The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  No, the time of the Greeks had passed. There would never be another Alexander. The Greeks did not merit their Golden City and were running short of gold with which to pay for it. All that was required was the right conqueror.

  When Aladdin had died he had sat in the mosque for a week. Give me a sign, he had said. One book is not enough. But the sign had not arrived; only Mehmet had arrived, or perhaps he had always been there, waiting in the background for his chance. And what could he do but give it to him? Did merit come into it? Not really. The Osmani had not built their empire on merit; they had built it the way any empire was built: city after city and fort after fort. Blood, sweat and effort.

  Sacrifice, that was what God had asked him for and he had given it. Blind sacrifice, to be precise. But weren’t the faithful always vindicated? Was not the divine plan of God the call of providence? If Mehmet were part of that plan, if God had endowed him with the means to answer that call, the rest would surely follow. Still, a little reminder could not do any harm. Perhaps he would ask the ulema to find a prayer for procreation.

  Azize left Murad’s apartments thinking of the word remote. Few women were remote. If they were, it was either because they were teasing or because they didn’t know what they were doing, neither of which would work on Mehmet. Murad wanted a dynasty, but his son was showing no more interest in a girl than a snake was interested in a rope. Nor did she think, as Murad seemed to, that the girl was wrong. If anything was wrong, it was Mehmet. It always had been. Only Murad didn’t see it.

  The Ottoman dynasty shrank and grew in peculiar ways. She had been part of it ever since girlhood. Now that she had seen a few summers her looks had faded, and while she clung to her rank, hung by the skin of her fingertips from the walls of the seraglio, she wondered if the whole edifice would not some day come crashing down on her head and she would be buried beneath the rubble of stone, shit and roses of which it was composed.

  But ever since Mehmet had come of age the edifice had changed. Now the foundations were built upon bones of its own. Many months had passed since Aladdin, the Sultan’s older son, went to bed living and was found dead in his chamber in the morning, strangled by the same boy who, not three days before, had eaten elbow to elbow with him in the open salon of the hayat. But all that had been hushed up. The subject of Aladdin could not, would not be broached. Like everything else that Murad did not want to see, it had been thrust under the carpet, hidden from sight. Aladdin was in his tomb and how he had arrived there was forgotten. On the day of his entombment she had watched his wrapped body leave the palace walls and had made a show of crying like the others. Then she had gone back inside and vomited until her head was light.

  All that remained was for the boy in the hayat to fill Aladdin’s shoes as heir of the sultanate, which Mehmet did at a speed that astonished everyone. But then it was typical of Murad to exchange one thing for another when it suited him. It had been the subject of debate beyond the fourth door. With Aladdin gone, who would take his place? Djem, her boy, was still young and Murad wanted a boy that would fight his battles for him. Who better of course than Mehmet? With the blood of his half-brother already on his hands he had marked himself out right from the start as a practised assassin. The question then, which reverberated around the seraglio like fire to a hay barn, was who would be next?

  Azize planted Djem’s feet onto the ground, and he scampered off. He was a good boy, but at night, when the shadows of the palace closed in, she lay there in the dark and cursed her own rashness for bringing him into the world. The palace of the Osmani was a female trap. To rise through the ranks of the seraglio, a girl had to have a child. Unless she became a mother she would never be more than a slave. And if the child was not male she might as well stay in the kitchens or resign herself to cleaning floors in the bathing room. If, on the other hand, she did have a son, she must watch and tremble. Because the real battle was not at the gates of Constantinople, where Murad thought it was, or in Anatolia, or anywhere else; it was in the courtyard of the Osmani palace right beneath their noses.

  She walked the hayat of the fourth courtyard and thought it through. Mehmet Celebi, the preferred son and heir, had refused the first girl; now he refused a second. What kind of boy refused a Georgian beauty? Only one kind of boy, she decided. It was time to pull back the veil and see what Mehmet Celebi was hiding beneath that tunic of his, and nobody could do it but her. The Valide Hatun, his mother, would certainly not do it. Which mother would admit to having a son that could not be a father? That would make him half a son instead of a whole one. Half a son would make the Valide Hatun half a wife, and half a wife would make her half a slave.

