Damn you, Dragi, for what you’ve subjected me to…
Trying not to breathe too deeply, Skiouros shut his eyes and mentally ran through each and every happening he could recall of the five years since he had stolen that fateful purse in the marketplace and set in motion the events that had carried him to the end of the Earth and back. Little of it was pleasant to remember, but his return to the city had been disjointed and complicated, leaving him with little time yet to think things through, and he felt the distinct need to try and order his thoughts, especially since anything was better than witnessing the third sailor’s demise.
Passing over most of the events in brief, he deliberately shut out the muffled scraping and begging noises and tried to focus on every encounter he’d had with the Romani who, it seemed, had been at the centre of his woes. There were two of them he knew of for certain who had influenced – or at least tried to influence – events in his life. Firstly the old crone in the city who had warned him of the coming storm with an unnerving prescience, and who had urged him strongly to leave. In fact she had repeated that counsel more than once. Who was she, and why had she been so insistent that he depart the city? If he had followed her advice, the sultan Bayezid would have died at the hands of Mamluk assassins and janissary traitors. Oh, in the end the sultan had not appeared in public on the appointed date anyway, but Skiouros remembered the zeal and madness he’d witnessed in Hamza Bin Murad’s eyes, and he was under no illusion that the killers would have found a way in the end, regardless. Until Skiouros had buried the main conspirator in the rubble of the Nea Ekklasia, anyway. So if the Romani woman was as prescient as she’d appeared, then she must have wanted the sultan dead. But why?
And then there was Dragi, who had first latched onto him in Heraklion with an eye-wateringly ridiculous accent and in the dusty drab garb of a beggar. And the man had somehow been with him throughout his journey, or at least close by, saving his life more than once and finally rescuing he and Parmenio from Napoli and bringing them back here. And all apparently because of some old Romani folk tale whose moral was horribly ambiguous anyway, as far as Skiouros could see. So again: why?
Questions. So many questions, but as yet no answers.
Then there was the current mess in which Dragi had immersed him. In eight days’ time the city would revel in the sultan’s great jubilee, and yet the three crown princes who had been recalled from their provincial governorships for the event seemed to be plotting for the succession as though their father lay on his death bed, and not hale and hearty and working through plans for his festival. Something was clearly planned at that great celebration. A coup? Certainly that was what it had sounded like. And it seemed to involve Ahmet – the Lion of Amasya – if not the other princes. And the Romani. And other, more unexpected groups?
His brain was beginning to ache a little.
He suddenly recalled a fragment of the conversation between Şehzade Ahmed and his vizier back at Saint Saviour’s church a few days ago. The Khoraxané dede Babik…
Another Romani reference, this time in support of Ahmed’s seeming push for the throne?
Only the thud of the third body landing on the hard floor drew his attention back and he realised that Dragi was looking at him intently, cupping an ear and pointing at the ceiling, where the hatch had been closed once again.
‘…filthy business.’ This new voice was serpentine, sibilant and entirely unpleasant to listen to. The hissing undertone sent shivers through Skiouros.
‘Rule is always a filthy business, Sefer,’ the dream-like husky tone of Şehzade Selim replied in a patient manner. ‘If it is done correctly, it is more bloody than battle, more meticulous than poetry, more terrifying than nightmare and more glorious than God’s own garden. Those who are not willing to wade to the waist in gore and filth – even in their own if necessary – to preserve and enhance their world do not deserve to sit upon the throne.’
‘But to plot, with your noble father still so healthy, my prince…’
What occupied the tense silence that followed was all too easy to picture, given what had just been said and in such an open situation. Skiouros felt momentarily panicked for the unknown Sefer, who must be quailing under the gaze of Selim. Finally, the husky melodic voice began once more.
‘There is no plot, Sefer.’
Oh but I believe there is, Şehzade Selim…
‘I have no intention of sinking a knife into my father’s back,’ the prince went on, ‘despite any minor failings I may see in his rule. Do not misunderstand me, mind, Sefer: should he ever show himself to be unworthy of the throne upon which he sits, I will not hesitate. But for now, my father is the clear lord of the Osman line. Remember, though, that my dear brothers might not be quite so willing to hold off on such an act. Unhealthy influences plague them both.’
