The Thief's Tale
The Ottoman Cycle Book One
by S. J. A. Turney
For Alun.
I would like to thank everyone who has been instrumental in this book seeing the light of day in its final form, as well as all those people who have continually supported me during its creation: Robin, Alun, Barry, Charles, Nick, Alan, David, Miriam and of course Jenny and Tracey and my little imps Marcus and Callie who kept me entertained when I hit a wall now and then. Also, the fabulous members of the Historical Writers' Association, who are supportive and helpful.
Cover image by Lucy Sangster of Use or Ornament.
Cover design by Dave Slaney.
Many thanks to both.
All internal images are from the public domain with the exception of the maps of Istanbul and the Church of St Saviour, which are copyright the author of this work.
Published in this format 2013 by Victrix Books
Copyright - S.J.A.Turney
Smashwords Edition
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by S. J. A. Turney:
The Marius' Mules Series
Marius Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)
Marius Mules II: The Belgae (2010)
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)
Marius Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (2012)
Marius Mules V: Hades Gate (2013)
Tales of the Empire
Interregnum (2009)
Ironroot (2010)
Dark Empress (2011)
Short story compilations & contributions:
Tales of Ancient Rome vol. 1 - S.J.A. Turney (2011)
Tortured Hearts vol 1 - Various (2012)
Tortured Hearts vol 2 - Various (2012)
Temporal Tales - Various (2013)
For more information visit http://www.sjaturney.co.uk/ or http://www.facebook.com/SJATurney or follow Simon on Twitter @SJATurney
Locations mapped within The Thief's Tale
Prologos
* Plain of Yenisehir: Year of the Christian Lord Fourteen Hundred and Eighty One *
Bayezid i Veli, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire for just a few short months, son of the greatest sultan the world had ever known, expert swordsman, poet, designer of gardens, patron of the arts and humble child of God and the prophet, scratched his neck and swatted away a biting insect.
"He still believes he can win, Nasuh."
"Your brother is deluded, your majesty. Allah's hand is with us."
The Sultan raised an eyebrow, a smile playing around his lips as he glanced at the elderly agha.
"Allah's hand is notoriously flighty, my friend, but whether it is with us or not, at least the Janissary corps are."
The two men, sweltering in their robes, armour and voluminous turbans, watched the plain below the command post intently. The Janissaries - the elite corps of the Sultan's army, formed of former Christian converts - were pushing back the left wing of the enemy's infantry with seeming ease.
"What will Cem think, I wonder, when he discovers that I have committed just a third of my Janissaries?"
The agha who commanded the Janissary corps stroked his long grey beard and smiled.
"I do believe that your ignoble and hateful brother will soil his trousers, majesty."
The sultan turned to his most able officer and the agha was not sure whether the look of disapproval on his face was mock or genuine.
"Remember, Nasuh, that while he may have made unfortunate decisions, Cem is still a son of Mehmed the great and is beloved of God. I will see him fall here and, insha'Allah I will see him dead for trying to take my throne, but I will mourn him and send him to paradise as befits such a prince."
"Yes, majesty. My heartfelt apologies for my misspoke remark."
"It is forgotten, Nasuh. Time to break them, I think. It is hot and dry and the battle wears into its third hour. Send in the rest of the Janissaries and the Six Divisions as planned. Cem's centre is in danger as he strengthens the flanks."
The agha squinted down at the field of battle and frowned. "It appears one of our orta on the left flank has broken formation and is attempting to destroy your brother's army on its own."
Bayezid furrowed his brow as he followed the commander's pointing finger.
"The idiot. If he did not have a musket orta in support, they would be surrounded and butchered."
The agha nodded. "If he pushes any further, he'll fragment our left wing and we'll be flanked. Shall I recall the Six Divisions and commit them to the left, majesty?"
The sultan tapped his chin irritably. "No. The cavalry must hit the centre or we will not break them. Send the Sipahi to the left and the other five divisions can attack as planned. That rogue orta must be recalled and put back in line.
"Insha'Allah that will be enough to win the day, majesty."
"As you say, Nasuh. Let us end this and let peace return to the empire."
Cem Sultan, son of Mehmet the Conqueror and half-brother of the infernal Bayezid, sat astride a horse on the only slight rise available at this end of the field of battle.
"You chose the site badly, Hamid. Bayezid has the high ground."
The agha of Cem's Timariot cavalry gave his master a sour look from behind where he could not be observed and prepared himself for a tirade.
"In fairness, my Sultan," - the lack of honorific would not go unnoticed either - "we did not have the luxury of choosing the ground. Your brother," he spat on the dusty ground, "was too prepared for us."
"Then you should have been more careful in planning, Hamid. You are careless."
"The ground, my Sultan, is not the issue. The Kapikulu are the issue - in particular the Janissaries. They are smashing our mercenaries like lions among deer. And we have not seen a sign yet of the Sipahi cavalry, which worries me."
