‘Georg Kastrioti, at your service. Here, drink this.’ The man handed him a water holder.
Vlad thought about the name and realised he knew it. It was an Albanian name; the family had been vassals of the Turks for years. They were conquered princes, vassals of the sultanate.
A janissary grabbed his reins, pulled out a length of rope and spoke in rapid Turkish.
‘He says if you don’t stay quiet, he will put you on the mule.’
‘You do not bind princes.’
The Albanian smiled a little and pushed the water flask into his belt. The guard laughed and bound his wrists all the same. He looked up again at the loggia but the Sultan’s face was no longer visible; Murad was no more bothered about his outburst than a horse disturbed by a fly. But someone else was. From the corner of his eye, Vlad saw sudden movement at a latticed window below the galleried room. He stared keenly at a female face for a few moments, until the lattice closed again as fast as it had opened, and the face was gone.
Their escort was doubled at the gate. Beside it was a bunch of horses tied beneath a tree, his father’s horse, and those of their guards. He watched them until the path from the palace gardens became a track, and trees obscured the view.
They rode on into the day, following a path beside a broad, gently flowing river, either side of which were watered flatlands with high grasses that led them to what he sensed was coming: a causeway across the Sea of Marmara he had heard of that once linked the lands of Thrace to Anatolia, the heartland of the sultanate. The hills where they had slept beneath the stars were to the north of them; now they were heading south.
Georg Kastrioti rode beside him; every now and then Vlad could feel his eyes upon his face. He wondered if the Albanian had noticed that he had almost fallen from his horse, and if he had, what he would think of him now. Inside, he was bursting with questions about where they were going, what would happen to them and whether Murad would decide to release them, or if he could be persuaded to. But he was afraid to open up his mind and pour out what was in it, in case he would not be able to stop and everything would come at once: the night on Snagov Island, the crossing of the river and the wolf inside his head, and, worse still than all of these, the oath his father had been unable to pronounce.
‘Your brother is rather young to be given as a pledge.’
Vlad’s face burned. ‘We were taken, not given.’
Kastrioti glanced away. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It is more common than you think, you know, to barter hostages for favour with the Sultan. In Serbia it happens often. Durad Brankovic of Serbia has already given his daughter. She is not as young as you, but she is no great age either.’ He looked at him closely. ‘Of course, I should have seen it sooner. With those looks you must be Draculesti, the vassals of Wallachia.’
‘We are princes not vassals,’ Vlad said firmly.
A smile wavered on Kastrioti’s mouth. His face was clean-shaven; his eyes a metal grey. ‘For the moment you are neither.’
Vlad said nothing to this; he remembered the female face at the window in the palace courtyard. Was it Turkic or Serb? Then another thought struck him, one he did not like. ‘What was the barter for?’
‘What barter?’
‘If the Prince of Serbia gave the Turks his daughter, what did he want in return?’
‘Belgrade.’ Kastrioti stared ahead. ‘In case you were wondering where we are headed, it is to the fortress of Egrigoz. The place where Murad keeps his most valuable hostages,’ he added lightly. ‘So, since you and your brother are evidently of value, let me give you some advice. You will meet the Grand Vizier; he is second only to the Sultan, but that does not mean he has the same view. If you want to keep those ropes off, I suggest you make a friend of him.’
‘The Turks are my father’s enemy,’ said Vlad. ‘My father’s enemy is my enemy.’
Kastrioti passed him the water flask. With his one free hand, Vlad took it. Kastrioti smiled and shook his head.
‘It is you who are hostage here, not him.’
Chapter 20
Murad was ready to see the palace empty of all but himself and the woman who continued to return his gifts. The Defterdar he would yet tolerate, if he would just become a little more adept at knowing when not to talk. He watched his soldiers ride out of the second courtyard and through the first to the main gate, with the sons of Dracul in their midst. The boys mounted first. The eldest of the two sprang onto a wild-looking mount. If he had seen that horse, thought Murad, he would never have let them keep it in his stalls. Then the hare-brained boy took off on it. Caught off-guard, the janissaries could only watch while boy and beast tore around the courtyard.
‘Where does he think he’s going?’ said the Defterdar at his shoulder, his jaw slack.
‘Nowhere.’ He frowned. ‘Rides well, doesn’t he?’
Fortunately, Kastrioti put an end to it. Dracula and horse came to a frenzied halt. The spectacle was over. Georg Kastrioti – there was another thorn among the flowers. Kastrioti had trained as a janissary years ago. They had allowed him to rise through the ranks if only to keep him quiet. They would have to do the same with the sons of Dracul, although Vlad Dracula would almost be wasted as a janissary. He had something more, a quality Murad had not encountered even in his own sons. It attracted and compelled; it made the boy a leader. Even Kastrioti had noticed, and the Albanian rarely talked to anyone. The boy would have to be watched, but more important still, he would have to be managed. There was only one man who could manage a difficult vassal, and that, unfortunately, was the Grand Vizier, Halil Pasha. The pasha would probably not want to stay on at Egrigoz, but as a man of discretion, he would bear it without complaint. The sons of Dracul would put his talents to good use, and Egrigoz was easily accessible to messengers from the border country. Edirne would not crumble; the ministerial meetings of the divan could go on without him; there was still the Defterdar, who was perfectly able to manage administrative duties in his absence.
