‘And what is that?’
Mehmet smiled, but only with his lips. ‘Brothers get in the way. The sooner they are removed from the order of things, the better.’
Vlad tilted his head. The Sultan’s son was revealing something to him; what was he revealing?
Mehmet turned his face away. ‘I saw you in the courtyard with Kastrioti. You hold a sword very well. The Grand Vizier thinks you would make a good janissary. But I think you could do much better than that. If you like, you could work for me. I need a good manservant. I think you would do very well.’
After a lifetime of sleep, Radu woke up. Before Vlad could answer, Radu was already talking. ‘The Sultan did not say we would be servants. He said we were his guests. A guest is not a servant.’
‘That is very brave of you,’ said Mehmet softly, glancing back at Vlad. ‘A little courage is not a bad thing, but impertinence is. Still, I think it better that you leave us now. You don’t want to make trouble for your brother, do you, and you will if you speak like that.’
Vlad seized his brother’s arm. ‘Stay where you are.’
Radu stared back, his eyes wide with fear.
Mehmet paced over to the hearth, hands on hips. When he turned back, his expression had changed. ‘I have said that your brother must go. Now he will go. You forget that you are both vassals. A vassal does as he is directed. I would have thought you had understood that by now, but perhaps you haven’t.’
Vlad pushed Radu back behind him. ‘A vassal is a prince who has been conquered. The Rumani have not been conquered. It is my father who decides the fate of our people and our armies. One day it will be me and when it is, there will be no more talk of vassals or tributes or hostages.’
Mehmet said nothing for a moment then walked over to the attendant. ‘Take the younger one back to his quarters.’
‘Leave him where he is,’ Vlad called.
The attendant looked from one to the other.
Mehmet smiled. His eyes hid something, a hunger Vlad knew because he had felt it every day of his life. The Sultan had made Mehmet regent, but it was not enough. Only the sultanate would be enough, and Mehmet would do anything to get it.
‘If I give an instruction to that guard over there,’ Mehmet whispered, nodding at the gatekeeper by the door, ‘he will throw you both out in an instant. Why don’t you cooperate, Dracula? We could be friends, you and I.’
He stirred himself. ‘A friend is not a hostage. You would have to give me back my liberty first. Why not give the order now? You are regent, aren’t you?’
Mehmet laughed. ‘Very good. Well said. I could give the order if I wanted to, of course, but you are forgetting that I am an Osman and you are a Rumani from the wilds.’ In the far corner of the room, the attendant fumbled with a tray as Mehmet pointed him out. ‘You are no different to my servant, Dracula. He is, like you, a vassal, but as you can see, he is serving coffee, not giving orders. It has nothing to do with status, you see, and everything to do with advantage.’
When they had walked through the corridors and crossed the courtyard, he took Radu by the arms and sat him down. ‘Next time I tell you not to speak, I expect you to be silent.’
Radu looked down at his feet. ‘Will they make us slaves?’ he whispered.
Vlad put a hand beneath his brother’s chin and pulled it up. ‘We will never be slaves. I swear it.’
A wave of relief passed over Radu’s face, but behind it there was doubt. ‘Halil Pasha says if we don’t show obedience, there will be a punishment. What kind of punishment?’ Doubt turned to terror, but before he could reassure his younger brother, tears filled Radu’s eyes. ‘My leg still hurts from the fall. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d worry.’
He made Radu lie down flat and pulled down the hose beneath his tunic. The journey seemed so far away now, like a dream that had not happened. He looked at the scar and pressed it gently. The wound had healed well enough, but a patch of skin like fired charcoal covered one side of the thigh above the knee. ‘It’s a bruise, that’s all. You must have knocked it somewhere.’ He pulled the hose up carefully. As he did, he noticed that the skin of his own arm was covered with a rash of red. He moved it out of Radu’s sight.
‘You must keep away from Mehmet. Leave him to me. If there’s any more talking to be done, I will do it myself.’
Radu wiped his eyes. ‘Will they teach me Turkish too?’
