peace with me over war, as long as Dar al-Islam maintains a toehold in Europe.”
Vlad knew even his own father would fight to expel Islam from Europe, if conditions were favorable. But while Hunyadi was alive, he was a greater threat to Wallachia than the Ottomans. Other kings, Vlad guessed, must also feel threatened by that rapacious Captain General. If they could choose between peace and a costly war with Murad, they might follow Dracul’s example; peace would give them the chance to fend off Hunyadi’s attempts to usurp their power.
“There is one such king, My Sultan,” Vlad said. “Norbert. His position on the throne of Hungary is tenuous. Even a partially successful crusade might give Hunyadi enough power and prestige to depose him.”
He spoke with the confidence of one in the know, hoping Murad would take his speculation for fact.
The sultan gave Vlad a wan smile. “That might be so, yet even as we speak Norbert is mustering his army and will soon invade my empire.”
“If you made him an offer that strengthened his hand against Hunyadi and the Hungarian magnates, Norbert might choose peace over war.”
Murad chuckled, rueful. “It’s late for that, I’m afraid. Too many people on both sides are clamoring for war, and neither Norbert nor I can prevent it now.”
Vlad saw an opening to ask about his own plight. “What does Your Majesty have in mind for me while the war lasts?”
Murad seemed to have expected this question. But instead of answering, he patted Vlad’s shoulder in a paternal manner and said, “Recite for me ayah 256 from sūrah 2.”
The unexpected request flustered Vlad, and it took him several minutes to remember the the verse. “‘Let there be no compulsion in religion: truth stands out clear from error,’” he recited.
“I’ve heard the story of your conversion,” Murad said. “To you, compulsion came in the form of a life-threat to your friend.” He lowered his chin and became lost in thought. Several minutes elapsed, the silence marred only by the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on his tomb. Finally, he said, “What wouldn’t I give to have a friend who’d love me so much that he’d forsake the religion of his ancestors to save me?”
This was an opportunity for Vlad to broach the subject of Hızır Pasha. “Aladdin had such a friend in his lala.”
Murad’s head jerked in Vlad’s direction and his eyebrows touched across an ominous furrow that parted his forehead. “What’s the meaning of this?” he hissed. “How dare you call my son’s murderer a self-sacrificing friend?”
“Hızır Pasha was but the cat’s-paw for the real killer,” Vlad said and noted with alarm that Murad’s face turned the color of a half-ripe eggplant. “I know he couldn’t have strangled anybody.”
“You’re too young to understand how vicious human nature can be,” Murad sputtered. “Even the most loyal friend can turn on you when his interests dictate it.”
“I’m not basing my claim on faith in Hızır Pasha’s loyalty to Aladdin, though I’m convinced it was boundless.”
“On what, then, do you base it?” Murad said, anger making his eyes bulge. “He was found with his hands clutching my boy’s—”
The last words were lost in a ripple of sobs that shook Murad’s body.
Vlad cringed in embarrassment at witnessing the sultan’s face crumple. Now he regretted not having been able to convey his secret to Murad through Tirendaz; he wished he could slink away, unnoticed.
Through tears, Murad’s eyes remained fastened on Vlad’s.
“Hızır Pasha lost his right hand in the attack we suffered two days ago,” Vlad said. “My squire and I carried him back to the camp in secrecy, while Aladdin went off to capture İbrahim.”
Murad stared in stunned silence, his mind seeming to work out the implications of this revelation. Then an agonized groan escaped his lips. He took a handful of earth from his tomb and rubbed his face with it.
“They’ve killed you for being too much like me,” he moaned. “Aladdin, my sweet boy.”
Vlad felt the scorching heat of Murad’s pain and recalled Zal’s despair at his son’s demise.
King Zal strewed his body with dirt.
Though Vlad’s secret might not help Murad find the true assassin, knowing that treason hadn’t blossomed in Aladdin’s inner circle should offer him a measure of solace.
Vlad rose quietly and left the türbe, breast cold and hollow.
49
FIRMAN
April 1443, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Tirendaz was waiting for Vlad on the türbe’s porch, a lantern in one hand, a velum scroll in the other. They returned together to the madrasah where Tirendaz led Vlad to an empty cell.
“This firman is the sultan’s gift to you for helping Mehmed become a Hamil al-Qur’an,” Tirendaz said and handed Vlad the scroll. “His Majesty has written it with his own hand, as a mark of his appreciation for your friendship with Mehmed. Of all the gifts I’ve seen him bestow upon the people he favors, this is the most unusual one.”