  She called for one of the eunuchs in her service. As hatun and favourite she carried weight. The time had come to use it.

  Chapter 5

  ‘If Mircea is permitted to attend a council, it is because he puts effort into his studies. You, on the other hand, do not.’

  Vlad stood facing his father’s desk and looked at the assembly of objects his father kept beside his quill. Two different kinds of amulet, one bronze, the other silver, each containing something: a herb or the root of a plant. There were tubers poking upwards in green pods. There was the plaque bearing two crossed knives. Today there was something new: a rosary of red pearls in an open box.

  ‘Unless you read what you are given to read, you will never understand the importance of a council and what it signifies.’

  ‘I know what council signifies,’ he said. ‘Argument about the Greeks.’

  His father rolled his eyes. ‘Discussion. Consensus. The sharing of views. But a view requires a context. Reading provides one. If you do not understand Aristotle…’

  ‘I do understand it.’

  ‘Very well, then what do we mean by an assertion?’

  ‘One subject, one predicate.’

  ‘And by a denial?’

  ‘The opposite of an assertion. I am a Greek. I am not a Greek.’

  He wanted to add that it was Latin not Greek his father spoke when he closed the palace door on ambassadors and envoys, and that the Rumani were the heirs of Old Rome; they even spoke their tongue. But his father would answer as he always did; he’d say they needed the Greeks, even though he knew it was more the other way around.

  His father pushed the rosary towards him. ‘Well, Greek or not Greek, you do not know enough. This is for you. It will mark the start of your holy studies at the Monastery of Saint Nicholas. You will begin this week.’

  ‘Then there will be no confirmation by the priest at the Chapel of the Holy Virgin?’

  Dracul looked at him. ‘Sons of princes do not listen behind doors. Nor do they open locked ones,’ he added drily.

  ‘I don’t see the point in locking doors on Saint Andrew’s. An upyr is a spirit of the air; it can go where it wants.’ As he said the words he shivered slightly.

  His father gave him a sharp look. ‘Mircea had the sense to keep his door locked when he was ordered to; I expect the same from you. And do not take warnings lightly. Many things must change in our country, but it cannot happen overnight, which is why you need to study.’

  Vlad hesitated. He wanted to ask why his father could not see that it was more dangerous to be locked in a room with an upyr than to be listening outside doors, but that would be an admission of weakness, so he found another subject. ‘Can I hunt with Cazan today?’

  ‘No,’ said Dracul without looking up. ‘The Turkish Treasurer is arriving anytime now. Nobody will be hunting until he has left, if at all.’

  ‘Is that a punishment? If it is, I would rather you told me so.’

  ‘You may think of it as whatever you wish. Now please leave me as I have letters to write.’

  The air around his father turned cold. Vlad backed out of the room, sensing he had said too much.

  Later that day, when they were training, he asked Mircea if the Turks hunted and
what they looked like.

  ‘I don’t know if they hunt,’ his brother said, ‘but they are fierce, as fierce as the Mongols. The Hungarians are afraid of them and so is the Pope.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You don’t know; you haven’t seen one.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’

  Still, as he said it, he knew that he was lying. Some things did frighten him, but they were not flesh and bone. His mind wandered back to his father’s conversation with the priest and the boy who could not come to court.

  ‘The priest Popescu often pays house calls,’ Mircea said later, ‘and just because there are three of us here doesn’t mean that Father hasn’t any other children. I heard him say once before that we have a half-brother that lives near the border country, but he’s with a different nurse. It’s not important.’

  Somehow unconvinced, Vlad took up his sword and held it to his forehead. ‘On your guard,’ he said and lunged forward. But Mircea was getting used to his moves and had already anticipated. His brother turned back to counter him as he spun out of range of the blade. Thoughts whirled through his mind as he moved: fathers, sons and dynasties. Once again, Mircea knew what he did not; his brother even thought it unimportant. Was that because the throne of Wallachia was destined for Mircea anyway, and his brother had always known it?

