The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  Perhaps she does, he thought. Perhaps that’s it. Murad put his hands on his waist and looked at the half a man before him. The nagging thorn of Azize dug into his side. He walked a full circle and decided it would have to be removed.

  ‘I have heard talk of boys being brought into the seraglio for the…’ he swallowed a little ‘…amusement of my sons.’ There is only one, he thought, and wondered why he made the word plural. He remembered Aladdin, who was no longer living, and a swell of pain enclosed him. ‘Is it true?’

  The Kizlar quailed. ‘Not by me.’

  Murad grunted. One of his eunuchs had evidently whisked a boy in under the Kizlar’s nose without him knowing. A bribe to one of the guards. Coins for a bribe did not fall from the sky. Someone handed them out.

  ‘Where is the boy now?’ he demanded.

  ‘In the quarters of Mehmet Celebi.’

  Murad felt something fall out of his stomach. ‘Bring the boy here.’

  He sat in the kiosk beside the fountain and waited. The Kizlar returned, pushing before him a slip of a boy that Murad stared at for several moments before he could give credence to the idea that this was his son’s lover. He questioned the boy briefly but could not bring himself to listen to the answers.

  ‘Lock him up until I decide what to do with him,’ said Murad brusquely. He turned and left the kiosk, determined to put as much distance as the palace afforded between himself and this circumstance. He found his desk and sat at it with relief. He opened a book. Any book would do. But the one he opened lay before him for several moments before he realised he was staring at a blank sheet of paper. He turned the page, but that did not help him, so he sat back in his seat and took out his prayer beads. He fingered the beads one by one. May God change the ways of his son; may God show him what to do.

  He tried to reason a way out of it. His son was a sodomiser, but since the Koran did not prohibit it, why should he? It did not preclude virility, assuming it happened the right way round. And with a boy like that, how could it be otherwise? It was well known that some of the older sipahis enjoyed the company of the eunuchs, but on the other hand for a young man like Mehmet to find pleasure in a boy, and particularly when there was no lack of alternatives, was uncommon. Was there something wrong with him? Did it mean that he would never father a child? Was that what God intended? He tried to understand what God wanted from Mehmet but there was only one answer in his mind, and it had been there all his life. Constantinople. He stared at the ground, unwilling to look upwards in case God had found another answer – one he did not want to hear. In any case, the tellak must be removed. He could have him executed, but what would he gain? More talk, and that must be on all accounts avoided. No. The best solution was to have him out of the palace. Out of sight was out of mind.

  The gatekeeper drew him from his thoughts. ‘What now?’ he said, vexed.

  ‘Prince Dracul of Wallachia has arrived.’

  ‘Tell him to wait.’ A little waiting would not hurt. He forced his mind back to the business in hand. Too much anger and he would lose whatever fealty might yet be redeemable; too little and Dracul would gain the advantage. He shut the book and remembered that there was some other misery he had forgotten about. Mara Brankovic. He was surrounded by women who conspired, who refused, who revealed, who hid. He did not like it. Things would have to change. Mehmet, too, would have to change. He took up a quill and wrote down an instruction, which he signed with a flourish. He called the gatekeeper back.

  ‘Deliver this to the hands of the Kizlar,’ he said. ‘And tell him that Madam Azize will not be given admittance to my presence again.’ He saw her for the last time in his mind, holding Djem, her boy. The child would grow up; she would grow old; he would hear no more of this son or that one. And as soon as the Valide Hatun returned from Manisa, he would go there himself. A little peace was what he needed and Mara Brankovic would provide it. As for Mehmet, what he needed was a little humility. He pushed himself up from his chair. One thing at a time. First, the Draculesti.

  He left his private chambers and crossed the gardens of the third courtyard. At his side the Defterdar struggled to keep up.

  ‘The district governor, the sanjakbey, tried to escort him from Giurgiu but apparently wasn’t able to. He gave the alert instead to the commander-in-chief and a unit of cavalry brought them in this morning.

  ‘How long have they been waiting?’

  ‘Since noon,’ said the Defterdar, adjusting his step. ‘Long enough to bud the twig of discomfort.’

