When we return to Edirne, I would like to live outside the seraglio.
I don’t understand. You want to live outside the fourth door?
I want to go where I choose, when I choose.
But all women live in the seraglio. I do not see…
In your country, yes. But not in mine.
But, this is not… He held the last words back, but it was a little late for that. She pounced on them like a cat.
Not my country?
He thought of the tales of the Greeks, of Odysseus who had blinded the Cyclops, and pressed his hand to his temple. If he gave her what she wanted, would she forgive him for her brothers? He doubted that she would. He frowned deeply and told himself it didn’t matter. Let her have her freedom of the palace. The Kizlar would not like it much, since it was always a headache for the eunuchs, but it couldn’t be helped. He had given his word. For nothing, certainly, but he had given it all the same. He had done his part; he no longer cared for hers.
Chapter 40
The Valide Hatun had been unwell for months; that, at least, was the official position of the Sultan’s second wife and Mehmet’s mother. Mehmet’s arrival at Edirne had been loud and boisterous. Entertainers were called in. The gatekeeper was kept busy, and the Valide Hatun had listened from her sick bed. Had she seen what everyone else had seen? Like every other woman in the seraglio, the hatun had prayed for a son. Azize wondered if she had prayed hard enough.
When, as a girl of sixteen, Azize had first arrived at the palace, the air had been full of daggers. The hatun had taken her aside and told her calmly that if she woke up pregnant one day, there was nothing to say that there might not be a scorpion in her bed the next. But the scorpion was the hatun’s own. Having returned from Egrigoz, Mehmet stalked the corridors of the palace with that ragtag of a Rumani boy planted on his sting. The Sultan might have sent the tellak back to the bathing house, but that had not stopped Mehmet from finding another. The rest of the women were plying the eunuchs with favours – one for every sordid detail. The Valide Hatun sifted through the details like a bitch that had discovered she’d given birth to a jackal.
‘You have not slept,’ the Valide Hatun said to her. ‘What a pity.’
Neither have you, thought Azize. The hatun’s eyes were like faded roses. Layers of petals hid old chasms of weariness. ‘Have you see His Highness?’
‘No. How is Djem?’
Azize looked past the flowered eyes onto the hayat of the third courtyard. ‘I see that Mehmet is here. You must be pleased to see him.’
The Valide Hatun managed a smile. It was a valiant effort, and her face creased awkwardly into it. A mother was always pleased to see her son, but that didn’t mean the opposite was true. Like Murad, Mehmet wanted her in Manisa, or in Bursa or somewhere else where he was not.
‘You know how men are. Mehmet has been busy as regent. His duties have been a burden, but he has his father’s trust. Murad cherishes him, of course.’
‘Does he?’
The Valide Hatun clapped her hands at the servant, and looked for something to criticise that was not Mehmet. But there was nothing else, so when she had sent back the tea and complained about the sun, she came back to him, as sooner or later she must. Mehmet preferred the company of boys, she said. They were less troublesome, particularly the younger ones. ‘They are always the children of hostages,’ said the hatun, leaning back her head against the cushion. ‘We all are, didn’t you know?’
Azize left the Valide Hatun with her servants, her imaginary sicknesses and her opium and called the eunuch over. ‘Tell me news, about Mehmet.’
‘Haven’t you heard enough?’
‘Not that kind of news,’ she said, impatiently. ‘Where is Halil Pasha, the Grand Vizier?’
‘In his chambers. He has been instructing the heir. Tired after his return from Egrigoz. Not to be disturbed.’
‘Tell him I want to see him.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
The Vizier might think he’d had a hard time with Mehmet, but she had suffered more at the hands of Murad. She had thought over her removal by the Imperial Chamberlain from Murad’s presence until she was sick of thinking. And now the Grand Vizier was here, the man who came closer than any other in the palace to the Sultan himself. If Murad would not listen, Halil Pasha would.