  Hurt stirred his chest. He dodged Mircea’s blade and thrust him against the wall, the point of his sword close to his brother’s neck. His brother called out. A thin trickle of red ran onto his shirt. Vlad backed off, panting.

  From the other side of the courtyard came the sound of hurried footsteps. Their father’s eyes passed from the trickle of blood to Mircea’s face. ‘We shall deal with that later,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘The Treasurer has arrived. I want you in attendance.’ His eyes flicked over Vlad. ‘Both of you.’

  That night, as he climbed the steps of the stairwell, Vlad thought about the Mongol hordes and the Saracen armies. The Rumani talked about the Mongols when they wanted to scare their children. He saw them in the eye of his mind, heels pressed against the sides of their horses, swords in hand as they charged towards their quarry. He paused at Mircea’s door but decided not to enter. Mircea had left the salon early because his neck was sore. Their father had said nothing about the incident, but even Vlad could see that the strain of the Turkish presence in the courtyard apartments was taking a toll on him. Grain and coins had changed hands inside the palace gates and tomorrow a feast would be given in honour of the Turkish emissary. Their father said that they must learn to talk to their foes as well as to their friends, since if one day the foe was a Turk, that did not mean that the next he would not be a Magyar.

  Radu was sleeping silently when he entered their chamber. He lay down, wishing it were easy, that he could close his eyes and find the peace his younger brother did. But he knew it would not be without a struggle. The moon filled one of the small round panes of his window, smooth as a pearl; he turned on his side and watched it, hoping sleep would come.

  Sometime later, he did not know when, the knowledge came over him that he was not in his bed. Terrified, he lashed out for something solid and his hand struck the banister. Sweating hard, he understood the shape beneath him, found the step and planted his foot on it.

  Suddenly Radu was there. Saved from the precipice of the stairwell, Vlad seized his arm. His little brother pulled him back and peered into his face, his eyes hollow with wakefulness.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Vlad staggered into their chamber and filled his hands with water from the bowl, wondering how it could be possible to walk without waking. He glanced at the window pane; the moon was still there, in the same place as before, pale and steady.

  He sat down on the edge of his bed, thinking. Had Mircea heard him? He left his chamber to find out. His older brother’s door was open, but the lamplight glowing from the crack gave nothing much away and the stairwell was quiet. He peered down into it to see how far he would have fallen. Far enough. But that was not the worst of it; only strigois walked by night. As he climbed the final stair a chill travelled upwards from the stairwell to his back. He slipped into his chamber, his head throbbing. Whatever had happened, nobody but Radu had to know. He turned the lock of the door and put the key inside his boot. Then he drifted in and out of sleep till dawn, dreaming of a key he could not find and a door that would not open.

  Chapter 6

  The wind had dropped; the first snow of winter was on its way. Dracul listened to the strained hum of conversation, which came from the handful of noblemen, landowners and lords assembled in the Great Hall to honour the Turkish Treasurer. Some were Hungarians who had bought their titles, others were Greeks or Bulgars who had either inherited them or married into them. One or two were Germans, Saxons from the border of Transylvania. He had chosen the balance well. Not too many of one kind, not too few of the other. He kept them in the air like a juggler, suspended between his hands, mindful of weight and height from his seat at the head of the carved oak table of the dining room beneath the portrait of Basarab I, who presided over all of them. Keep them sweet, his forebear murmured. Keep them steady. But still he was distracted. His mind, which should have been occupied in saying the right words to the Turkish Treasurer at his side, was wandering. It was turning in on itself, like a wheel in reverse, to a moment of his childhood. The moment consumed his attention, broke his concentration on his guests. A young boy, small for his age, old in his head, was lying on a stone-slabbed floor. His skin was the colour of the Danube in winter, and his eyes, Basarab green, seemed to stare without seeing. What was the boy looking at; what did he see? His eyes were open but he appeared asleep. Perhaps he was dead? Were it not for the breath that fanned his chest he might have been.

