The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  ‘We will not inform my father,’ he announced.

  The Vizier looked at him in astonishment. ‘Do you think that is wise?’

  ‘I don’t care if it is,’ he snapped. ‘If I say it is to be done, then it will be.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I want him whipped. Properly. Gurani shall do it.’

  ‘And Radu Dracula?’

  ‘Radu will come with me to Edirne as I said he would. His brother will remain here until I send for him.’

  Halil Pasha shook his head. ‘In my opinion…’

  Mehmet stood up and stretched his arms out. ‘I do not want your opinion, My Lord. If I did, I would have asked for it. I am perfectly well; you may go.’

  Halil Pasha stirred himself slowly, muttering.

  ‘What is it now?’

  The Vizier hesitated. ‘Just that I feel it will be difficult to ask Gurani to use the whip on Vlad Dracula without giving him an explanation.’

  Mehmet ran his hands over his skull and wondered what kind of imperial hierarchy his father had established that required a Vizier to explain to a vassal. ‘Then you will just have to do it yourself.’ Without a doubt things would have to change. It was time to take his father in hand. As soon as he had settled back into his apartments at Edirne palace, he would summon Murad back from Manisa and set things in order. His father was short-sighted; he did not see how far they had to go. He saw only Constantinople and not the rest. The rest lay north, beyond the Danube River. The mantle of the Holy Roman Empire had been on the shoulders of a Christian sovereign long enough. The time had come to move it on to his.

  Part Two

  Chapter 38

  Vlad slid from his horse and planted his feet in the dust of the Sultan’s wintertime Palace of Edirne. Almost immediately, a troop of guards surrounded him. The chief guard, who had been riding by his side for most of the journey, began to remove the manacles that held his hands. He rubbed his wrists and listened. In a distant room music was playing. A woman was laughing. One male voice was arguing with another. Behind that, a fire was burning under a pot. A door opened and closed, admitting brushing silk. A bird was singing the other side of it, its wings fluttering against the sides of a cage.

  Halil Pasha, the Grand Vizier, had requested his return to Edirne. But that was not the truth of the matter. The truth of the matter was that he had devised his own return and the Vizier had executed it. The Vizier imagined that he was in the grip of demons, but the truth was that he was the victor of demons.

  He followed the guard into the pavilion of the first courtyard, where they instructed him to wait.

  ‘Where is the Sultan?’

  ‘Where His Highness the Sultan is,’ said the guard, ‘is none of your concern.’

  The Sultan’s treasurer was seated in a corner of the pavilion, surveying him with curious interest. ‘You speak good Turkish.’

  ‘It has been a long time, Treasurer.’

  ‘It has. And I see that you have become a man. Did you continue your training at Egrigoz? It certainly looks that way.’ The Treasurer looked him up and down. ‘I have been asked to speak with you about the future. Shall we take a walk in the gardens?’

  They passed through a second gate. He glanced at the windows of the Chamber of Stone. It seemed only yesterday that they had become the hostages of the sultanate, but the boy who had torn around the courtyard on a runaway horse resembled him only as a shadow of the past. The boy was not forgotten; he was relegated, consigned to a history of Vlad Dracula as he had been, not as he now was. Now he must plan for what his father could not see – Mehmet.

  ‘I cannot pretend that your father and the Sultan have had the easiest of relations, as you will remember. But you should also know that your father is not the enemy of the sultanate. Quite the contrary, in fact; we like to think of him as our ally. Yes. He is in many ways a fascinating man, and of course a man of learning. You resemble him greatly, you know. The Sultan’s only hope is that in one way you will not resemble him.’

  ‘I already know how I do not resemble him. He has broken his promise. I would not make one I did not intend to keep.’

  The Treasurer’s face twisted to a laugh. ‘Ha! Well said. Well said indeed.’ He waved at a servant and asked for refreshments. ‘We will celebrate your return to Edirne. I will take it then that you understand at last how insignificant tributes are to the Sultan. What interests him is loyalty, not the token of it. Shall we?’ The Treasurer gestured to the pavilion. ‘Considering the implication of your father’s broken oath, I think the Sultan has been very generous to you. I hear you got away with little more than a whipping.’

  ‘I have not been whipped.’

  The Treasurer hesitated. ‘Is that so? Then I am pleased to hear it. But in any case, let us forget about such unpleasant matters and talk about the future. As I said before, your Turkish shows a gratifying understanding of your position, but you will have to demonstrate that your allegiance goes beyond mere words.’ The Treasurer picked up a glass of sherbet water and watched him over the rim. ‘Are you willing to convert, to take the Turkish faith?’

  ‘If it is required.’

  ‘Good; that is good news,’ said the Treasurer, slowly. ‘You know that the Sultan wishes you to start your training in order that you may join the janissary corps?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that this will require a sworn oath of allegiance to the sultanate, one that, if broken, will be serious?’

  ‘I understand.’

  The Defterdar’s eyes shifted over him. ‘When I say serious, I mean punishable by death.’

  ‘It does not worry me.’

  ‘Which one?’ said the Defterdar lightly. ‘The punishment or the oath?’

  ‘The oath.’

