The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  Halil Pasha raised his brow. ‘In spirit?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. At first, Zalmoxis argued in his own defence, claiming that he was stronger than the wolf, and so had the right to kill it. The gods replied that mortal men had no rights at all. They were not the lords of death; they had to pay for the privilege. Man’s soul came at the cost of his body. “You cannot have it both ways,” said the gods, and they told Zalmoxis that he would be governed by what he had coveted: the spirit of the wolf. He would have the eyes and ears of the wolf, and the strength of the wolf, but he would also have its hunger.

  ‘Zalmoxis was pleased. Were these not the very things he had sought in killing the wolf in the first place? In any event, he told himself, he was still a man. That was true, said the gods, but Zalmoxis had misunderstood the limitations of the arrangement. The habits of the wolf would make him weak, even as the strength of the wolf would make him strong. Nor would he be able to satisfy the hunger of the wolf. He would crave what he could not have, unless in taking it he broke with his own kind and made himself an outcast.’

  Halil Pasha watched the spirals rise up in clouds of sulphurous smoke from the dervish’s pipe. ‘And did Zalmoxis become such a man? Was he, like the bat, cast out?’

  The dervish put aside his pipe. ‘How could it be otherwise? He had chosen to set himself apart right from the start, being in possession of that most dangerous of human yearnings: the desire to lead. And he became a leader, as did his children and the children of his children.’

  ‘The Draculesti line.’

  ‘Yes indeed, the line of the voivodes of Wallachia, and the princes of the Rumani. But the god of all creatures that flew and ran did not reveal to Zalmoxis the full extent of the risk that his desires had entailed. He did not because he could not, for you will recall, My Lord Pasha, that the time of the story of the scrolls is a distant one. It has its genesis in the time of the old gods. Mankind was in its infancy. Wisdom did not exist. Truth was a mystery; darkness and light had neither illuminated one path nor forewarned against the other. Zalmoxis did not understand that in satisfying his new hunger he would be in danger of damnation at the hands of the Supreme God, the one who was to emerge from the chaos of the old world to stamp his mark upon the new one. The Goths had once named him Svarog, but like Iblis, he does not go by one name only.’

  ‘Allah be praised,’ Halil Pasha muttered.

  ‘Allah, Yahweh; you may choose the name that suits you. But Zalmoxis received no warning, because the age in which he lived could not furnish him with one. The old gods could not bring him to understand, through the tenets of the written word of scripture, that the human soul was fragile, because there was no Word. And by the time The Word came, the soul of Zalmoxis had fallen beyond the pale, and had plunged into darkness. His body was no longer payment enough to send his soul on its journey to the other world. The price of redemption was too high, and Zalmoxis could not pay it.’

  A chill stole up Halil Pasha’s back. He pressed his hand against the collar of his tunic. ‘And what became of him then?’

  The dervish closed his eyes, rocked slightly back and forth then opened them. ‘Hindsight is easy, is it not? To look back is both a lesson and a plague. From where we sit today, you and I, the story unfolds like the cloth of a dream that has passed. I see conquests, victories, and armies hunting in packs, like wolves. Cities grow up from the dust kicked up by the wolfmen of Zalmoxis and his kin. One grows bigger than the rest, so big that even the kin of Zalmoxis cannot truly master it. It devours everything it crosses, even the land of its foundation, the country of the wolf. It is known as the city born out of the belly of the wolf, and even today we pick up the pieces of what it has broken, and made, and broken again.

  Halil Pasha shook his head. ‘Old Rome!’

  ‘Yes, Old Rome. All of which brings me now to the present, and the legacy that Zalmoxis bequeathed to his line. At first, when I learned the name of the hostage in your second courtyard, I did not see the depth of it, until I examined his chart.’ The dervish looked up. ‘Something preoccupies you, My Lord Pasha. What is it?’

  ‘There was something, a book Vlad Dracula had on his person when he came to Egrigoz. I found it, well, odd, that the boy as he then was should carry the Book of Job in his belongings, but now that you speak of the scrolls of the Apocrypha, I cannot help but see a connection.’

