The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  ‘You think the Turks will burn them?’

  ‘It would not be the first time. Remember Alexandria. When the Mohammedans took the city, much was lost. It is the habit of a conqueror to destroy what stands in his way, and the philosophy of the Greeks weakened the doctrines of the Muslims as it weakens the doctrine of anyone who seeks power in its absolute form. Plato was well aware that absolute power corrupts, even in those who believe themselves above it.’

  ‘You mean the clergy?’

  ‘Especially the clergy.’ Constantine dismissed the attendant and moved in close, searching his face. ‘We simply cannot risk it, Dracul. Florence tells me that the tide is turning in favour of the Greeks in scholastic circles, but if we are not careful, the progress we have made so far will be used against us.’

  The wing of a moth hit the lantern with a hollow tap. Constantine scooped it up. ‘I have begun the process of sorting, and by the time the year is out, I intend to remove the most precious of our scrolls and send them out of the city.’

  Dracul moved into the lamplight. How long had he been waiting for this moment? Perhaps for all his life. I want the Rumani to be great again. With the knowledge of the Greeks at their fingertips, they could be, but without it they would fall back into that dusk of the past, the one that did not end.

  ‘Where will you send them?’

  ‘Into the hands of men who are ready to read them as the word of man and reason: to Florence.’

  He closed his eyes. Then he must plead. He could do that.

  ‘You know what I have done, and what I will do if I can. I have put my sons at risk to buy more time for the city. Give us this chance. Send the scrolls to Wallachia. The Rumani will protect them. I would give my life for such a cause. You must let me do it.’

  Constantine looked away. ‘With the Ottomans at your throat and the Holy Roman Empire at your shoulder?’

  ‘But you cannot send them out of Orthodox hands! Once they leave this city, they will be gone for good. We will never get another chance.’

  ‘I cannot. I am sorry, Dracul, but it is too dangerous.’

  ‘But if we succeed at Varna, the way north will be clear.’ An old pain rose to the surface. He fought it down. ‘You do not trust me.’

  ‘It is not as simple as that, Dracul. You have done your utmost with Hunyadi, but he is Rome’s man now, and there is nothing you can do about it. I know you want the best for your country and your people, but what we do now will change everything; I will go so far as to say that even the future of the whole of Christendom may rest on what happens to these scrolls.

  He shook his head. ‘But Florence is…’

  ‘In the lap of Rome? No, I think not. The influence runs more the other way around. Florence values truth and beauty; Rome buys them.’

  ‘And the rest of the apocryphal texts? The Book of Job, for instance?’

  ‘Many copies have been made of Job’s story,’ said Constantine, ‘and the text itself is enough to fuel a larger fire than even a Greek could put out. Why does God not love us? That was Job’s question in the face of all the evil that befell him. The question has never been answered. The Greeks raised it with Epicurus centuries ago. Is God willing to prevent evil but not able to do so, or is he able but not willing? We do not know, but the Greeks are still ready to talk about it. The only trouble is, we are on our own. And after today’s encounter with Captain Hunyadi, I do not expect that to change.’

  Constantine stood up. ‘We are still fighting the same demons, Dracul; they have not gone away, even if the Pope would like to claim they have. You want the Greek scrolls, but you cannot protect them. The Turks want the city, but they do not know its worth. That leaves the Church of Rome, the Pope and the Holy Roman Empire, which all speak with one voice, or at least appear to.’ He closed the codex carefully. ‘You have already seen their attitude towards their Orthodox brothers, but Wallachia is as much under their scrutiny as we are. Florence is our best hope; I am sure of it.’

  Constantine picked up the lantern. ‘Come, I want to show you something. I have wanted to show you for a long time, but I think that now, more than ever, you need to see it.’ He placed a hand on Dracul’s arm. ‘Please, follow me.’

  They passed into another chamber. A false dusk fled before the lantern. Outside the library, a bright sun shone. Shafts of it shot through high windows in every chamber and filtered to the floor as mosaics of stolen gold.