  The Treasurer put down his glass, folded his hands on his stomach and studied him. ‘Good.’

  Chapter 39

  To His MoST SuPREME Excellency and Royal Highness the Sultan,

  I am writing to inform Your Highness that Mehmet Celebi left for Edirne some weeks ago by the usual route and with the same entourage of servants that accompanied him here, save for one addition, namely Radu Dracula, whom he has taken along as a servant.

  I believe Mehmet Celebi had intended to meet with General Kasim to decide on the appropriate response to the series of successful incursions made by Hunyadi around the outlying areas of Sofia, which Your Highness must surely be aware of. It is my understanding that the generals themselves have taken many of these matters into their own hands of late, and I must ask Your Highness to consider returning to Edirne, since I cannot say for certain what the outcome of all this will be.

  As Your Highness knows, the Prince of Wallachia, Dracul, has sent a small contingent of men led by his son Mircea, to give support to the Hungarian captain in favour of the Palaiologos brothers at Varna. I do not doubt that this news will prove of some irritation. However, I wish to assure Your Highness that Vlad Dracula appears at last to be making an effort of improvement. His Turkish has improved greatly, whether because of Gurani’s efforts or the departure of his brother I cannot say, but in my opinion chastisement for his father’s obstinacy would not be a wise choice. I have decided that the best solution is to send him on to Edirne after his brother for janissary training. I am not entirely sure that this accords fully with the wishes of Mehmet Celebi, but I do feel that a little direction from his father would not go amiss.

  Murad put down the letter the Vizier had sent him. Had intended. Sofia saved by a hair’s breadth. Varna at risk. His generals running the field. As expected. And now his Vizier was practically asking him to dismiss his own son. He picked up the next letter on his pile, which was from Edirne. A hurried note from Mehmet demanding his return. He frowned at the tone of it. I demand. That was an interesting way of putting it. Still, he smiled; the lesson had been learned. Mehmet had see
n that you could not win a battle from a divan. He rolled up the letter and tapped it on the desk. Radu Dracula had been taken to Edirne by Mehmet as his servant. He digested the thought a little longer, or tried to. It rolled around his gut like a chunk of bad meat. What sort of servant? The sort that serves coffee or the sort that serves sodomy? He swallowed the chunk without digesting it and stood up. Back to the matters in hand. They must take back the lands lost, quickly, before the enemy could make something of their gain.

  He listened for sounds in far chambers. Yesterday he had been melancholy. She had seen it and yet she had done nothing. There was more attention to be had from a hunting hound. Neither a look, nor a word of conversation, nor even a response to the line of poetry he had written in his own hand. The woman had practically ignored him. How could a woman ignore a line of poetry? It was beyond belief. He thought of all the women who would have torn the infant from their own breast to read a line of his poetry. For a brief moment he thought about Azize. He had absented himself where he was wanted and placed himself here, where he was neither wanted nor even considered. What kind of folly was that? Whatever it was, it would soon be over. Brankovic’s daughter would come back to Edirne with him, and he would have other things to think about. Of course she would imagine that the seraglio of Edirne would return him to old favourites, and perhaps it would. He summoned the gatekeeper. Melancholy gave way to headache. The day seemed exceptionally long.

  ‘Where is the Lady Mara?’

  ‘I will ask the eunuch.’

  ‘Yes, do that.’

  And then there was that old thorn still lodged firmly in his side: Dracul. He thought he had prised it out; it pressed back in. He considered the choices. He had no desire to punish them. There was nothing to be gained from it and besides, he might yet need them. He pushed aside the letter and stared at the desk instead. It was full noon out there in the gardens, but inside his skull the zenith of anything seemed entirely unattainable, as if he were blind to everything but sunsets. The gatekeeper returned with the Defterdar, come to escort him back in person. That was how worried they were, he thought, rousing himself. He pushed back his seat.

  ‘Dracul is up to his old tricks again,’ announced the Defterdar grimly, entering without ceremony. ‘He has been to Constantinople to conspire.’

  ‘That does not surprise me.’ He held up the Grand Vizier’s letter.

  ‘What should be done?’

  ‘According to Halil Pasha, nothing.’

  ‘You know that Mehmet has returned to the palace.’

  ‘I do.’ He paced over to the window. The thought occurred to him that if he were to remove Radu Dracula to a place of exile or punishment, it would serve both his causes well. Dracul would taste the fruit of betrayal and Mehmet would be forced to find another target for that persistent little cock of his. This time, he would make sure it was a female one, even if it meant adding two eunuchs and a dwarf for motivation. Clouds spilled onto the gardens of Manisa. The irises were over, as many things were over. Passion, perhaps, was over. Peace certainly was. He turned and saw that the Defterdar was scrutinising his back.

  ‘Vlad Dracula has also arrived. I had occasion to interview him.’ A look of anxiety seemed to settle on the Defterdar’s face.

  ‘Well, what did you make of him?’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘You say that because of his father. Did you offer him the janissary post?’

  The Defterdar turned vague, then marvelled. ‘Yes. His Turkish is perfect, you know. I’ve never heard a Rumani speak so well.’

