Pasha's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  The first issue would be getting through the gate, of course. Dragi had told them of Romani rumours and legends, born of decades living among the ruins of the Blachernae, of lost and blocked tunnels and passages that would connect the Tekfur Sarayi to other structures in the now-gone great Byzantine palace region. In preparation for this last great task, the Romani of Mustafa’s community had pried carefully and conservatively around the ruins and wilderness to the south of the Tekfur, but had found nothing.

  Even today, the old Romani had insisted they delay their plan until a last search had been made. But no mysterious hidden ways had come to light, and the final search had been called off in the early afternoon after the guards atop the Tekfur walls had spotted movement and threatened the Romani with execution should they come too close. As the scouts had reported back in, it had come as no surprise to any of them to learn that a black-clad figure had been spotted lurking in an alleyway nearby, watching both the palace and the Romani investigating it.

  And so as the afternoon wore on and the sun began to slip down the western sky, the four friends had prepared themselves and left the house for the palace.

  They must look a strange sight, Skiouros thought, as they emerged from the street into the open piazza before the palace walls under the suspicious, watchful gaze of the heavily-armoured guards spaced out along the parapet – there were more soldiers around Selim’s palace than on the entire circuit of city walls, the Greek noted with interest.

  Skiouros, of course, was dressed in his appropriated Paşa clothes, his hair carefully dyed this morning by a shapely Romani girl using walnut juice, his chin and neck scraped free of golden bristles. Sincabı-Paşa’s original shirt had been swapped out for one with a high collar – an unfashionable style, though not unreasonably so, and with the benefit that it hid every last inch of Skiouros’ colourful tattoos. With a decorative kilij sword slung at his side and the ‘affluent turban’ atop his nut-brown curls, even he had to admit that he looked every bit the Ottoman Paşa.

  Dragi still wore his naval uniform with his long, flowing red hat and dark blue jacket over a bulging white shirt and white trousers. A sword and knife hung at his belt, too. The presence of a naval officer in the company of the Paşa who ran the Galata shipyard would hardly be a surprise, after all. Skiouros had wondered why the man had not yet adopted the more ostentatious dress and large turban of a reis, but Dragi had expounded on the added difficulties of such apparel if this came down to a fight.

  Skiouros could only hope it didn’t come to a fight. He was no stranger to a sword, although he was also no born warrior, but the damage to his shoulder had already made itself clear fighting Sincabı-Paşa. And while, for all his experience as a sea-trader, Parmenio could handle a blade well enough, Diego would normally be their greatest asset in a fight. But not today.

  The party had moved through the city streets at a sedate, even leisurely, pace to allow for Parmenio and Diego, who both moved jerkily and winced continually through the excruciating pain in their sides. Both were thoroughly bound up and bandaged and liberally dosed with some arcane Romani potion that seemed to take the edge off their discomfort. Both men were strapped in the plate-and-mail armour of a Turkish soldier, with helmets that bore mail aventails which hid their features, and flowing red plumes, and both looked as dangerous a proposition as any man could. And yet Skiouros knew that beyond a doubt, neither would be much use in a fight now, each having enough trouble not crying out as they walked, let alone swinging a sword.

  He had argued extensively against their presence, noting their discomfort and immobility and begging them to stay at the house and wait out this last great task. But neither had been willing to sit back. Though both had recognised that they stood little chance of helping on a martial basis, they had insisted that Skiouros, as a Paşa, should have adequate visible escort, and they could at least carry his one-horse-tail standard, declaring who he was.

  Skiouros found himself trying to swallow a surprisingly large gulp of fear as they crossed the open space towards the gate. There was, of course, no more danger or risk involved in this particular proposition than there had been at the shipyard with Sincabı, or the old palace with Korkut’s assassin. But somehow, knowing that this was the last of it seemed to escalate both the danger and importance of the task.

  The prince’s guards clustered on the north wall above the gate as the small party approached. Despite the clear eminence of the visitor – as announced by his standard – the door remained resolutely shut, the iron studs in its heavy oak surface presenting an unfriendly, unyielding exterior. The four men were forced to stop around a dozen paces from the gate and crane their necks to look up at the guards.