Murad continued to watch until the entire party had ridden their horses beyond the second gate and the courtyard was empty and silent. Then, with a sigh of relief, and a last brief turn around the kiosk, he made his way over to the Chamber of Stone in his habitual swift stride.
He found his gatekeeper listening at the door with more than a little trepidation. The day had started badly: there had been disquiet in the night. The third door had had to double its guard. The Chamber of Stone, where Dracul of the Rumani had spent the night, was surrounded by nervous guards, who had made numerous returns to the chamber on account of the voices they swore they’d heard inside talking through the night, only to find the prince recumbent on the divan seemingly silent and motionless. The other side of that door, they said, there was something that might or might not be called human. Whatever the creature was, the gatekeeper was in no hurry to find out. The previous evening the Imperial Chamberlain had sent an attendant in with food and wine. He had come out quickly, white as a sheet. Bowls had been upturned; porcelain lay on the floor in pieces. Murad had dismissed it with a wave of the hand. They could not expect Dracul to have an appetite. ‘He is only one man,’ Murad told the gatekeeper in disgust. Then, as he said it, he wondered about the many faces of the Devil, and asked himself which one he had seen, and how many were still hidden. The attendant had begged the Imperial Chamberlain not to send him back in. The Imperial Chamberlain had capitulated, and they had left Dracul to his own company until morning. In the late hours of darkness, the gossip of the third courtyard found its way into the fourth. Did the Rumani sleep? Did they converse with demons? Were they demons? Murad threw up his hands and complained that if such imaginings reached the ears of his guards, he would see to it that the servant who had spread them not only lost his position but also his tongue. After that, only the Imperial Chamberlain, who laboured under the illusion of his own uniqueness, had courage to speak. ‘May I offer
the suggestion, Highness, that we double the guard. After the events of the night…’
Murad pushed him aside. ‘I think I can deal with a Rumani.’
The palace was beginning to wake up. There were the usual noises and movements, the trickle of water at the fountain and the faint chatter of the women and the servants washing; pots and pans in the palace kitchens; the guards baiting beggars at the gate. But these sounds, these other-worldly voices, these baleful whispers did not belong in the halls of emperors. They were, the gatekeeper assured him, more like the chatter of demons.
He entered the Chamber of Stone and looked around. Dracul was standing with his back to him. The guard moved to correct it, but he raised a hand. He would allow Dracul room for displeasure. Human decency demanded it. He cleared his throat and Dracul turned. At full sight of him, Murad took a step back. The guard stiffened. Was this Dracul? Was this the trembling prince who had baulked at the sight of the Holy Book? His face was utterly changed; there was blind ferocity, terrible and pure. There was purpose, and there was villainy. Murad caught his breath. As though waking from a trance, the guard beside him seized his halberd.
Suddenly, with a power that surprised them, Dracul sprang forward, grasping the janissary by the throat and hurling aside his poleaxe. He threw the guard to the ground with a gesture and turned on Murad like a wolf.
‘Be careful,’ Murad growled, his heart pounding. ‘Be careful what you do.’ But the urge to back away was overpowering. He tried to meet the gaze, but he knew it would devour him, digest him, and spew him out. His hands met the wall instead. He pressed against it gratefully as the guards streamed in. Twenty janissaries pointed twenty halberds at the throat of the wolf.
‘You fool; I have your sons.’
Dracul staggered back.
Murad summoned his wits. He had known battle, but not like this. In battle a man came at you with his sword and his axe, and you respected him for it, but eye, tooth and claw were another matter. ‘I should kill you now, without a second’s delay, for that,’ Murad said, in a low voice. ‘It is fortunate for you that I am not disposed to. And even if I were, you would not be the only one to suffer.’
The words had their effect, as Murad knew they would. The fire in Dracul’s eyes died down; his arms fell limp. His hair, long and dark, hung over the side of his face, hiding a pitiful profile. Murad took a deep but silent breath.
‘I see that you are ready for sense. Good.’
They crossed the hayat to the imperial audience chamber beyond the pavilion, where business was conducted, Dracul a black mark in a sea of jade and crimson between the ranks of his private guard. The Defterdar was waiting at the entrance. He greeted Dracul with a stammer of civility. The vassal prince was by now completely calm, utterly changed from the state of blind fury that had struck terror into the guards; he acknowledged the Defterdar clumsily, like a man just come to his senses.
The Treasurer fumbled at his desk. ‘I have the scroll ready, Highness. It simply requires an oath, a signature and a seal.’
Murad turned to Dracul. ‘I will ask you now to enter into firm agreement over the nature of your allegiance to me, as both vassal and ally. Are you ready to take an oath? You know the consequences of breaking such an oath, I think, but still I will make it plain. I accept your sons as a token of your fealty. Will you give it?’