There was another curious silence, and then a muffled, muted voice calling out in incomprehensible stifled tones.
‘Some would say that I am just such an unhealthy influence upon you, my Şehzade,’ the sibilant voice replied carefully.
The prince’s short, sing-song laugh echoed above the muffled desperation of the new voice in the room, and he seemed to be genuinely amused. ‘How could you be an unhealthy influence on me, Sefer, when you have no influence upon me at all? I keep your counsel only because it amuses me to do so. Pray that this amusement lasts.’
Again, Skiouros could picture the nervous flick of the unknown companion’s eyes, his darting tongue moistening dry lips. The young Greek could well imagine from what he had already heard that Prince Selim – the Wolf of Trabzon – was not a man of whom to fall foul.
Skiouros concentrated once more on the voices. The desperation in the muffled tones was clear. Why so muffled, though? Was he gagged? A bag upon his head? There was something odd about that not-quite-audible voice that he couldn’t quite put his hands on while so stifled.
His heart leapt into his throat as the obstruction was removed and the voice rang out, suddenly clear, in perfect Italian with a hint of a French accent.
‘…will find yourself at the mercy of the Papacy.’
The throaty harmonious voice of the prince answered in an apparently amused tone, and in remarkably good Italian.
‘Please do not threaten me with that corrupt, worm-ridden fat Borgia djinn. He is too busy gathering jewels and lackeys and sharing his bed with other men’s wives to concentrate on the empire. And do not for a moment think that we would be troubled by his rumoured crusade. I welcome the chance to whet my blade on his bloated skull. And before you attempt to sway me with boasts of the threat your order believes it poses to our security, please do not insult my intelligence. Your fortresses fall every month, like fleas being picked off the back of a hunting hound.’
‘God will judge you for your actions today, Prince Selim, and the God of Abraham, Father of Christ, is not a forgiving God.’
The silence that followed was filled by an amused chuckle.
‘You mock God, sir?’
‘No, man,’ Selim snapped. ‘You mock God. Let us be done with this niggling conversation and be about our true business. I am a man of action, not one given to debate, and certainly not a merciful one. Tell me for whom in the city your order is currently working, and I will see to it that you are escorted unharmed from this place and that you board a vessel bound for Rhodos. Refuse me and this room is the last thing you shall see. Decide now.’
Skiouros found that he was holding his breath. The order? Rhodos? The prisoner was a Hospitaller, clearly. Somehow, Skiouros couldn’t picture Şehzade Selim taking refusal well. In the dangerous silence following the prince’s ultimatum, Skiouros heard hawking and spitting, followed by a regretful sigh.
A few short shufflings echoed down through the hole, and the light that it cast into this lower chamber was suddenly blocked. There was a metallic noise and then a visceral cleaving sound, and a head, the eyes still blinking and the mouth still working silent words, dropped through the hole, pas
sing through the lower floor in the beat of a heart before plunging on down into that well and landing with a splash.
Sickened, Skiouros now realised why the well had no rope or bucket.
‘Perhaps you might have torn information from him with hot irons, my prince?’ murmured the Serpentine voice of Sefer.
‘He would not have broken. Or if he had, he would have lied in any case. Fanatics like him, who believe themselves so close to God, cannot be trusted to put self-preservation above martyrdom. No common sense, these zealots. Better to be done with him quickly.’ The voice rose a notch. ‘Thank you, executioner, for your sterling work.’
There was an embarrassed clearing of a throat, and the prince chuckled. ‘Quite right. The treasury only pays the Bostancı for the three sailors. The foreigner was a private commission. Sefer, pay this man for his time and his skills, and tip him well. One never knows when one might find one’s own neck beneath such a blade. Always sweeten the executioner, just in case.’