Distracted, Vlad sat back and did not answer. His mind was running on, faster than Radu’s talk, so fast in fact that he could barely hold it down onto one thought. He had suddenly remembered the Sultan’s face the day of their arrest at the Palace of Edirne. Murad had mentioned his son, but there was more than one son in this Osmani nest of snakes. Mehmet was one, but who was the other? Who was the brother Mehmet had removed from his ‘order of things’ with such satisfaction?
There was only one person he could think of who loathed the Osmani family sufficiently to tell him and that was Gurani. If anyone would give him the truth about Murad and his sons it would be a Kurd, not a Turk. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt and looked at the rash on his arm. At least he no longer walked in his sleep. On the contrary, he slept so deeply now that every time he woke he was born anew, stronger. Nevertheless, the arm would have to be attended to. He waited until Radu was asleep, then bathed it and wrapped it in cloth. When that was done, he went over to the chest beneath the window slit of their chamber and found what he was looking for. He unfolded the hide and pulled out the codex of the Book of Job his father had given him, and which Halil Pasha had produced on the day of their arrival at Egrigoz. If his father had given him the codex, there would have been a reason for it; now was as good a time as any to find out what it was. Holding the candle closer, he opened the cover of the codex and turned the first page. As the chill of the night settled on the fortress walls, winged insects laboured for a passage through its cracks, drawn by the lure of his candle’s flame and the promise of comfort and light.
Chapter 27
‘No, I will not be calm.’
The Emperor of Constantinople pointed his finger in Dracul’s face. ‘Your name is written in your own hand at the bottom of the Dragon’s Oath to defend Christendom against the Turks. And now you come and tell me that you cannot uphold it, that you, Dracul of Wallachia, are no better than the Catholics.’ The Emperor stared at him in disbelief. ‘What are you – afraid?’
‘Not afraid,’ said Dracul. ‘Cornered.’
As he’d kissed the hand of his emperor, Dracul had known that John Palaiologos would find much to reproach him for. He had not done enough. His treaty with the Turks had been close to the bone. If the Emperor did not know him as he did, he would have thrown him in the dungeon of Anemas. Still, he had at least come. Only Hunyadi had not, despite the hurried message Dracul had sent him imploring his presence. He had looked for the Hungarian captain’s horses and standard in the stables. Nothing. He had taken a few moments to collect himself in the stable courtyard, and relived his last encounter with Janos Hunyadi. Saving the city is an act of faith. But did Hunyadi have that faith – did he have enough? Had all that was Orthodox in him been thrust aside by the Roman Catholics, or by too many indecisive battles, when a man looked at a field of blood and asked himself what it was all for? A show of unity was what he needed to bring his sons home and save Constantinople, and Hunyadi would have to deliver it.
He took his seat on one of the long lines of couches around the edges of the imperial reception hall, beyond the guard of the gate. Mosaics coloured the ground at his feet. Mythical creatures roamed across the splinters of alabaster; Dionysus dined from the walls. Before, he would have found his refuge here in this world he knew and loved, but not today, not when his mere presence at the palace was a danger to his sons. Even if Hunyadi did come, there was one hurdle still to cross, and that hurdle was Rome, stronghold of cardinals and popes. Riding through the
Chalke Gate into the square of the senate, Dracul had felt the past tap him on the shoulder. He’d turned to face the Mese, the great thoroughfare of Constantinople, beyond which Via Egnatia carved the way west. One long road to Rome, and in between, a chasm.
Constantine placed a hand on his brother’s arm. ‘John, you do not know the whole of the facts. The Draculesti sons are the hostages of the Ottomans. He cannot put them at risk.’
‘Risk! Do we not risk something? Our way of life? Our world?’
‘Please forgive my brother. We are all exhausted. You know that Sofia has still not been taken back?’
Dracul nodded. ‘It was not the right moment. I could have told them.’
‘But you didn’t, did you,’ growled the Emperor.
‘We are grateful that you have come,’ continued Constantine. ‘It is just that…’
Dracul stopped him. Noise in the corridors. Voices at the door. Hunyadi. He lowered his head. Thank God.
‘Imperator.’ Hunyadi bowed.