  ‘Did they make stops?’

  The Defterdar pulled a thin scroll from his pouch and opened it. ‘As I said, once at Giurgiu. Some farm on the borderlands. Nothing more significant than a bunch of peasants.’

  ‘Never underestimate a bunch of peasants,’ said Murad grimly. ‘Especially if they are Wallachian. Who was travelling with them?’

  ‘A guard of some ten men,’ said the Defterdar. ‘The sanjakbey had them followed from the border. I made enquiries and found that they paid homage at the Monastery of Saint Nicholas before they left, and promised the friar there they were going straight to Constantinople.’

  Murad halted. ‘Promised a friar? That is interesting.’ He continued walking. ‘Is there a friar at the monastery?’

  ‘A Bulgar, a Manichean, or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Manichean?’ There was a word he had not heard in a long time. ‘An interesting disciple,’ he said, thoughtful.

  The Draculesti history was a dark one and Dracul’s as dark as the rest of his line. The warlords of Wallachia had always been formidable, from Basarab to Dracul. And then there was the question of allegiance. The Draculesti had either vehement enemies or devoted friends. Nothing in between. That had always been their way. That was how they survived.

  He sat beside the kiosk.

  ‘Perhaps Your Highness would enlighten me?’ said the Defterdar, sitting with relief.

  ‘You should read a little more, Defterdar, and dine a little less. The Manicheans are both the enemies of the Christian Church and its most fervent defenders. It is said that their gods were the gods of the Rumani, and that long ago these gods founded a great city, which they called the City of Wolves. But what became of it I don’t know. In any case, the Catholics do not like them.’

  ‘And the Orthodox?’

  ‘The Orthodox Greeks tolerate them better, but their beliefs are everyone’s heresy.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Those who are of Manichean conviction believe that Satan is stronger than God and they recognise him as readily as a Christian knows Christ.’ Murad pressed his fingers together. ‘Thus the Draculesti seek refuge with one who can best understand them. That is interesting.’

  ‘Then you believe the rumours about the Dracul family?’ said the Defterdar, staring at his feet. ‘That they are the children of Iblis?’

  He stood up again. ‘The Draculesti have a fearsome reputation. That I will admit. And they are the Rumani of the Goths and therefore must not be underrated. The stories of their people are not what I would wish my armies to hear.’

  The Defterdar began to look uncomfortable, as though he had dined with the Devil and taken him for a simpleton.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘although Dracul is a slippery eel, he is also a man of learning and well respected by those who love him, even if it is true that he is not short of enemies.’ He brushed away the litter carriers – he preferred to meet visitors on his own two feet, and started to walk again.

  The Defterdar caught up. ‘Then the Manicheans admit Iblis?’

  ‘They are said to work against the Satan of the Hebrews, if that is the same thing. Perhaps we should call them the adversaries of Iblis. You would have a better grasp of it if you read the Revelations of the Greeks and the ancient Hebrew scripts…’

  ‘Which we do not possess,’ put in the Defterdar.

&nb
sp; ‘No. The Greeks have them. As they have everything,’ he muttered, ‘from Euclid to the books of Solomon the Wise. They think all wisdom issues only from the mouths of their own scholars. Pity they do not see that God does not take their part because he has taken ours.’

  ‘The guard says he overheard them speaking of a pilgrimage of sorts.’

  He huffed. ‘If they are going to Constantinople, I doubt it is a pilgrimage.’

  ‘You think he will strike a pact with the Emperor John Palaiologos?’

  Murad stared ahead. The mention of the Greek hornet’s nest reminded him of Mehmet. ‘Dracul’s pilgrimage is a mask. He has played me for a fool once too often. He will not get off so lightly this time.’

  ‘Incidentally,’ said the Defterdar, glancing at him sideways, ‘how did you find the Brankovic girl?’

  Murad eyed him dangerously. He gestured to the hayat. ‘Shall we?’