  ‘The story of Job the outcast. That is interesting,’ replied the dervish. ‘And you are right in saying that a connection exists. Nothing is put into the order of things by chance. It is there for a reason.’ He went back to his pipe and for a few moments there was silence. Only the sound of bubbling water filled it.

  ‘And this legacy you talk of, where will it lead?’

  Outside the window of his salon, a pair of chirping parakeets lightened the gloom. The dervish looked up. ‘The twelfth house is where the prophecy takes its final form. The twelfth house is the house of mind and spirit. It revealed at last the presence that I had long suspected to find there.’

  ‘Iblis.’ Halil Pasha’s back stiffened. ‘That is what you mean, isn’t it?’

  The dervish inclined his head. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘Then God has turned his back on Vlad Dracula?’

  The dervish shook his head. ‘You go too fast, My Lord Pasha. Remember that evil exists only as a brother of the good. It is just as possible that our hostage may turn out to be a force for one as a force for the other. At first I believed the presence in his chart was a demon, but now I am starting to think that names are unimportant, and that what is there is there, regardless of the name we give it. The presence has long been fixed upon the chart of our young hostage, but that is not to say that it will get what it wants. Not at all.’

  Halil Pasha stood up and paced round the divan. ‘His Highness must be warned.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the dervish. He fell silent.

  Halil Pasha glanced at him quickly. Was the dervish suggesting he say nothing? Had the thought crossed the soothsayer’s mind, as it was now passing through his once again, that Vlad Dracula was perhaps the only person living who could put an end to Mehmet’s hegemony?

  ‘Whatever you decide to do, My Lord Pasha, with the story I have given you, I would ask that you do not forget it is a dangerous thing to turn the hand of destiny.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Halil Pasha, distracted. He was recalling something Mehmet had said, something he did not like. I think it might be best if you got rid of your fortune-teller before he gives us a prophecy we will both regret. He stirred himself, trying not to think of the likelihood that it had been his own mortality that Mehmet had alluded to. The dervish would have to leave. If only he would leave of his own accord, life would be easier for everyone, including Murad, whose melancholy state was starting to make him nervous. Melancholy led to sickness; sickness led to death; death led to Mehmet.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, passing the dervish the snuff pot, ‘The Sultan’s prophecy. Does it point towards this evil?’

  The dervish took a generous handful of snuff, and began to slowly tear it open. ‘When I first contemplated His Highness’ chart I became aware that a shadow hung over it, a shadow that would bring him untold suffering. At first I believed that the shadow belonged to our prince in the second courtyard, but I have since come to the conclusion that it belongs to someone else entirely.’

  ‘Mehmet,’ said Halil Pasha before he could prevent himself.

  The dervish gave him half a smile. ‘Now you have your answer. But please do not suggest that I enlighten His Highness any more than I have already done. If you will arrange a mule and servant to escort me back to Manisa, I would be more than obliged to you.’

  Halil Pasha stood up. ‘I think you are right. Better to keep your head than run the risk of losing it for a warning.’

  The dervish bowed respectfully, a look of concern on his fa
ce. ‘I could not agree more, My Lord.’

  Chapter 53

  Azize arranged the waistcoat over her tunic and wondered about the colour. She would wear either the green or the purple. The Sultan preferred green, but she had always liked purple for its richness. Purple, she thought. The plan she had decided on was not what might be expected from a hatun. In all her time at the palace she had lowered herself to many things. She had flaunted her body before the envious eyes of the Valide Hatun in the days when her curves were full. She had burned opium and inhaled it in the shadows of the third courtyard when the Kizlar escorted new girls to Murad’s apartments. Then there was the boy from the bathing house with the lost eyes and the hungry mouth. Him she saw at night, in the dark hours when she was too tired to forget. But whichever way she turned it, and however many alliances she made and broke and made again, there was only one way that would ensure success. Mehmet must be challenged, killed if it could be achieved, even if it seemed a little like betrayal. She needed to think like a man. Betrayal came more easily to men.