  They came to a table. The attendant descended the ladder with an old folded codex. Dracul sat on a bench, rested his hands on the table and leaned over it. The illustrations took his breath. There was gold leaf and cobalt; the script was Greek.

  ‘Stephanus of Alexandria copied our oldest scroll into codex over one thousand years ago.’ Constantine stopped at an illustration of a man standing at the entrance to a cave. In his hand he held a scroll, while above his head was a golden aura. ‘You may call it a prophecy, but we called it fate.’

  ‘The Book of Revelation,’ murmured Dracul.

  ‘Yes. My brother will not hear it spoken of. It frightens all of us. The Latins would say that he was one of their own, the apostle known as John and the writer of the gospel of the same name. But of course he was a Greek. He lived on Patmos, an island just down the coast.’

  ‘My father told me of the visions of John the Greek,’ said Dracul. ‘The story of the Revelations in the cave of Patmos island has been a particular passion in our family, both good and bad. I know they predict that Constantinople will fall.’

  ‘They predict more than that.’ Constantine paused. Dracul could sense a well of sadness. ‘The visions have been interpreted by some as a prediction of the end of an age. Our age, the age of the Greeks.’ Constantine took a swatch of silk and turned the page. ‘There is no direct reference to our city, but there are frequent allusions. This one, for instance.’

  Dracul stared at the script. The hairs on the nape of his neck caught a draught of air, and prickled. The beady eye of the dragon stared up at him from the page. ‘The dragon gives power unto the beast,’ he muttered. He turned his face away. ‘I have heard this reference before. It is written on the emblem of my forebears.’

  ‘The dragon and the wolf,’ said Constantine softly. ‘I know. But do not let it overpower you. Your reputation and your friendship with us have put you in danger, and you should heed the signs.’ Constantine leaned back, examining his face. ‘Take it as a warning, not a condemnation. You see yourself in these pages because that is what you fear, and because the dragon and the wolf are tied to your name, but think again before you form a judgement. ‘There is more to the legend of the dragon than your ancestral emblem. The prophecy in these pages tells of a rider on a white horse, a conqueror. But not just any conqueror.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Constantine closed the book. ‘You know of course the story of Saint George?’

  ‘The dragon slayer?’

  ‘That is the Church of Rome’s account,’ said Constantine firmly. ‘But in fact the dragon, arch symbol of Satan, was never slain. Dominated, but not killed. Nor was Saint George the real name of the one whom John the Greek singled out as the saviour of the day. As with so many of the stories of the Greeks and early pagan peoples, the legend of George and the dragon was used by the Church of Rome in a fight that is set to play out over the centuries to come, as it was played out in the beginning, at the very foundation of Apocrypha, and the scrolls of both the Manicheans and the Greeks have always foreseen it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  Constantine touched his arm. ‘It is my belief that the warning in this prophecy is linked not to your family but to the Order of the Dragon itself, namely the Crusades and those who fuel them.’ He paused, his expression bleak and empty. ‘It is the dragon of the Order, not the dragon of the emblem.’

  ‘The Church of Rome?’

  He
stood up.

  Constantine watched him. ‘Not only the Church of Rome; remember that the Holy Roman Empire stands close beside it. Too close, some would say, for safety. I know it seems that I am reading in the prophecy what we are feeling in our bones, but perhaps instinct points to truth. When the final hour comes, and we are crouching in our homes, alone and friendless as the invader strikes his fatal blow, you will see for yourself where the real evil lies. I do not think it will come from you, Dracul.’

  He bowed his head. Somewhere in the depths of the library an assistant was calling numbers. Was it possible, he thought, that he had used up his life in the service of an even greater evil than the one that he had lived with every day? If so, then Friar Anton had been right. Salvation lies within, not at the transept of a Christian church. What else had Anton been right about?