  Chapter 16

  In what the gatekeeper called the Audience Room, they waited. As though the Sultan had timed his plans to the setting of the sun, they waited. Inside the palace, the air was sweet and heavy with the fragrance of rosewater. Radu breathed it in with curious interest.

  ‘Why doesn’t he come?’ he whispered. ‘It’s not polite.’

  Their father’s mouth was set. ‘Polite is not the point.’

  ‘Then what is the point?’ Vlad stood up, confused, and walked to the window. The pane was coloured. He could not see out. Frustrated, he returned to the divan. Their arrest had shaken all of them, especially their father. Ever since Giurgiu their father had been tense, taciturn and slower in the saddle than usual. He had lost his vigour. Vlad watched him anxiously from the corner of his eye and wondered if all these years he had misunderstood him. Perhaps it was his father who was sick?

  As far as journeys went, he did not see what difference it made. If they must stop here then why not stop now? He looked around at the palace of the Turks. Turkish windows were narrow, no more than slits. The light shafted in through rose-tinted glass. A guard wearing a long crimson mantle, a tall hat and with a curved sword at his side came in and asked their father to remove his own sword. Their father did not refuse. Vlad watched the sword as they took it away.

  ‘Why did you let him have it?’ he breathed.

  ‘For all the guard knows I could mean to use it,’ his father muttered. ‘It does have a blade; it is not just ceremonial. Besides which, you do not argue with the Sultan’s own janissary guard. He has been hand-picked for fealty. Now say no more. He is coming.’

  Heavy with silks and furs and with a turban larger than his head, the Sultan entered the room in a flurry of guards. He sat immediately on the throne at the far end and looked at them with a satisfied air.

  ‘Welcome at last, Dracul. I took the liberty of sending my soldiers to accompany you. You can never be too careful on the road, you know. Bulgarian bandits can be very unpleasant. The border guard was quite concerned.’

  Their father gave a stiff bow. ‘I am sure that was thoughtful of him.’

  A great bowl of fruit was set before them from which a dwarf-like manservant invited them to eat. Radu took a piece of fruit. The Sultan watched him bite into a purple fig, and smiled. ‘Won’t you introduce your sons?’

  ‘Of course,’ said their father smoothly. ‘Here is Radu, my youngest. And there, Vladislaus.’

  ‘Vladislaus Dracula,’ said the Sultan. ‘They are fine boys. I congratulate you.’

  Vlad stared at the face of Murad the Second. It did not resemble his city, which was a hive of clutter and filth. It was a finely groomed face, topped by delicate brows that arched over his eyes like a woman’s. He did not look like a conqueror.

  ‘How was your journey here?’

  ‘Tolerable, thank you.’

  ‘The day is getting late. You will need refreshment and rest. There will be time enough to talk tomorrow.’

  ‘But we must leave before nightfall,’ said their father quickly. ‘I did not anticipate…’

  ‘You did not anticipate what, hospitality?’

  ‘That is not what I meant.’

  The Sultan filled a small bowl with fruit and gave it to a servant whose skin was black as night. The servant placed it before Vlad. He did not move a muscle. The Sultan turned back to their father. ‘And where are you going in such a hurry?’

  ‘Constantinople. I have business there.’

  ‘Business that can wait, I assume. A visit does not mean that you jump from your horse only to mount again two hours later. At least, not in my understanding.’

  Dracul hesitated. ‘Of course, my intention was not to…’

  ‘Good. Then that is decided.’ The Sultan stood up.

  Their father looked out at the falling sun in frustration; he pressed his fingers to his brow. ‘Excellency. You have asked me to come and I have come. I am happy to discuss whatever pleases you. And while I am grateful for your hospitality, I’m afraid I must insist on leaving at least in the morning. But I give you my assurance that I will return. Our patriarch at Constantinople…’

  ‘Patriarch!’ said the Sultan. ‘When did your patriarch become more important than your sovereign lord?’ He fixed their father with a look of iron. ‘You think I trust you, Dracul? No. I do not. You think I don’t know what games you play, every day when you sit on your flimsy Wallachian throne? You think I don’t know how you deal with the Hungarians and their Saxon mercenaries? You think I don’t know every move you make, every hour of every day?’