Cem turned his strangely ice-blue eyes on his commander and his face was a strange and unpleasant mix of disgust and anger.
"I have no care for the infidel scum that my brother cares to field against us. The Janissaries are a rabble of barbarian Greeks and Slavs who pay mere lip service to Allah. He brings Christians to battle, and even mercenaries drawn from the infidel east."
Hamid nodded dutifully, though with mixed feelings. Deep in his gut he couldn't help but wish that their own force contained a few of those fanatic former Christians or eastern mercenaries.
"At least our army are all true followers of the faith" Cem stated with the air of a man who believes himself on the moral high ground.
"Mamluks" Hamid agreed unhappily, turning his gaze to the Egyptian expeditionary force that made up almost a quarter of their army. That he had been forced to defer numerous times in the campaign to a man that was born of a rebellious and murderous slave dynasty irked him beyond measure and he would secretly rather have fought alongside a cross-wearing Christian than this Mamluk detritus.
"Bring up the reserves. We have the wings strengthened. It is time to enfold Bayezid and squeeze him to death."
Hamid bowed and left the command flag to give the orders to his officers, his relief at being away from the usurper sultan tempered somewhat by his personal suspicion that the enemy had not committed their best troops yet.
Deep i
n the press of men, Hamza Bin Murad, commander of the Sixty Second Solak Cemaat Orta of Sultan Bayezid the Second's Janissaries, spat away the blood that coated his face. It was unseemly for an officer of his status to involve himself in the frontline fighting of his unit, not to mention dangerous, given the voracity of the enemy, and Hamza had been upbraided for this very thing several times in his career. In fact, it was one of the main factors preventing his rise to high office.
But the simple fact was that Hamza Bin Murad, unlike many of the self-seeking catamite orta commanders in Bayezid's army, was a true lover of battle. He never felt quite as good when he was not wearing the blood of the enemy like a veil. In a way it was a bad thing, though. While it made him a good warrior - and in his opinion a good officer - it put him at the very front of a battle that he was not truly comfortable being a part of. The very idea of his corps being involved in a bloody fight to the death with other Turkish brothers made him angry. The Mamluk scum yes, but the Turks less so.
He was a loyal Muslim, despite being born to Albanian peasant stock, and had served in the Janissaries since before the fall of Byzantium, but in his opinion it was not right for the Sultan and his brother to bring civil war to the empire. Especially when Cem had the prior claim. The Vizier in Istanbul had named Cem as Mehmet's chosen successor, regardless of his being the younger brother.
And yet Hamza would fight until every last man on the field was dead if the Sultan commanded it, for he was Janissary and it was his duty.
A series of cracks behind him announced another volley of fire from the arquebus handguns of the Sixty First Orta and less than two yards in front of Hamza another Mamluk head exploded like a watermelon, spraying blood and brains across the struggling warriors on both sides.
May Allah strike the eyes from the head of Avranos the dog-molester, commander of the gunners behind them. The idiot always manoeuvred his unit so that he could fire over Hamza's head and more than once one of Hamza's own men had died in the volley fire. It was almost as though the lunatic was trying to kill him. Just let the bastard get in his way… Hamza's Janissary loyalties did not extend so far as to stop him putting a sword through the man's gut if he got the chance.
A Mamluk officer pushed aside the headless body as it slumped and was suddenly thrusting his round, studded shield at Hamza, a decorative axe pulling back over his head ready to come down in an unstoppable blow. Hamza could just see the fanatical gleam in the Egyptian warrior's pearly eyes through the eyeholes in the chainmail veil than hung from the ornate conical helm.
For a moment, the Janissary officer paused, finding a grudging respect for this enemy who clearly shared the same love of killing as he himself. But he couldn't spare a man simply though a kinship of spirit. If he were to do that he could hardly justify fighting an Ottoman army at all.
As the axe started to descend towards him, he raised his own round shield, angling it carefully. Were the two to connect flat on, the axe would cut a rent through the shield and dig deep into Hamza's arm, but at the right angle he could deflect the blow and send the axe falling uselessly towards the dirt. As his shield came up and he swept his own blade to impale the man through his exposed armpit, his kill was taken away from him as a curve-bladed pike with a wicked hook whistled past his ear and smashed straight into the Mamluk's face, sending broken links of mail, teeth, bone and blood out in a spray.
Hamza's fury at the loss of such a beautiful kill was compounded as he realised that the blade had also scythed through the ceremonial cotton tail of his armoured hat, leaving a tattered remnant of white cloth flapping at the side of his face while part of his ceremonial uniform, attached to the pike blade, was thrust deep into the Mamluk's brain.