  ‘A Manichean, a friend, told me you had other scrolls.’ He took a breath. ‘He claimed that the scrolls of my ancestors were here within these walls, as part of the apocryphal texts. Naturally, I…’

  ‘You did not expect it to be true?’ said Constantine, with half a smile. ‘Ah, but it is.’ He stood up. ‘There was barely a scroll in the region that did not pass through the scribes of this city. When Alexandria was blazing, they sent their books here, those they could salvage. Many of the apocryphal texts were Greek, you know, not Hebrew at all. Some, like the trials of Zalmoxis, were preserved by Manicheans as the record of your ancestors, the Goths of old. But you know that better than I do, I am sure.’ Constantine placed a hand on his. ‘I know you want to change Wallachia, and perhaps these scrolls will help you put the past to rest, but please, my friend, do not torture yourself with demons that may or may not be real. Think only of what I told you. The danger lies elsewhere. If the Catholic cardinals were to acquire and read the Manichean Revelations of the scrolls of Zalmoxis, I fear that the outcome would not be in your favour.

  Dracul stiffened. ‘I have given my life in the service of Christendom; they cannot turn their backs on me. Not now.’

  ‘I think you are forgetting Hunyadi,’ said Constantine, softly. ‘They already have.’

  Dracul rubbed his throat. The air in the library was starting to stifle him.

  ‘You are unwell. Let us find the sun again.’ Constantine turned to his attendant and gave a rapid order in Greek. The attendant reappeared with a rolled pouch of hide and they stepped into bright sunlight. The dark of the library fell away; piercing beauty took its place.

  ‘Let my men take you back,’ said Constantine. ‘The roads are not safe.’ He turned, and pressed the roll of hide into Dracul’s hand. ‘I am giving these over to you for safekeeping. Inside you will find the scrolls of Zalmoxis intact and complete, exactly as they were when the Manichean scribes set them onto parchment. It seems only right, since they concern you more than anyone, that they should be under your guard. I hope that they will give you the illumination that you seek. But be careful. Remember the warning of the Book of Revelation. The Church of Rome will use your name against you. Even now it has but one thought, and that is to destroy the Greeks and all their friends, especially those who call themselves Orthodox.’

  A fresh breeze stirred his hair. Somewhere there was birdsong. As the litter swayed through the narrow streets and crossed the Mese, Dracul looked out of the window. The great dome of the Hagia Sophia rose above the rooftops, glinting in the last rays of the day. He thought of the pilgrimage he had not made and wondered again what forces had been at work to place his son beyond his reach.

  The thoroughfare was quiet, too quiet. Streets that had once been full were now shells of habitations, their shutters closed. The metropolis was already dying. Constantine accepted it; not only had he accepted it, he was even making ready for it. Why was it so hard for him to do the same? He wrapped his fingers around the roll of hide the Emperor’s brother had given him, the scrolls that told the story of Zalmoxis. Anton had said that Zalmoxis had found a way through the darkness, and the Manicheans had understood it. Would the key to his salvation then lie within the pages of these rolls? He leaned back against the cushion of the litter. Constantine had given him back his life. Now he would have to read it.

  Chapter 28

  Ever since the arrival of Mehmet Celebi at the fortress of Egrigoz, there had been few signs of life from the quarters of the heir. Even at mealtimes, when most of the inhabitants of the fortress descended into the dining hall to see something other than mountains and stone, Mehmet Celebi had been absent. He took his meals in private, emerging from the imperial apartments only to take the air on the ramparts or speak to some of the guards. It was clear that he was more than content to leave the day-to-day running of the sultanate in the hands of Halil Pasha. The Sultan’s son was proving to be what Halil Pasha had always suspected he was: ambitious perhaps, but lazy nonetheless. The other day he had been almost certain he had smelled a whiff of opium in the air outside the veiled curtain. No doubt if he questioned Mehmet on the matter, Mehmet would say that he was taking it for his head, but since the boy’s head was never put to much use, it could hardly be aching, unless for want of employment. Perhaps if the Sultan had been there, Halil Pasha could have made another attempt at opening his eyes about the error of the regency. Unfortunately for all of them, Murad was in Manisa, putting off the business of empire while he fumbled for the pleasures of a female. But some things could not be put off, and war was one of them.