  ‘Dracul?’

  He snapped his eyes right.

  ‘Forgive me, My Lord Defterdar, I was thinking…’

  ‘Well do not think too much, I would not recommend it. You might start to wonder why you keep yourself locked up in this Carpathian wasteland, instead of living somewhere more pleasant.’

  ‘Where would you suggest?’ he said. ‘Constantinople?’

  ‘Did you know,’ put in the Saxon merchant, ‘that in the Hungarian tongue, Wallachia means the Snowy Lowlands? If you are not careful, Honourable Treasurer, you will find yourself stuck here till springtime.’

  The Turkish Treasurer raised his brow at Dracul. ‘What do you say to that, my friend?’

  ‘I say, rather a valley of free passage than a mountain with no descent.’

  The Treasurer broke into a peal of laughter. ‘Very good, Dracul. I have always told His Highness you make a good host. I will tell him again.’

  Dracul surveyed the rest of the table. Cazan was muttering over his meat. This year his first officer had found the tithe particularly hard to swallow. The harvest had been good, and the Treasurer was the Sultan’s wealth-maker. A raise of the tithe was inevitable; every fiefdom was a sponge.

  The Treasurer threw him a sidelong glance. ‘Why is that guard of yours muttering? If I had a servant that muttered, I would cut out his tongue. You paid the tribute last year, so I don’t know why you are complaining now. A friend does not weigh the cost of a compliment.’

  ‘I have no argument with it,’ Dracul replied, crisply, ‘but you know that, as an Orthodox Christian, I am concerned about the welfare of our Patriarchate of Constantinople. The Greek Emperor John Palaiologos has written to me saying that the periphery of Morea is constantly threatened by the armies of the sultanate. I would like to ask His Highness that the Greek status of Morea be respected, and the Sultan’s men be withdrawn from the Gulf of Corinth.’

  The Turkish Treasurer flicked over him. ‘Well, you may call it Greek, but not everyone agrees with you. I had heard that even the Catholics have laid claim to it.’

  ‘They cannot,’ said Dracul, quickly. ‘Mo
rea is a part of the Greek patriarchate; it is no less important to the Greeks than Constantinople.’

  ‘Hmm. If you feel so strongly, perhaps you should bring the matter up with His Highness the Sultan in person?’

  Dracul’s throat closed to a fist. It was a trap and he had stepped right into it. ‘I’m sure I could, if an occasion presented itself.’

  ‘An occasion, as you put it, would present itself if an effort were made on your part. But if you do not feel the allegiance that a visit would require…’

  Dracul turned towards the window. A visit to the Sultan’s court would be complicated. Murad would make demands, he would beg concessions, but who would come out best?

  The Treasurer moved in for the kill. ‘Do you know, I have lately been visiting our dear ally and friend Durad Brankovic of Serbia. He saw no reason to decline our offer of hospitality. But we have not had a visit from you these past two years now, if it is not longer than that.’ He smiled dangerously and sipped his cup of wine. ‘Perhaps you are too busy with the Hungarians?’

  ‘A prince is always busy.’

  ‘Of course, but you know we have a saying, one of which His Highness is particularly fond – one glass of coffee makes forty years of friendship. But it can also make for a lifetime of hostility, Dracul, so be careful where you drink.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Dracul coolly.

  The Treasurer put down his cup. ‘Let me see. You have taken coffee with our sultan; you cannot take coffee with his enemies.’ He beamed. ‘I say you should choose your table carefully, or you may soon be refused a seat everywhere you go.’

  The Turks liked to play with words; it was the Osman way. He would have to humour it. He pressed his fingers together and nodded. ‘I will come.’

  ‘Good.’ The Turkish Treasurer wiped the trace of wine from his mouth with his napkin. ‘An excellent year. But of course it is not our practice to take the liquor of the grape. Our Holy Book does not commend it.’