She crossed the courtyard. The air was heavy with hot sun and rosewater. A caged bird sang from a windowsill in an upstairs apartment. She followed the eunuch into the corridor that ran between the walls to the main building on the other side. The eunuch disappeared behind the curtain. Moments later he emerged, shaking his head. She pushed him aside and stepped in. The Vizier emerged looking flustered, and the entrance was accomplished.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you expect me to do, wait until he does the same to mine?’
The Vizier raised his hands. ‘There is no proof that Mehmet Celebi was in any way responsible for the death of Aladdin; you are spreading slander.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘and you know it.’
The Vizier looked drawn and weary. His eyes were like the caverns of Toros, hives of secrets in the dark.
‘What do you want me to do about it? Pass judgement? Much good that would do,’ the Vizier muttered.
‘Get me entry to Murad.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Then I will speak to Mehmet myself.’
‘And what will you say, Madam, exactly? That he is unfit to rule, that he is…’
‘A sodomite? I tried that already.’
‘Well, many things have been tried by many people,’ said the Vizier, his voice thin as a quill tip. ‘All it brings is trouble.’
Was that a shard of terror in his eyes? She decided it was. ‘Who has tried what?’
The Vizier waved his hand as though he had it on a string. The brown of perspiration flashed beneath his arm. ‘I have work to do.’
The man was nervous. He was more than nervous. Something had happened at the fortress of Egrigoz that had given Halil Pasha a headache. What was it? She wished him a pleasant afternoon, and left.
Chapter 41
The Sultan’s palace was a labyrinth of courtyards, from which corridors wound their way into the bowels of the palace. The soothsayer regarded these courtyards with curious interest, noting how they were bound unto each other and yet at the same time irrevocably divided. There was the first courtyard with its fruit trees, the courtyard of visitors and imperial administration. The figs, apricots and pomegranates harvested by the servants in the first courtyard found their way onto the palace platters that were placed before the Sultan’s guests in the second, beside the glasses of thick coffee served up by the eunuchs of the third courtyard, the courtyard of the Osmani, or by the Imperial Chamberlain’s servants in the first. Like the first courtyard, the third was a place of rose shrubs and water, the two Osmani necessities. The water sprang from fountains that poured into pools where golden fish swam in circles beneath the gallery of the hayat, for the pleasure of the Sultan’s senses. Beyond the third courtyard was the gate that only the Sultan entered, besides his family and doubtlessly, thought the soothsayer, because the Sultan was a cautious man, a hand-picked selection of servants. The fourth courtyard was the home of the seraglio, a place of perfume, envy and desire. Beyond that was the boundary of the palace, where from the water of a stream fish were hooked, their scales bristling, and thrown onto charcoal fires in the kitchen courtyard, their mouths agape with terror.
The soothsayer had taken up residence in the first courtyard of the Palace of Edirne. He was sitting there now, soaking up the dawn. At his feet was a full pouch of herbs and resins, frankincense primarily, since there was nothing like it for broadening the mind, and behind him was a comfortable bed in the shade of the porticoes enclosed by three walls, an opulence he had not enjoyed in many a season.
Soon the Sultan would once again call upon his services, and bearing in mind that sultans were few and comforts hard to come by, he did not plan to disappoint him. Nevertheless, he had noticed that the palace of Murad the Second was not the paradise it appeared to be. It was full of what the followers of Zoroaster called devas, the bringers of disorder and trouble. The air of the first courtyard was charged with discord and argument and the guards were jumpy. The air of the second was even worse. Even the Imperial Chamberlain walked on burning coals. He rushed this way and that, opening doors and closing them, reprimanding one servant in loud tones and whispering to another in hushed ones.
He looked at the wall of the second courtyard. What was that presence on the other side? He shivered, blew on the charcoal of his pipe, and prodded the embers with his finger. A tentative flame stirred and his back began to prickle. Bad tidings. He would have to find out what they were. He covered the charcoal with a saucer and entered the corridor of the first courtyard. By passing through the guard at the door, he could gain access to the second. He wandered out into the sunshine, conversed pleasantly with the guard at the gate for a few moments then turned towards the source of the uneasiness.