Turning angrily, he saw the triumphant grin of the young soldier behind him and the blood rage came on, defining his actions and stealing his sense. Before he realised it he had thrust his curved blade into the young man's chest and ripped it back out, bringing chunks of rib and organ with it. For a moment he hesitated at the dishonour of killing his own, but quickly he resigned himself with a shrug. What were they doing on this Godforsaken plain if not trying to kill other good Muslims? A death for a death. The boy had paid for stealing his kill.
Over the heads of the Mamluk infantry in front of him, Hamza could now see other Turks, pushing their way to the centre of the fight.
His thirst for blood leading him, Hamza elbowed his way past the shattered Mamluk before him and started pushing his way forward, shouting to urge his men on with him.
"Hamza Bin Murad!"
Surprised at the use of his name in the depths of battle, Hamza turned, allowing - with some irritation - his troops to swarm past him and into the enemy.
An officer of the Sipahi cavalry sat ahorse not three yards from him, coated from head to foot in gleaming mail and with a decorative helm from which hung a veil of chain. The man sat with a straight back, gleaming and pristine, untouched as yet by battle.
"Hamza Bin Murad, corbasi of the Sixty Second?"
"Yes!" spat Hamza, glaring at the man.
The Sipahi had the temerity to gesture at him with a sword and then swept it back to point at the hill behind them.
"You have been ordered to the command post. The agha is displeased with you. Leave the field at once."
Hamza stared at the man and for the briefest of moments considered simply pulling him from his horse and gutting him; but that would be no solution. For all his insolence, the man was carrying out the orders of the agha, and possibly therefore of the Sultan. Defiance would mean a painful, dishonourable and very public death.
"Very well."
Sheathing his sword, regardless of the mess coating it, Hamza turned his back on the beloved thrill of killing and began to push his way back through the army towards the officers on the hill. He could anticipate what would happen: he would be chastised in front of the Sultan for leading his men too far forward. He'd broken formation, but he could have won them the field had he been left to it.
"Allah protect us from commanders who lead like sheep."
Whatever the horseman said in reply was drowned out by the fresh 'crack' of volley fire from the guns of the Sixty First.
Qaashiq straightened his rich blue overcoat and tucked his thumbs into the wide sash around his midriff next to an ornate short blade. Reaching up, he adjusted his turban and blinked away the dust and flies that seemed to swarm about him every four or five heartbeats. This benighted place was about the worst field he'd ever fought on.
With a gesture, he summoned his standard bearer.
"Sound the recall. Egypt is leaving the field."
The standard bearer bowed and scurried off to perform his duties, and Qaashiq swiftly mounted his horse and rode along the rear of the lines of battle to where Cem Sultan, commander of the forces and claimant to the Ottoman throne stood waving his arms and yelling at an officer. Calmly, he dismounted and walked his mount to the scene of the tirade.
After a few moments, Cem realised that his agha was no longer paying attention to the insults and was instead looking past him, and he turned in time to see Qaashiq come to a halt a few yards away.
"It is over, Prince Cem."
"Sultan!" snapped the Ottoman angrily.
"No. The Sultan stands on the hill over there. You are Prince Cem. Bayezid has produced two fresh corps of Janissaries and enough cavalry to grind your army into dust. The Mamluk forces here are unofficial and serving as mercenaries. We are leaving the field and returning to Egypt before this escalates into a war between our peoples."
Cem pointed an accusing finger at the Mamluk nobleman.
"You promised me your all, Qaashiq! You gave me your word!"
The Mamluk shook his head calmly.
"I agreed to provide support as long as I deemed it reasonable to do so. This is no longer a viable cause. My force is not large enough to turn the tide in your war. Unless you can persuade the Sultan in Cairo to back you, I must refuse further aid. I will not start a war with
Bayezid without my sultan's permission."
Cem stared in disbelief. His eyes strayed from the Mamluk before him to the serried ranks of his army, over which he had a reasonable view from this slight rise. It was clear to him now that the Mamluk contingent was leaving the field, performing a fighting withdrawal and reforming to the rear of the rise. Annoyingly, Bayezid's army was allowing them to retreat, while concentrating on Cem's own forces. Equally clear was the fact that the battle was over and that Cem had lost. His centre was in total disarray and his left flank was disintegrating.
"You will abandon me now, Qaashiq? What am I supposed to do?"
The Mamluk shrugged.
"That is your decision, Prince Cem. You can stay here and die in battle or under the executioner's blade, or you can flee the field and attempt to rebuild your army."
"Will your sultan help me?" Cem asked, a hint of desperation in his tone.
"He may; he will ask a heavy price if he does. If he does not, however, he may just sell you to your brother. You may be safer asking the master of Rhodes for aid."
"A Christian?" demanded Cem incredulously. "One of those unwashed infidel knights?"
The Mamluk simply shrugged again and the Ottoman prince turned in rising desperation to see his army finally break completely.
"Warn your train to expect a guest" Cem snarled. "Your sultan will help me even if I have to sell him half of Anatolia."
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