Dracul seized his arm. ‘I am happy to see you, my friend.’
Hunyadi gave a short bow then backed away, his face tight. Dracul stared after him.
They sat on couches in the Old Roman way. Tall windows peered across the battlements of the great city wall. Small boats passed the Horn, their sails pulled by the wind, their hulls buoyed by the Bosphorus. The Emperor’s commander-in-chief removed his sword and sat on a couch between the two Palaiologos brothers, one Emperor, the other Emperor-in-waiting. John had no heir. He was three times married but childless. People said it was because the throne of the Greek Emperor was meant for his brother Constantine, that the city was his namesake, and that in the hands of this calm and fearless sibling its destiny reposed.
At last, Hunyadi turned to him. ‘So you are back at last, then?’
‘I was detained.’
‘I heard. I have an answer for you. Your letter to the Cardinal. He says that your words have given him much to think about.’
‘We need acts, not words, Janos,’ he muttered, ‘you know that.’
Hunyadi nodded slowly, and turned to the Emperor. His Eminence, Pope Eugenius, has instructed me, Your Excellency, to deliver a message, which he hopes will be a welcome one in your hour of need.’
‘You make it sound as though I am the only one in need, Captain Hunyadi,’ the Emperor replied lightly. ‘Does the Pope forget that ruin here can only lead to ruin elsewhere? Islam is contagious. Albania is already in her power. Serbia and Bosnia cannot be far behind.’
The servants brought food. Hunyadi stared at his plate.
Dracul stood up. ‘We have seen what happened at Sofia. A breakthrough is not impossible. It can succeed. But we must choose the right target. The coastal port of Varna is dangerously close to the Danube River. If we can hold Varna, the port is ours, and the Danube delta will be harder to enter with a large fleet from the sea. We could push them back almost as far as Edirne.’
‘And then what, Dracul? Rescue your sons?’ said Hunyadi.
There was a silence.
Constantine glanced his way. Dracul saw him raise his hand slightly.
‘If Radu and Vladislaus can be released,’ said Constantine, ‘then so much the better. Captain Hunyadi, how many men will you send to help us this time?’
The Emperor froze in his chair. His commander-in-chief filled his glass, and toyed with it.
‘To Varna? I cannot say. Not for certain. It depends on…’
‘On whether or not we give satisfaction to the Pope?’ said the Emperor, smiling thinly. ‘I do not think you have delivered the whole of your message, Captain. Why don’t you do it now? Let me make it easy for you. His Eminence the Pope is doing his best, Imperator. The Council of Florence was not the success we hoped it would be. Of course there was an agreement, or something resembling an agreement at least, but unfortunately it was not quite enough. And then, there will be his version. Most Pious Friend. He will begin like that, I imagine. Our disputes are not disputes; they are misunderstandings. You have misunderstood God’s word. Now you ask us for help. We offer a council to discuss our differences. You say they are resolvable. But let me put it this way. If you are ready to put your signature to a proper union, to accept the word of God as our One Word, we will send you every aid. But we cannot promise our support in the face of your anarchy. Is that it, Janos, or was there something else?’
Hunyadi looked away.
The Emperor sat down. ‘I thought so.’
‘Unfortunately, Captain,’ said the commander-in-chief, ‘we are short of mercenaries. Evidently you pay better than we do.’
Constantine rose from the table. ‘So, will you send a full army, Captain Hunyadi, or won’t you?’
There was numb silence. All eyes on one man. ‘I am sorry. My hands are tied.’
Riveted to his seat, Dracul felt his head lighten. The chasm between Catholic and Orthodox gaped apart; Constantinople would disappear inside it. He thought of his sons, and closed his eyes. ‘I will send men. I will send an army.’
John Palaiologos frowned at him. ‘And your boys? What about them?’
Hunyadi stared past him out of the window. The wind had dropped. Oars emerged from the sides of boats. Hands reached out for a tide that would not turn. Dracul asked for wine. A glass was filled; he stared bleakly into it, and drank. ‘I do not know.’