  ‘State your name, rank and business,’ called a throaty officer from the wall.

  Skiouros pushed the fear down into his belly and assumed his fiercest, most unforgiving expression.

  ‘Kasim Sincabı-Paşa, master of the Galata shipyard, seeking Musa bin Ramazan the turban wrapper with a demand for his return to my household for punishment, lest I take the matter of his misdeeds to the janissaries.’

  He fell silent and held his breath.

  There had been much discussion the previous evening, as the wounded were tended, about how they would gain access to the Tekfur and more specifically to bin Ramazan within the palace. There had been no simple answer and not enough time to begin investigations into the assassin’s past. Besides, the name was probably a fiction anyway. In the end, the plan had been born purely of extrapolated logic.

  Musa bin Ramazan was Selim’s turban wrapper. However, the assassin must have been planted in the court somehow by the Romani, and the prince had only been in the city for a matter of weeks, so bin Ramazan must be new to the prince and a relatively new addition to the court in the Tekfur Sarayi. Moreover, he had likely been placed in that position specifically by the king-breaker himself, given the man’s apparently central role in this entire plot, and so some history between bin Ramazan and Sincabı could be assumed.

  But it was still a cobbled-together net of guesswork, for all its logic, and it would only take someone with a little more knowledge than they to unravel the whole thing. And so, Skiouros’ nerves continued to play upon him, making his knee shake so that he had to concentrate on planting his foot firmly on the ground.

  There was a long silence as the officer on the wall frowned in uncertainty and then consulted one of his men. Skiouros forced himself to breathe, slowly and in a measured manner. Finally, the officer opened his mouth again.

  ‘Forgive my insolence, Sincabı-Paşa, but I must warn you that this is the residence of Şehzade Selim, governor of Trabzon and son of the great sultan Bayezid. No amount of decorative horse-tails will save your neck if the prince hears of such outspoken demands against his court.’

  Damn it. Perhaps he had played the affront aspect too heavily. The last thing he wanted was for the matter to be brought to Selim’s personal attention. He tried to mix outrage and contriteness on his face – suspecting he had only really succeeded in looking constipated – and cleared his throat. ‘I meant no insult to the mighty Wolf of Trabzon, of course. I request your permission to confront the turban wrapper bin Ramazan?’

  Please do not ask the prince…

  The guard officer ruminated for a moment and then called down to the kapıcı, whose assistant opened the gate. As the heavy, near-foot-thick door swung inwards to reveal a short covered passageway out into the courtyard of the palace, Skiouros could not help but notice that the doorman was accompanied by two very heavily armoured guards and that even the minor functionary himself was scarred and wore a very practical-looking short blade at his belt. It came as no surprise to find that a man like Selim surrounded himself with only men who were also of martial use.

  The kapıcı beckoned to the four men outside with the casual aloofness of a noble addressing a trader, not the deference of a doorman to a high official of the empire. Once more, Skiouros felt the nerves get the better
of him, and he paused for a moment to stop his leg trembling before stepping through the late afternoon sunlight to the gate, where the man waited.

  ‘Günaydın, Paşa. Please step inside. You and your men may wait in the courtyard by the lemon trees. I will have Nezih fetch you salep to refresh while I send for bin Ramazan.’

  Skiouros fought the urge to refuse the offer, pressing the urgency of the matter, but decided against it. He had clearly almost pushed too far at the gate, and now he was being offered exactly what he had asked for, with extra hospitality besides. Do not over-reach.

  With a grateful nod, he made his way through the gate, Dragi at his heel, followed by Parmenio carrying the standard and then Diego, who paused and turned in the doorway only long enough to convey the solid impression that his mail-veiled gaze had taken in everything of import and that he was awaiting only a single command to butcher every living thing in his presence. Even Skiouros was impressed at the power of that single movement. The kapıcı did well not to melt under the Spaniard’s gaze.