A young man of princely bearing stood watching him from a distance of about ten paces. His arms were crossed and he was leaning against a pillar with one leg folded up. Athazaz removed his spectacles, which he tied with a string around the back of his head, cleaned them with a corner of his robe – which may not have bettered the cleanliness of the glass, and put them back on. Ten paces became five. That was an uncommon gaze, he thought. The ascendant of the flaming sword resided in the eye – Mars and Pluto at a glance.
He placed a hand on his chest. ‘Since you have crossed the court to see me, you might do me the honour of telling me your name.’
‘Vladislaus of Wallachia. And yours?’
‘My name is of no importance. Unlike yours. If you are Wallachian, then you are Rumani. If you are Rumani, you must be Draculesti.’
Dracula. He turned the name over in his head. The wolves, the Goths, the Rumani.
Athazaz glanced at the marks on his wrists. Only a hostage was manacled, one that struggled. The Osmani liked to surround themselves with vassals and hostages; it made them feel safer. They were the pedlars of illusions, the traders of souls. He looked carefully at the tall, lean figure of the hostage. His arms had been chiselled by the weight of a sword. Not surprising then that the Sultan had him surrounded with walls and guards. Salt the meat and keep it.
‘You told the guard that you are a soothsayer. Do you divine the future?’
‘I do, if the future chooses to reveal itself.’
The prince considered his answer for a moment. ‘And if it does not?’
‘Then it is like a reluctant speaker, best left in peace.’
He thought of the shadow that hung over the houses of Murad’s chart. Every house hid something; the house of enemies and secrets, which was the last of the twelve, was the most revealing and the most sinister of them all. But it was over the seventh house, the house of treaties and agreements, that the shadow over Murad’s chart was deepest.
His eyes fell upon a leather strap around the neck of the prince. He followed the strap down to a small wooden amulet.
The prince shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Come now, dervish, even a reluctant speaker will talk for silver pieces.’
‘Not always for silver,’ he replied.
‘For what then?’
‘If you give me that amulet you are wearing, I will consider it.’
‘I cannot give you the amulet; it was a gift.’
‘But you can loan it?’
After a moment’s hesitation, the amulet was removed and lodged inside his palm. He slipped it in his pouch. ‘You do not like the sun?’
‘The sun does not like me, hakim.’ The prince turned his hands palm down and raised the sleeve a little. The skin was red and blistered.
In the corridor of the first courtyard Athazaz grabbed the attention of a palace page and asked him for a service. Then he settled himself down in the corner of a quiet chamber and turned the amulet over in his hand. The carvings on each side were different. Two sides, two faces. And inside what was there? He prised open the amulet carefully and the contents spilled out onto the floor. Wolfsbane, the herb of protection.
As he slipped into the memory of the trinket, it showed him pictures. They flashed before his sight one by one. There was the face of a man, Rumani; a sword, Iberian steel, and a book. He turned the trinket over and took a breath. A new face appeared. He looked at it curiously for a moment, then dropped the amulet, pushed it carefully away and stood up. He opened his bag of herbs and pulled out a wad of verbena. As he thrust it onto the last embers of the charcoal it began to smoulder, glowing in the shade. He closed his eyes, watched the amulet, the sword and the face dance among the fumes, and waited for the face to pass away.
He had requested the time and place of birth of the prince from the palace page, and asked for more news of the family. If Murad’s hostage had brought the deva to his palace, it would not so much be a matter of prophecy as a matter of peril, and the sooner he found out what the peril was, the safer he would feel.