  She wandered out into the hayat. The Imperial Chamberlain was waiting, and he led her back through the corridors of the private chambers to Murad. The gatekeeper announced her. She sailed in, head high, eyes shining. Murad had noticed Djem. That was all that mattered. All he needed now was a little encouragement. Djem would provide enough of that. Once a man discovered his son, he discovered himself, and Djem was so much like his father. Nothing else would do – perhaps not even Mehmet. As she entered the old, familiar chambers, Murad-i-Sani, Supreme Ruler of the Seljuk and Anatolian Seljuk states, rose to greet her. She smiled, looked at him – then looked longer.

  The old vigour had waned to paltry resistance. Murad had grown thin. His belly had shrunk to the size of a young watermelon. His shoulders stooped over his chest. His eyes, which could once have kindled a fire in a rainstorm, were bleary and moist. She thought of Vlad Dracula, the taut skin of youth, that back that rose and fell in all the right places, and a burning chill rose up her thigh. When she lay on the divan with Murad, she ran her hands over his back and found it tight as a ball of wire. She tried to make love to him, but the man was all dried up. She dressed quickly, and talked about Djem. Soon, she said, Djem would have to be circumcised.

  He agreed. He was a fine boy and she must be proud of him. He had seen him sitting under a tree listening to a story one of the women was telling him. The sight of it had stopped him in his steps. An interest in words was a good sign, a good start. Had he started reading the Holy Book? He would make him a gift of it. Did she remember his age? Was it five years or seven? He thought it was five, but if she said seven, then they would call it seven. She asked him for a month of feasting for his day of circumcision; he promised her more than a half. The boy was growing up fast. He told her how well she looked, then sat back and smiled. He had not smiled enough lately, she said, it was wrong that a man should have nothing but cares. But it was not his fault. Other people had made him tired, sapped his strength. She tied the belt of her purple mantle, satisfied.

  They admired the new miniatures he had commissioned for the wall of the portrait gallery and stopped at the feast day of the circumcision of Aladdin.

  How was Mehmet, she asked. She had heard about the wedding. Was he turning out well? Would he make a good leader? She was certain that he would. She had seen him going off to inspect the janissaries just the other day. He looked very fine in his uniform. Quite the commander. That was what he needed, she said, loyal men at his side to help him. Fealty was what mattered, but fealty was like picking fruit. The moment must be right for it. Too early and the fruit would be hard; too late and it would be rotten. The fruit must fall easily into the hand, but not too easily, she said. The empire was like a ship; it needed an experienced mariner. He must not leave the helm. Would be promise her that?

  He mumbled an inconclusive reply that included wedding arrangements. He personally felt that three months of festivities was far too long, but anything to keep the boy’s mother happy. Then he spoke of Varna. Battle wore him down. The compromise between life and death exhausted him. How far should a man go for victory? All the way and damn the consequences, or half the way and suffer them?

  All the way, she said firmly. No stone should be unturned and no chances wasted. Already there was talk in the palace corridors that young men were going to waste, languishing in the courtyards of the palace for no reason. She didn’t really know who they meant – did he?

  Murad thought on it. The only young man in the courtyard of the palace was Vlad Dracula, he said. He settled back; she watched as he digested the idea and gave himself over to her firm touch on his shoulders. Loyalty was what he needed. He agreed with her, and admitted that he doubted Mehmet possessed much of that. The boy was waiting on his death, he said. She paused behind his back, and felt a twitch of fear. But Vlad Dracula, continued Murad, that was another creature altogether. If he could harness the loyalty the boy had once shown to his brother, Dracula might prove to be the rare fruit he was missing. As she prepared to leave, he held her back. Perhaps one day Djem would be heir, he said, smiling with his brow tied up in knots. Mehmet would not live forever.

  Chapter 54

  Halil Pasha saw the dervish out and instructed the gatekeeper to settle a pair of silver coins on him for his trouble. ‘Perhaps make it three,’ he added. Three coins might well be enough to send him back to Bursa. Then he swept off to do what he knew could no longer be put off. Murad.