  The courtyard was stiflingly warm, having caught and contained the sunlight all day, the high walls preventing a refreshing breeze from entering. Paying little heed to the structures to either side of the gate, both of which remained partially ruinous from the days of the conquest, he looked past the trees and neat gardens to the stairs that led up to the second level and to the great palace itself, two floors of grandiose habitation rising above an arcaded ground level which seemed to be home to stabling and storage. Apart from the two men at the gate and the doorman and his assistant, they were alone in the courtyard – if one ignored the numerous soldiers along the wall tops, of course.

  Despite the man’s horrible injury and the fact that he kept having to pause and lean on things, Skiouros was impressed to note how Diego’s stance fell into that familiar ‘prepared for a fight’ mode. Moments wore on in tense silence and Skiouros could feel the nervous energy emanating from Parmenio close by, who had gratefully taken the opportunity to rest the butt of the standard on the floor, the crescent atop it gleaming in the sun and the horse-tail hanging limp for want of a breeze. The kapıcı had disappeared up the stairs and entered the palace and, a minute or so later, his assistant reappeared from one of the slightly ruinous ancillary buildings with salep on a tray. Two glasses, Skiouros noted. One for him and one for the naval officer, but none for the two soldiers.

  He gratefully lifted the glass with a nod of thanks and took a sip, savouring the flavour, and was startled from his quiet moment by a shout from the palace. His eyes rose to the beautiful building, to see three figures making their way along the wall top towards the stairs that led down into the courtyard. The rear-most was the doorman, wearing a flustered expression. The turban-wrapper himself, however, almost stopped Skiouros’ heart and a number of pieces in the great puzzle of the past week fell into place as recognition struck. He may have neatened up and now be dressed as a court official, but the young eastern Romani with the mismatched eyes and the hare-lip was unmistakable.

  Dragi had told Skiouros that the Alevi sect within the Romani who constituted their opposition hailed from eastern Anatolia, and the very ethnicity of this man, whose name escaped him, had simply completely escaped Skiouros. Moreover, as another connection fired in his memory, Skiouros realised that Hadim Ali-Paşa, who aided Prince Ahmed in this great game, had been the Victorious general of the Mamluk war, where this eastern Romani had learned to fight, possibly even under that man’s very command. How had he missed that? But it explained how the Hospitallers had learned of the Jews’ house. It explained what had happened to the Romani guard who had escorted them to the shipyard in Galata and vanished while they fought the Paşa – of course the young Romani couldn’t afford to come face to face with the king-breaker, for they were well-acquainted! Instead he had sold his own people out to the Hospitallers and come here to carry out his mission. It even explained why the enemy had chosen last night as the time to launch an open attack on Mustafa’s house – knowing from an inside source that this was their last chance.

  It also created a world of problems very suddenly in the Tekfur Sarayi.

  In fact, it came as such a shock to Skiouros that it took him precious moments to take proper note of the woman next to the Romani traitor. Between her bulky dark green dress and the largely-obscuring veiled hat, her features were not easily discernible, but one glance at that weathered, dark, craggy visage and Skiouros was in no doubt that he was also in the presence of the dede Babik – the old Romani crone-witch whose vision had initiated this whole nightmare and who had driven Skiouros from the city five years ago. As he stared, in the silence of his own head, he could almost imagine the clicking of bones as she dismembered birds on the paving. A chill started at his feet and shook his body all the way to the scalp repeatedly, wave after wave.

  ‘This is not the great Sincabı-Paşa, emin of the Galata shipyard,’ the young hare-lipped Romani announced loudly. ‘This is an imposter and intruder. The Şehzade Selim will be infuriated that you granted admittance to this scum. These men must be apprehended and delivered to the Bostancı for execution – both the false Paşa and his pet Romani sailor.’

  Skiouros was impressed at the level of contempt the man managed to squeeze into the word Romani, given his own ethnic origin and that of the witch at his side. Panic coursed through the young Greek as he failed to see any potential way out of this sudden nightmare.

  ‘Do something,’ hissed Dragi at his shoulder, and Skiouros’ panic only increased. The very idea that for once the Romani sailor had no plan and no suggestion somehow made the situation feel a great deal more dire. His mind raced. He was an imposter, as was everyone who accompanied him…

  A smile crept onto his face.