  Vlad stood up, his heart racing. Radu clung to his seat. Their father stood in stony silence. ‘You think you can throw a bag of gold at my feet with one hand while on the other side you plot and scheme against me?’ He strode towards them. ‘Your Magyar slave Hunyadi thinks he can intimidate me with his army of mercenaries, that one victory is enough to make an Osman turn and run the other way? It is not. The principle of the vassal is to support his lord and you will support yours.’

  As suddenly as it had started, the storm passed. The face fell back into its gentle form and turned to Vlad. ‘Sit down.’ He lowered himself back onto the throne, and frowned at their father. ‘You are not helping. But you will help. If you do not, you will have to pay more than a few gold coins, and that is regrettable.’ He gestured to his servant to open a chest on the floor beside him then took out two full bags. ‘As you see, I have gold. I do not need more, but what I do need is peace. Peace and the liberty to enjoy it. And you will help me.’

  ‘Even if I did help you actively against the Hungarians,’ said their father smoothly, ‘they would overrun my country in a week. Then you would be dealing not with a vassal but with an enemy that has the might of Rome at its back. You have no choice but to accept those gestures that are possible on my side. That is the truth of it.’

  Murad pulled his beard. ‘If you were to allow my army to cross your borders and set up camp where they can be useful to you…’

  ‘That I cannot do,’ their father said.

  The Sultan pursed his mouth. ‘Your friends are thin on the ground. I am the best you have and yet you continue to make things hard for yourself. What do you want – protection? You know I can give it.’

  Their father stood his ground. ‘God will protect me from my enemies, Excellency. I have no doubt of it.’

  ‘No doubt of it… Hmph!’ The Sultan flicked his robe, irritated. ‘How? You do not know who your enemy is, or you would not seek the friendship of the heirs of the Hun.’

  Their father’s hand reached out from beneath his cloak and touched the arm of the divan. Vlad watched it shake.

  ‘No. God will not protect you, Dracul. I think we both know that already.’

  Their father lowered his head. Vlad felt a wave of tension rush towards him. His father’s voice trembled. ‘I say he will, Excellency.’

  The Sultan said nothing for a long moment. Th
en he jerked up. ‘Very good. Then you may swear on it. I will bring you the Holy Book – better still, two Holy Books, yours and mine, Bible and Koran, and place them here before you, and you will put your hand on them both and tell me that God is on your side. And when you have done that, you can be on your way.’ He beckoned to the servant then raised his finger. ‘But not to Constantinople. You will return to Wallachia, since a man who has God on his side does not require a pilgrimage.’

  A profound silence came over their father, as if he were unable, or unwilling, to pronounce himself. Vlad stared at him in horror. Was he just going to stand there and do nothing? If he could not swear an oath on the book of the enemy, surely he could swear one on their own? To refuse that would be an acknowledgement that the Sultan was right, that God had taken the part of the Turks. A new fear gathered in his mind; he willed their father to open his mouth and chase away the doubt, but even as he waited, he knew it was impossible. The knowledge struck him like a blow between the ribs. God had taken nobody’s part; he had turned his back on them all. He felt the jolt of doors closing, of locks turned. He looked over at the Sultan and saw him purse his lips, satisfied.

  ‘No. I did not think you would,’ said Murad, softly. ‘You have been spending too much time in the company of Manicheans, I think.’ He looked at them and nodded to the janissary at the door. ‘Then you will swear a different vow instead. A vow of fealty to me.’ He spoke in Turkish to one of the guards.

  The guard came up behind them. In an instant of nothing, Vlad’s arms were wrenched back. He felt the grip of rope against his skin. Radu cried out. Vlad looked at him sharply, and mouthed to him to hold his tongue. He pulled slightly against the rope, then, seeing the futility, stopped.

  ‘Your sons will stay with me now as hostages to the cause of the Draculesti friendship. From now on, if you prove yourself anything less than a friend, you will have to forget them.’ Murad turned to the janissaries. ‘Take them away.’

  Their father’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘No. Please. Not my boys. Please, Excellency.’