Constantine grabbed his arm. They walked out onto the balcony. The straits pointed east, the finger of a Greek hand. He looked at the water and saw himself in it, a man tossed about with his arms chained. Constantine spoke.
‘There is the Golden Horn. Beyond it lies the closed sea; on through the straits is the sea of the Greeks, and south of that is Old Alexandria. Did you ever go, Dracul, to Alexandria? I did. It is still a beautiful city, you know, even if the library has gone.’
Dracul roused himself. He ran both hands through his hair and breathed deeply. The air was warm and salty, a mariner’s sigh.
‘I am sorry that your position is what it is. Truly sorry. If I can do anything, I…’
‘We both stand upon the edge of a precipice, do we not?’ He looked into Constantine’s face. ‘As you have seen, I am ready to do what I can, whatever the cost. I can see what is passing through your mind as clearly as if it were passing through my own. The light of the Greeks will go out.’
‘Many lights will go out,’ said Constantine, and touched his arm. He glanced back into the hall. ‘Get your cloak and come with me.’
They stepped into a waiting litter. He wore red sandals on his feet, the Emperor’s brother; they flashed out from beneath the pale fabric of his robe. Nothing about him was predictable, his words unexpected, delivered like sudden thoughts. ‘My brother John has been under great strain. At night he dreams of the ships that will come, and the breaching of the wall. You will have to forgive him. I have not seen you since – when was it? Perhaps two decades since you were last here, but you’ve barely aged a day. What is your secret?’ Constantine held up his hand. ‘No, don’t share it. The longer I live, the more chance I shall have of becoming emperor myself, and that, I will admit, is a trial that frightens me.’
The library of Constantinople was a domed stone colossus like a temple of Old Rome, with pillars raised high either side of a great facade.
‘Bigger than you remember?’ said Constantine, his eyes shining.
Dracul gazed up. The pillars went on forever, like stone arms reaching to the sky. The structure surpassed the height of many men, but now it sat in desolation, surrounded by a blackened shell of crumbling stone walls, in part restored and rebuilt, in part abandoned. They climbed the steps and went inside. There was a smell of resin, charcoal and something else he could not name.
‘Camphor. Our worst enemies are the moths. Moths and damp. The wood moulders above us as the grass grows beneath our feet. What has not been burned has b
een watered to death. Papyrus crumbles; parchment cracks. But I have no doubt that a worse fate awaits whatever is left behind once the city is taken.’
‘Then you have given up hope?’
Constantine looked at him through the dark. ‘No. I have faced the truth. It is not the same thing.’
In the cavernous twilight of the library, tables heaved beneath the weight of parchment; clerks and scholars sat side by side, arguing the merits of this codex and that one, unfurling scrolls that smelled of ancient hide and peering at the script through rounds of glass. Around the walls attendants dipped into the shelves like bees reaching into a hive. They entered another chamber, this one bigger than the last. At the highest point, ladders rose up to the oldest of the scrolls. A net was raised. From the shelf above him, a fine powder of dust fell to the ground. Dark space yawned upwards. Constantine lifted the lantern, and climbed. Moments later, he returned to ground level with a thick pile of books in his hand.
‘The age is such that we have to keep them high. It’s the damp, you see, that does the damage.’ Constantine handed the pile to an attendant, picked up the topmost codex, and showed it to him. ‘The Almagest. The original script of Ptolemy’s treatise on mathematics and astronomy.’
‘Ptolemy of Alexandria? But I thought…’
‘That it was lost in the fire? So did many others. But it is here, safe and in quite good order for a codex that is over a thousand years old.’ Constantine smiled. ‘The Pope thinks that because he has Plato, he has everything. But as you can see, he hasn’t.’
Dracul picked up the codex delicately and held it in his hand. He opened the first page. The script was Greek, painstakingly written in small lettering with the finest of quills.
‘Incredible,’ he muttered.
‘As you say, incredible. More than that, its value is beyond estimation. What we have – what we still have – is nothing less than the greatest store of knowledge mankind has ever possessed, perhaps the greatest he will ever possess. The question, as I said before, is what will happen to it, should it fall into the wrong hands.’
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 16