Vlad unfurled the scroll to find the top third of the leaf taken by Murad’s florid tuğrâ. The sultan’s monogram was the first thing a reader was supposed to see on an imperial decree. It assured maximum attention and respect for what followed. The balance of the leaf contained text that declared Vlad’s and Gruya’s conversions to Islam invalid for being coerced, contrary to the teachings of the Qur’an.
“You should keep this firman on you at all times while traveling through the empire,” Tirendaz said. “It will save your life if you’re ever accused of being an apostate.”
The thought that, with a stroke of his quill, Murad could erase the debasement he’d incurred in his own eyes by converting to Islam overwhelmed Vlad. To conceal his state of mind he pretended to study closely the text in the light of Tirendaz’s lantern.
“Some believe that once you’ve pronounced the Shahada you’re a Muslim for life,” Tirendaz said. “For them, return to Christianity is apostasy. That’s why the sultan’s asked the Sheikh al-Islām to give this firman the power of a fatwā.”
The guilt spawned by his conversion had hovered around Vlad like a fog for the past five months, troubling his every waking moment. Only now, when Murad’s gesture had finally dispelled that fog, did Vlad realize how much he’d longed to return to a time before Gruya had shown up in Bursa and turned his world upside down.
Did this release from Islam mean he’d never have to tell anyone he’d been a Muslim for a few months? God, of course, knew the entire story, including the reason Vlad had converted. It was men, not God, Vlad worried about. He dreaded to be regarded as faithless or weak.
“You may revert to wearing clothes allowed to nonbelievers and may let your hair grow out,” Tirendaz said. “The same applies for Gruya.”
The mention of clothes and hair tore Vlad from his rumination, but he found nothing to say.
Tirendaz must’ve misinterpreted Vlad’s silence, for he smiled and said, “You won’t have to ride mules and defend yourselves with sticks for the remainder of your stay in the empire. His Majesty’s making an exception to the law in your case. You and Gruya may continue to ride horses and carry weapons, as you do now.”
“I hope His Majesty doesn’t expect us to fight against the Christians,” Vlad said, alarmed.
“The sultan wants you as far away from the battlefield as possible.”
Vlad forced a smile. “But still enjoying Zaganos Pasha’s hospitality, I suppose.”
At the mention of Zaganos Tirendaz’s face darkened. “The sultan’s chosen a place beyond the Third Vizier’s reach. You’ll be confined to the Athos peninsula until the end of the war.”
“Athos?” The word burst from Vlad’s lips before he could master his delight. Exiled to a Christian enclave inside the empire? Who’d watch him there? Ottoman soldiers were forbidden to set foot on Athos by mutual agreement between the sultan and the patriarch in Constantinople. Why, sending him there was as good as setting him free.
To mask his joy, Vlad said, with feigne
d concern, “What makes you think Athos is safe for me?”
“The idea of Athos as the place for your detention came from Lady Mara last fall,” Tirendaz said. “But the sultan wasn’t ready to consider that notion at the time.”
Mara’s name triggered in Vlad Donatella’s unwelcome memory. He’d managed only lately, and with much effort, to suppress all thought of his lover. Now here she was, patting her pregnant belly and smiling at him with frigid contempt.
“That’s where she’s taken refuge herself for the duration of the war,” Tirendaz said.
“A woman on Athos?” Vlad said, incredulous. “Women have been banned from there for centuries.”
“Well, not on the peninsula proper,” Tirendaz said. “The sultan wouldn’t renege on his treaty with the patriarch by offending against such an entrenched tradition. He’s bestowed upon Lady Mara the ownership of an island fortress just off the coast, formerly the Ottoman tax collector’s residence.”
“Isn’t the sultan concerned I’d get on the first ship that sails by and escape?”
“He did raise that issue,” Tirendaz said with a half-suppressed smile, “but Lady Mara assured him a promise from you that won’t happen is sufficient bond.”
50
SHE-DEVIL’S ISLAND
April 1443, Athos Peninsula, Ottoman Empire
From the distance, the island Lady Mara had chosen for her place to wait out the war appeared like a watermelon, half risen from the sea. At the summit of this lump of stone stood a rocky shaft, its three sides as straight as if carved by human hands. West of the island stretched the hilly spine of the Athos peninsula, with Mount Athos itself lost in the clouds at its southern tip.
“There it is,” said the captain of the Genovese galley that ferried Vlad and his entourage to Athos. “She-Devil’s Island and her Nipple.”
A cabin boy emerged from belowdecks, grinning. “I heard ‘nipple.’”