  Murad’s apartments at Edirne had, in the beginning, been decorated in the old Osmani style. The chambers had been designed by Murad’s grandfather, but Murad had wanted to ‘warm things up a little’, as he put it, and had had the mirrors of his private reception hall replaced by carved wood and tapestries from Thrace. The cold marble floor was completely covered by rugs, with the cushions of the divan hugging the edges of the room. Murad directed him to one of them now, stooping a little as he lowered himself onto the low chair that had been built for him in the Persian style. Miniatures covered many of the walls; dancing slaves, Hindustani merchants and the daughters and sons of the Saffarid dynasty gazed across the room from brilliant almond-shaped eyes.

  Halil Pasha sat as low as he could. He was taller than Murad, and Murad did not like it. ‘Highness, all I am saying is that if Mehmet Celebi ever leads an offensive against Constantinople, it will be a massacre.’

  Murad frowned. ‘Conquest is a messy business. But I will see to it that no lives are wasted unnecessarily.’

  Halil Pasha looked away. Unnecessarily was almost as good a word as wasted. Neither of them made much sense in the context of battle. Mehmet would promise his soldiers pillage. There would be no restraint. Halil Pasha drew up his courage. It was now or never. And if he did not owe it to Murad, he owed it to himself.

  ‘I say this as a counsellor and a friend. Mehmet is not ready.’ He leaned forward. ‘As soon as he is Sultan, he will not wait a week. He will take the city of Constantinople before he even weighs the cost of it. Revoke his title of regent while you still have the power to do it. Give Constantine one more chance. If you do, the Greeks will not forget it and the power of the Catholics will be weakened. You will be considered…’ he thought of the blinding of Brankovic’s boys, closed his eyes and searched for the word ‘…enlightened.’

  Murad gazed miserably at the pile of parchment before him. ‘If I back down now, the Osmani will lose. We never lose, Halil, never. Besides, the boy has a plan.’

  He peered at the map; scrawled lettering and untidy sketches ravaged the parchment. Mehmet’s handiwork.

  ‘Dismantle ships and rebuild them?’

  ‘Dismantle masts and put them back in place.’

  ‘And this sizeable cannon here, is it possible? Where will it be made?’

  ‘There is a foundry. The one that made the Varna cannons, used by the Hungarians. The foundry has already agreed to the task.’ Murad glanced at h
im. ‘You must admit, it is a good plan.’

  Halil Pasha leaned back. It was a brilliant plan; there was no denying it. So, for all his swagger, Mehmet had at last come up with something. The only thing missing from his march of triumph would be the one thing that mattered most: the prize of the library.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Plan or not, Mehmet is too young,’ he said firmly. ‘He may have the vigour of youth, but he does not have the balance of maturity. In some ways,’ he added cautiously, ‘he may never be ready. It might be a good plan as far as taking the city goes, but what about after that? All the city stands for will be gone. I have recently heard that the contents of the library of Constantinople are being removed, have been removed little by little for some time now, I think, by the Palaiologos brothers.’ He looked at Murad to see how he was taking it. ‘The blood of the city is being drained away, siphoned off. You will not be taking a metropolis; you will be taking a corpse.’

  Murad swept away the plans without a word. There was a stony silence during which Halil Pasha did not doubt that if the Sultan had been female, he would have wept.

  ‘Removed to where, exactly?’

  ‘That is hard to tell. The universities of Europe, Vienna, perhaps even England.’ He held back a sigh. ‘What we should be doing, what we ought to do is acquire them peaceably. What the library contains is irreplaceable, Highness.’

  ‘Peaceably? Acquire peaceably what is ours by right and which the Greeks refuse to share? Since that has not happened since the days of Babylonia, I do not think it will happen now. At least we have a stratagem; how long has it been since we have had a stratagem? You have not come up with one. Not in all the years I have known you. The boy is a natural. A leader in every bone.’