‘Yes.’
The Defterdar handed him a quill.
Dracul looked up. ‘In ink or blood?’
The Defterdar scowled, and pushed a pot of ink towards Dracul, with which he signed his name. The scroll was blotted and sealed. The business was over. Now, thought Murad, a little peace. He gestured to a divan and ordered service. ‘You may as well sit,’ he said as the servant served them fruit, ‘unless you intend to kill me with your bare hands in the middle of my own hayat.’
The Defterdar stifled a nervous laugh.
Murad looked at his old enemy and ally. He did not speak because he was humiliated. He looked away politely, and let compassion in.
‘Might I ask a question?’
‘By all means.’
‘Where have you taken my sons?’
‘Ah!’ Murad picked up a pomegranate and held it in his hand, weighing it up. ‘That is my affair, not yours. Suffice to say that they will be well looked after, well taught and well fed. Is that not enough for you? I think it should be.’
‘My elder son, Vladislaus, is not well. You would do better to return him to me. I can make amends in other ways.’
Murad leaned back and crossed his fingers. ‘You wish to sacrifice one son for the other, while your own son, Vladislaus, offered himself in lieu of his brother,’ he said suddenly. No sooner had he said it than he remembered how he wanted to forget it. How words will come from nowhere, he thought, and take a man by surprise. His brow furrowed deeply. ‘One son is as good as another, and besides, I need them both.’ What was the old devil up to? His nose told him there was a rat somewhere. Was he planning something? What was he planning? What could he plan, given the circumstances? I do not trust him, thought Murad. I would sooner trust a woman.
‘In spite of our alliance,’ said Dracul suddenly, ‘I should tell you, Highness, that I think you misunderstood my response to you yesterday, when you asked if I would swear an oath on the Holy Book that God is on my side. You see,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘I believe that God must make himself known to us in other ways than bloodshed. God is on the side of right and good. Evil deeds will turn you from him, or him from you. A prince who wages war does not have right on his side. You attack our lands and we defend them. But I have never sought to take yours.’
Heat rose to Murad’s face. ‘Do not think that you can be saved by a bunch of monks and a Manichean friar, Dracul, or by old Greek friends like John Palaiologos. Like every Greek, he thinks he has the world in the palm of his hand. But he doesn’t. So I suggest you remember that next time you make a choice about where to put your soldiers. Rest assured that the Patriarchate of Constantinople will soon find that there is nobody on their side except a few fickle Genoese and half a dozen Venetians.’
Dracul said nothing more, his lips sealed by his sons.
Murad stood up. ‘You shall stay a while longer, I think. When you do go, remember what has been said here, else you may live to regret it.’
There are days, thought Murad as he crossed the hayat to his private chambers, when a man must traverse a whole chain of mountains thirsty before he can finally take his rest beside a stream. This was such a day. He shuddered involuntarily; the expression of Dracul’s eyes had not been easy to look at. Were he not the kind of man who waved aside such things, he might have called it the evil eye, the means by which Iblis made his mark on the lives of those he could not reach. Irritated by his own sudden susceptibility, he muttered a prayer beneath his breath for fortitude, cursed his impiety and summoned the Kizlar.
‘Has Madam the Valide Hatun returned from Manisa yet?’
‘Yes, Highness. Late last night.’
Perfect. ‘See that Mara Brankovic is made ready for travel. Oh, and ask Mehmet Celebi to come. I need to speak with him.’
He paced up and down in the pavilion. He would keep things simple. His son was excitable; he would be calm. Thus were the arrogant brought to heel: with calmness and a stratagem. Let Mehmet rack his head to settle affairs of empire, and he would be less inclined to toss it around like a stallion. Besides which, any more argument today and he would be obliged to find someone to shout at who did not matter, and that, he never liked to do.
Mehmet brushed past the gatekeeper and the Imperial Chamberlain. ‘You wanted to see me, Father?’
‘I have decided to give you your chance. I am going away; while I am away I want you to play a greater role than you have so far played. You will prepare; you will train harder, and you will watch over business. Now that you have been declared the heir, you m
ust learn how things are done. And since you are so keen to learn, I have decided to make you regent.’
The hair on Mehmet’s arms rose up like stalks. His eye kindled. ‘I will not disappoint you, Father. You can be sure of that.’
‘Can I?’ his father said. ‘We will see. But there are conditions. The first is that I want you at Egrigoz for the season. I have sent the sons of Dracul of Wallachia to the fortress, partly because it is the safest place for them, and partly because I want to see them properly managed.’
‘Managed? If their father is a vassal… and anyway, as regent, shouldn’t I stay here at the palace? Surely…’
‘Their father is a difficult vassal, and they will be just as difficult when he is gone. If we take Constantinople, their patriarchate, they will be even more difficult, unless they are brought into line early. I want them to be Turks. Better still, I want them to be Osmani. In any case, I will not be in Edirne; I will be at Manisa, so you will be closer to the front than I.’
‘And if I do not wish to go?’
‘If you do not wish to go, you will not be regent at all.’
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 12