Chapter 42
Dracul sat astride his horse. The wind blew like a flail across the plain; caught in a gust, his cloak whipped around his head like the wings of a giant bird. His hair, which had always been long and which was now greyer still since the taking of his sons, streamed out either side of his face as he stared down into the broad valley. The Danube was behind him. At the other end of the valley was an enclave of movement. He descended the hill to get it in his sights. He held his hand level with his eyes and allowed them to see to their fullest extent. There were tents, too many to count. In the middle of the enclave men moved around, tiny figures in the distance. He furrowed his brow and gazed at them. In the middle of it all, the Sultan’s private tent was unmistakable. Red, large and flagged. A two-day ride from there, Hunyadi’s men were mounting their defence together with his own, and in the fortress of Varna was Mircea. He spurred his horse on.
‘What do you mean, this is all you have!’ He threw down his cap and cloak in the armoury room of the fortress and stared at Cardinal Cesarini, his eyes on fire.
‘Simply that,’ said Cesarini quietly.
Dracul did not like Cardinal Cesarini; he produced the sounds of Christian unity with his mouth then defended the Catholics against the Greeks with his acts. The cardinal’s deeply hooded eyes wavered between hostility and fear and as he looked at him Dracul remembered Father Popescu’s warning.
He stammered. ‘I have sent my army to defend this fort and you back it up with this? It’s like…like bait to a bear.’
Hunyadi stepped forward, dressed in chainmail and white tunic, clasped at the front with leather straps. On the table before him was the feathered helmet he wore in battle, the eagle’s wing on the head of the Hun. ‘I hardly think you can talk, Dracul,’ he said. He poured himself a full cup of tuica from a bottle on the table and threw it down his throat. ‘I warned you, did I not?’
Dracul paced as far as the wall, his hand to his eyes. He thought of the letter he had written. That light is in the hands of the Greeks. A waste of good ink. He had hoped that his words would change something, but they had changed nothing. Nothing at all. The Pope was content to send a smattering of men and Cesarini would barely look him in the eye. His mouth filled with the taste of metal. He swallowed the warning, took himself in hand, and turned back.
Hunyadi watched him intently. Alarmed, he stepped forward. ‘Anger will not help us, Dracul. If you had sent more men…’
‘I could not. And now I risk three lives not two.’ He raged beneath his breath. ‘You must find them, not I; I don’t care how.’
The cardinal raised his eyes at last to Dracul’s face. ‘There are no more men, Highness.’
Curses, the like of which Dracul did not even recognise, began to fill his head. He blocked them out, turned away from the cardinal to Hunyadi, and gripped the table edge to keep his hands from moving to their throats. ‘I would call you traitor, if it would do any good.’
Cesarini left the room.
‘I did what I could,’ said Hunyadi shortly. ‘You forget that the cardinal and I are risking our skins here. We could both be dead by morning.’
‘Then why not leave now? We may as well all throw down our arms for the good that it will do us.’
Hunyadi slammed his fist on the table. ‘Damn you, Dracul. I have never run from a fight in my life. I have no intention of starting now.’ He pulled out a scarf and wiped his face. ‘Incidentally, what were you doing that day in the library of Constantinople?’
Dracul looked up.
‘What did Constantine show you?’
‘What business is it of yours what he did or did not show me?’
‘Oh, I would say that it is every bit my business. You spent half an afternoon in the library with our good Emperor’s brother. What were you looking at?’ He leaned against the table and folded his arms. ‘Or should I say, what were you looking for?’
The cardinal returned. Hunyadi stepped back.
Cesarini pulled on his gloves. ‘If you want the Pope to cover your city, Dracul, you will have to persuade the Palaiologos brothers to mend their ways.’
‘To bend to yours, you mean?’ He glanced at Hunyadi. ‘Or is there something else you want from them? The scrolls of their library, for instance?’
The cardinal did not reply. ‘You cannot unite two Churches if they will not agree on one script,’ he said, waving away Dracul’s question. ‘We have had this discussion already.’
‘But not on the eve of battle,’ Dracul replied bitterly, his heart pounding. He held his hand to his eyes. ‘Where is God in all this, I do not know.’
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 23