  ‘Gurani has surpassed himself then. I’m not saying I like his methods, but at least they work. Will he convert to the faith?’

  The Defterdar made a noise that sounded like a matter of digestion. ‘I doubt that he could convert to anything even if he wanted to. We are talking about a family of heretics, Highness. He says he will, but would it even be wise?’

  Murad ignored him. ‘And did he ask about his brother?’

  ‘He didn’t mention him, no.’

  ‘And you didn’t bring it up?’

  The Defterdar avoided his eyes, a habit of his when he was holding something back.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I did not think it wise, Excellency.’

  Murad flicked his robe and sat down. The Defterdar had become a coward. That, too, was Mehmet’s doing. ‘And why not, may I ask?’

  The Defterdar leaned forward. ‘He has the evil eye.’ He threw open his hands. ‘I did not want to tempt it.’

  Murad frowned. ‘Have you forgotten what year it is? Anyway, a spell of janissary training will soon set him straight. Let him train in the mornings, to begin with. We will see how things progress.’

  The Defterdar opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, almost bashful.

  ‘Have it out and be done,’ Murad said sharply. ‘Whatever snow falls, it will melt by summertime.’ Sudden worry seized him. The Defterdar had many faults but timidity was not one of them.

  ‘Prince Regent Mehmet Celebi,’ began the Defterdar. Murad waved his hand. ‘If you mean Sofia, I know already.’

  The Defterdar hesitated. ‘Forgive me, Highness, but was it you who gave the order about the sons of Brankovic: the Serbian hostages?

  ‘Brankovic’s children? What order?’

  ‘The boys have been blinded, both of them.’

  ‘Blinded? What do you mean, blinded?’ He turned to face the Defterdar. ‘Were they sick?’

  The Defterdar shook his head, and turned his eyes away. ‘It was with a branding iron, Highness.’

  ‘A what?’ He clasped his hands behind his back and walked away.

  ‘It was Mehmet who gave the order,’ explained the Defterdar, haltingly, ‘and since he is regent, nobody really questioned it. The Kizlar thought you had approved it.’

  ‘Mehmet gave the order,’ he articulated, to try and make sense of it. ‘And did he give a reason for his order?’ As he said it, he knew perfectly well that Mehmet did not need one.

  ‘They had written letters without permission,’ replied the Defterdar.

  Murad looked at his treasurer, who had sons himself, young ones like Brankovic’s. The Defterdar looked back at him from a nauseous face. There were explanations. Reasonable ones. There had to be.

  ‘I cannot believe it.’ He thumped his fist. ‘We are not savages.’

  ‘Now tell that to Brankovic,’ said the Defterdar, his voice flat.

  Murad returned to pacing. So this was why the Defterdar had come to escort him. Mehmet had done the thing deliberately. It was a show of force, and the palace knew it. He must respond quickly. If he did not, he might as well stay in Manisa.

  He rubbed his temples. ‘Dracul must be given another warning. A civilised warning,’ he added deliberately, ‘but a warning nonetheless. What is he playing at? Does he really mean to risk the lives of his sons or does he think I am soft-hearted?’

  ‘I don’t think he will now, when he hears the news from Brankovic,’ replied the Defterdar.

  He called in the Imperial Chamberlain. ‘Make ready my personal effects, and warn the Chief Armourer at Edirne that I will need ten thousand men, uniformed and ready as soon as we arrive, to join those already encamped south of Sofia.’ He turned to the Defterdar. ‘As soon as I return, I must leave.’

  ‘Varna? And Mehmet?’

  ‘Mehmet will stay at Edirne.’

  ‘You will not take him with you?’

  ‘Too many commanders make for confusion.’ Besides which, if he did not start giving orders himself, and fast, he would find that he had abdicated without so much as an official declaration, and he was not ready for that, not yet. It was easy to order torture. Victory was a little more complicated. It had to be earned. Mehmet was thirsty for conquests; Varna would be his punishment.

  He thought about the Defterdar’s appraisal
of Dracul’s middle son. When he had come to Edirne as a boy, Vlad Dracula had offered his life in exchange for the release of his younger brother. And he, Murad, had spent far too long thinking about it. It did not make sense. The Draculesti family were like shoots from one tree. Vlad Dracula was devoted to his brother. That he had not mentioned him was almost disappointing. He grimaced; he should be gratified at this desertion by the Draculesti, of each other. Family unity was not what they wanted. Division was. And what exactly was a heretic – a man who risked his sons, a boy who had abandoned his brother? One thing he did not doubt: Dracul had broken his oath because the Hungarians had forced him to it. As a father and a man, it was a high price to pay to help the Greeks.

  There was one more thing he would have to do before he left for Varna. He did not like to do it, but considering Mehmet’s act of barbarity he now felt as if he had no choice. Amid the shrubbery of Manisa, Mara the Strategist had extracted a promise from him, with a compensation that was, as usual, insubstantial. He had refused to free her brothers – although admittedly the matter of their freedom now seemed largely irrelevant; if they returned to their father blind, whatever advantage he would have gained by releasing them would be outweighed by the pitiful condition in which he gave them back – but she had asked him for something else.