  As were bin Ramazan, and his witch-friend. They were no more genuine than he, and at least Dragi was a true Ottoman officer. If it came down to a war of accusations…

  The guards on the walls were moving now. Some were nocking arrows to bows and preparing for trouble, the points veering round to settle on Skiouros and his companions. Others were rushing for the stairs behind the turban-wrapper and the woman. Time to throw in a little confusion.

  ‘Do not be swayed by a pair of errant Romani infiltrators!’ he bellowed in good Turkish, priding himself on his inflection. He was gratified to note the young Romani’s step falter, and gave the man no chance to recover. ‘That man is not Musa bin Ramazan, if such a man even exists. He is…’ He paused, suddenly aware that he had no idea of the man’s true name.

  ‘Yayan Dimo,’ hissed Dragi helpfully.

  ‘He is Yayan Dimo, a Romani of an Alevi eastern tribe who fought the Mamluks but now serves the Romani witch Babik who stands beside him.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ Dragi hissed.

  Perhaps half the arrows on the walls had shifted target and were now pointing at the pair on the staircase. Confusion seemed to be reigning. Skiouros glanced back and noted that the gate had been barred, the two men stepping in front of it with weapons drawn. Whatever was about to happen, it would happen here – there would be no escape for anyone from the Tekfur.

  Yayan Dimo had recovered from his initial shock at the counter-denunciation, and stormed down the last few steps, the old woman close behind, making towards Skiouros. ‘How dare you, you Greek street thief! And with your pet Spaniard and Genoan hidden beneath that armour, no doubt.’ He gestured to them and then expansively to the guards. ‘Strip them, and you will see!’ Dimo yelled to the watchers, spittle on his lips.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded a powerful voice, carrying a curious mix of hoarseness and musical lilt. Skiouros felt his blood run cold as recognition flooded through him. Similarly, a few paces away, Dimo’s face paled. Both of them turned to see the crown prince Selim standing in the doorway of the palace building, his hands on his hips and his eyes blazing and the strangely sinuous, ophidian Sefer beside him.

  Skiouros opened his mouth to reply deferentially, but the kapıcı steppe
d in front of both he and Dimo. ‘There seems to be some doubt, my Şehzade, as to the identity of both this visiting Paşa and of your own turban wrapper.’

  Selim frowned, and Skiouros bit his lip in worry. A moment’s unpleasant, tense silence was suddenly shattered as the old woman by Dimo’s side turned and addressed Selim in thickly accented east-Anatolian Turkish. ‘My prince, these men are part of a Romani conspiracy to remove you from the succession.’

  Selim’s only reaction to this news was to raise a quizzical eyebrow, though Yayan Dimo stared at her. ‘Shut up, fool,’ he hissed. Skiouros noted the hint of command rather than deference in his voice. So he did not serve the witch after all…

  ‘It seems to me,’ the prince announced from the high doorway, ‘that the truth in this matter could very easily be ascertained by liberal use of the hook.’

  Skiouros caught a faint gasp and glanced aside at Dimo, whose eyes were now wide. The hook was one of the cruellest methods of tortuous execution ever devised by man, and was saved for the worst criminals in the empire. Victims were hauled up with a rope to the top of a wall or wooden scaffold covered with huge, sharp hooks. The rope was then released, allowing the criminal to drop and catch on a hook, where he would wait to die. If he was very lucky the hook would pierce something vital and kill him fast. Skiouros had heard of a man once lasting four days…

  The shaking in his leg began once more.

  And suddenly Dragi was speaking from his shoulder.

  ‘My Şehzade, your brother Ahmed would be more than able to confirm the identity of the dede Babik, since she and her cronies are allies of his, brought to him by the vizier Hadim Ali Paşa in support of a conspiracy against yourself and Şehzade Korkut.’

  Selim’s expression darkened at the mention of his brother’s name, and Skiouros felt himself breathe for the first time in over a minute. They had the pair, now. While she seemed unconcerned, Dimo had paled again. He knew that his chance had slipped away with the revelation that Ahmed was involved.