Sefer gave an unconvinced, dutiful laugh. Moments later the hatch in the ceiling popped open once more and a headless body in a blood-soaked white shirt and hose was tipped through to land unceremoniously with the three sailors’ corpses.
Still listening in and trying not to breathe in the mounting stink, Skiouros heard the clink of exchanged coin and the footsteps of Lazari leaving the execution room and shutting a door. In the silence that followed, booted footsteps closed on the hole above the well. Skiouros leaned back from the centre of the room, away from the figure who appeared, gazing down, though it was so dark down here that his chances of discovery were extremely small.
‘See, Sefer?’ The prince said in a business-like tone. ‘Rule is a bloody business. And your mouth runs away with you as usual. No amount of sweetening the executioner is going to still his wagging tongue after what he heard here. Once he is done with disposal, have him followed back to his hovel and do away with him.’
‘Yes, my Şehzade.’
‘And be very grateful that I did not give him one last commission. Still your own tongue in future.’
‘Yes, my Şehzade.’
Prince Selim crouched by the hole, looking down, and Skiouros tensed, sure he would be seen despite the gloom.
‘The time may come when my brothers will have to pay a visit to this chamber, Sefer. Neither is fit to control the empire, and yet Father favours Korkut with proximity and Ahmed with titles.’ He sighed as he rose. ‘A bloody business, indeed.’
Skiouros jumped as the door to this lower chamber opened and Lazari entered, spattered with blood and with an easy, carefree expression. He raised a silencing finger to his lips as he glanced at them, and then began to lift the four bodies, one at a time, and carry them across to the centre of the room, where he dumped them unceremoniously into the well.
Over the noises they heard two sets of footsteps in the room above and the door opening and closing. The prince and his companion had left. Half a minute later Lazari, having finished his grisly chores, nodded at the pair of them and then left their room, patting his bulging coin-purse happily as he went. Silence reigned for a long moment in that stinking, cold, dim chamber, and Skiouros found himself trying not to gag. Finally Dragi rose stiffly to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms.
‘We should warn Lazari,’ Skiouros said quietly.
‘Not a clever move,’ the Romani replied. ‘To do so would be to risk tipping off Şehzade Selim that there were other witnesses to his conversation. Besides, remember that the Bostancı are no simple labourers. Do not be deceived by Lazari’s appearance. His corps are as well trained as the janissaries, and with extra… skills… to boot.’
Skiouros nodded bleakly. The idea of letting the pleasant little executioner die simply for being in the room with a noble whose guard had slipped sat badly with him, but Dragi was entirely correct. Selim appeared to be a thorough and efficient man. Skiouros’ life expectancy would be measured in hours if the prince discovered he had been overheard by another. The prince’s guard outside would assume that the pair of them had been up on the floors that acted as cells, since that was where they had been directed. And they would not be leaving in the company of Lazari, so there was no reason suspicion would now fall upon them. Better not raise any extra misgivings among Selim’s men with foolish notions of saving the poor Lazari. He would just have to hope that the little man could hold his own against the agents of the prince.
‘Are we safe to talk now?’
‘Quietly and quickly. Best to save dangerous discussion for when we return to the house, though I want to leave it a few more minutes before we depart.’
‘Selim seems a dangerous man. Perhaps the best of the three brothers, but dangerous nonetheless…’
‘And yet?’ prompted Dragi, perusing from the Greek’s face and waiting for him to finish his thought.
Skiouros was busy thinking back over Selim’s thoughts on zealotry and fanaticism compared to common sense, and he could hardly fault the prince’s stand there. ‘And the Hospitallers are apparently set against him. An old adage leaps to mind.’
‘That the enemy of my enemy is my friend?’
Skiouros nodded. ‘I am still against interfering in this, Dragi.’
‘That is because there are still things you do not know or understand and therefore you have not reasoned things through fully. Come. When we return to the house, it is time to explain all so that you can take your proper place in this drama and so that we can begin to lay our plans. Time is moving swiftly now, and so must we.’
And now, perhaps, my questions will all be answered.