  The thought of war weighed heavy on his mind as he climbed the steps of the eastern tower and reached the door and guard. He did not like war. Lives should not be taken for plunder. He wondered, at times, if they should even be taken for God.

  ‘Tell His Highness that I have news that cannot wait.’ The guard vanished inside. He stood outside the door. There was the sound of voices, followed by a long silence. He flicked his robe impatiently.

  Eventually, Mehmet appeared at the entrance to his chambers wearing a silk gown, open at the chest. ‘What do you want? What cannot wait?’

  ‘News from your generals,’ he said drily.

  Mehmet stared past him. ‘Come,’ he said, and nodded to the guard.

  In the chambers of the eastern tower, an air of Edirne prevailed. The clinging damp of Egrigoz was loosened by scented oil burning in a corner. In another there was movement. Halil Pasha moved his eyes there. Seeing what it was, he closed them.

  ‘Well?’ said Mehmet. ‘What is this news then?’

  He swallowed and licked his lips. ‘The Pope of Rome has called for a Crusade. He hesitated, trying to look ahead. ‘We need to seize the moment.’

  ‘Seize the moment?’

  ‘The present moment,’ he repeated firmly. He held up a wad of correspondence. ‘The chief janissary will take the wrong decision, and I would advise that it is better not to let him.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mehmet, his face changing. ‘Why will he take the wrong decision?’

  ‘Because he does not know the detail.’

  ‘What detail?’

  ‘He does not know what the Serbs have said to the Hungarians and what the Hungarians are saying to the Serbs; he does not know that the time is right for a peace treaty and that if we push north simply because we can, we will lose the chance for one.’

  Now it was Mehmet’s turn to hesitate. Halil Pasha watched him, satisfied, but with the sensation that he was standing on a quagmire of questions. ‘Your father has not informed you?’

  ‘Informed me of what? I know that the Hungarians should have been finished off at Nis before they were given the chance to come any closer, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘It is far more complicated than that, Highness,’ he said, watching out for movement from the corner of his eye. ‘I suggest that you allow me to instruct you a little deeper on matters of empire before you deal with this.’

  ‘Wait one moment.’

  Vexed, Halil Pasha thought of Murad with bitter longing.


  Mehmet reappeared, more suitably attired with a double-breasted tunic pulled over his chest in place of the robe.

  ‘Shall I write to your father?’

  ‘No. I see no need. But I don’t understand. Aren’t we winning?’

  ‘Winning?’

  ‘Aren’t we in the ascendant?’

  ‘On the whole I suppose we are, yes, of course.’ He wondered what Mehmet was getting at.

  ‘Then why is a peace treaty being discussed?’

  ‘It is being discussed precisely because we are in the stronger position,’ he replied, quietly.

  ‘I would have thought it should be the other way around. If we are stronger, we push forwards.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Your father wishes me to instruct you on how things are done. Perhaps now would be a good time to start?’

  Mehmet turned his face away. ‘I’m busy now.’

  ‘Tomorrow then.’

  ‘If it pleases you.’

  Halil Pasha forced his eyes into the corner. ‘Shall I escort the boy back to his brother?’

  ‘No. That won’t be necessary.’

  He left the Chamber of Incense and went to his own. He ordered quill and paper and sat down.

  There were things he could tolerate, and things he could not. He pictured what had been going on in the Chamber of Incense behind closed doors in all its ugly detail, and his head grew light with distaste. Opium was the least of their worries. Then he thought of Vlad Dracula, held his hand to his head and rubbed it. And if the devoted brother knew what Mehmet was doing to his kin, what then?

  He took up the quill. A pessimistic remark about the heir was not good for one’s welfare, but it would have to be done all the same. Murad was not young. A man had only so many years to live. He, Halil Pasha, was likely to outlive him, in which case the day would come when he, not to mention the entire empire, would be utterly at the mercy of a young man who believed in war instead of peace. He shuddered, dipped the quill in ink, and wrote.