Chapter eight – Of successions and divisions
SKIOUROS rose from the cushions and scurried over to the window as the old man refreshed the salep in each glass upon the table. Worryingly, another jug of that corrosive and very dangerous wine sat atop the same table, though thankfully no one had yet suggested opening it. Listening to the clinks and tinkles of the glasses, the Greek peered out through the gap in the curtains. It was late afternoon and the sun was already little more than a glow which threw the sixth hill into silhouette. Atop the crest he could see the palace of Constantine Porphyrogenitus – the most intact remnant of this ancient palace district, and the sight soured his mood. In the Turkish tongue, the structure was known as Tekfur Sarayi and now that Skiouros knew it to be the current residence of Şehzade Selim, it brooded with potential unpleasantness. But that was not what had caused him to rise and check the window.
That action had been born of the inescapable feeling that they were being observed, which had first tickled his spine as he and Dragi had emerged from the Yedikule and crossed the road to rejoin Parmenio and Diego. Three times as the small group had wound their way through the impoverished streets across the hills, along the line of the walls and back to the house he now knew to belong to one Mustafa, a Romani elder, he had been certain they were being followed. Once, he had seen a cloaked figure in an alleyway – a figure who had ducked into a doorway as Skiouros turned – and he had been sure that the man’s cloak stood out at his waist, indicating the presence of a belted sword. Two streets further on a young man was playing with a hoop, and Skiouros had harboured the sneaking suspicion – unprovable, of course – that the boy was that same urchin from Saint Saviour’s churchyard. Then, as they had approached the area of Saint Saviour’s church, he had felt that familiar prickle of the skin again and had just caught sight of two hulking men disappearing round a corner, both of whom appeared to be watching them. He had then led the other three, using some feeble excuse, through the sunken vegetable gardens in the ancient ruined Aetios Cistern in order to try and discourage pursuit. But then, as they had neared the ramshackle Romani house, he had spotted a cloaked figure on the city wall above the neighbourhood and, though the man had disappeared in a moment, he was sure it had been the same one from the other side of the city.
So they seemed to be being watched, and now, almost certainly, those watchers knew whe
re the four of them were staying. He’d not mentioned his suspicions to the others. Somehow he felt sure that Dragi would already know and that any raising of the subject would just add more infuriating mysteries to the pile. Still, it added an extra sense of uncertainty and worry to the whole situation.
‘Come away from the window,’ Parmenio rolled his eyes. ‘What’s got you so jumpy?’
Skiouros turned an irritable look on his friend. ‘Would you like a list?’
‘We’re safe here.’
‘We’re safe nowhere, Parmenio. Least of all, I fear, here.’
His friend gave him an odd look through narrowed eyes, but simply gestured to the empty seat. With a last fruitless scan of the surroundings, Skiouros returned to the table and the refreshing glass of spiced orchid-root flour, rose water and warmed milk, testing it for temperature and feeling its soothing taste working on his frayed nerves almost instantly. Sinking with a sigh into the cushioned seat, he looked at his companions around the table. Dragi. Of course, Dragi – ever-present Dragi. The old man with the few teeth, who Skiouros now knew to be Mustafa – the house’s owner and most senior of the community; the leader in all but name. A woman of middle years named Lela, with kohl-rimmed eyes and a beguiling scent who, while clearly twice Skiouros’ age, did something to his nethers with which he was not comfortable merely by her presence. A strange-looking gangly eastern Romani named Yayan Dimo of about Skiouros’ age with a hare-lip and mismatched eyes and yet a hard look and muscles like a cart horse. And, of course, good old Diego and Parmenio.
Dragi waited for a moment, until everyone was settled, and then cleared his throat.
‘I am sure, Skiouros – Kral yapımcı – that your companions here are more than just close friends, and they feel their bond of fellowship with you as keenly as you feel it for them. However, the next week will be a very difficult and dangerous time. We are prepared for it. We know what must be done. And you have no choice in this matter. This is your… destiny, if you will. But your friends? Need they be at risk?’
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