The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  Part Three

  Chapter 58

  Three years later

  Mehmet stood beside the male washer who had been called in by Halil Pasha to wash his father’s body, and turned his face away slightly as the hodja lifted the white, seamless shroud and ran a watered cloth over Murad’s skin. When the ritual had been done three times, the hodja placed a knife directly onto the stomach of the man who had been sultan, laying it vertically against the skin.

  Mehmet looked upon the body of his father one last time. His own heart was pounding; his father’s was stilled. His head was bursting; his father’s was empty. He almost wanted to shake his father, and ask him why he did not speak, but then he realised that he had it the wrong way round – it was not his father that wanted to speak, it was he. He took a silent, sharp breath, then walked down the corridor of Edirne Palace with the Grand Vizier at his heels.

  ‘Tomorrow is best, Highness; this afternoon is too difficult. The feast must be made ready. Your father’s preferred dish takes hours to prepare. I have already spoken to them about it.’

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  Halil Pasha looked at him. ‘Stuffed melon. The head cook says he has to get them from Ankara.’

  ‘And the mourning time?’

  ‘Forty days.’

  ‘Thirty is adequate.’

  ‘Adequate?’ Halil Pasha halted.

  ‘There is my formal investiture.’

  ‘But, Highness, forty is customary; the ulema will make trouble.’

  ‘I can deal with the clergy.’

  He carried on walking. Halil Pasha picked up the pace behind him.

  They reached the Sultan’s apartments. He threw aside his turban and wiped his head with a cloth. ‘So you say that the head janissary knows about gunpowder?’

  He poured himself a glass of iced water. Edirne was hot again. He thought of his father’s corpse in the warm air of the bathing chamber and a prickle of heat crept down his neck.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Halil Pasha, his voice blunt.

  The Vizier had a sickly look to him these days. There were shadows round his eyes to rival a eunuch’s skin.

  ‘I suppose he would do, wouldn’t he, since he is a Serb.’

  He thought of his father’s wives in order of importance, pausing at the obstacles that may lie in his path, such as Azize Hatun. ‘I presume there will be no women at the funeral?’

  ‘They are normally kept away,’ said the pasha, hesitating.

  ‘Give an instruction to the Valide Hatun, my mother, that I think she should attend.’

  The pasha inclined his head then stared him squarely in the eyes again. The Vizier had forgotten that he was already as good as Sultan. That was the trouble with his father’s old ministers; there was no respect. He studied the pasha’s face and wondered what it contained that could still be of use to him. Not much, but there was the matter of the army. The Vizier pulled weight that he, as an unproven sultan could not yet command. But once the Golden City was taken, everything would change. He turned away. ‘I have heard that Dracula is in Transylvania. Do you know anything about it?’

  The pasha said he didn’t. The movements of Vlad Dracula were not his first concern at the moment. In any case, the cardinals had put their own man on the throne of Wallachia, so that was that.

  He watched the Vizier leave and called in his manservant. He had picked Eset out from a line of young janissaries. He knew at once that he would be loyal. Men of his age were easy to judge.

  He touched Eset on the shoulder and back with the tips of his fingers. ‘You think you know what to do?’

  Eset inclined his head. ‘The water is best. Cleanest.’

  He nodded. Cleanest. He hadn’t thought of clean, but of course it was perfect. It was the outward signs that caused the fuss, particularly with the women. A boy in a bathtub was as clean as it could get. No marks, no traces, nothing in fact except a chest full of water, and drowning was explainable. It was a moment of distraction by a servant.

  ‘The moment must be well chosen.’

  ‘I will choose it well, Highness.’

  He looked beyond the porticoes. There was his mother crossing the third courtyard again. That was twice in two days. He sighed. The sooner he left this rose-scented tomb, the better he would feel. He needed to be on the field, by the Bosphorus, where everything would happen. He turned back to Eset. ‘I have already chosen the moment for you. When the hatun is in my presence will be the best moment. The day of my investiture.’ He marvelled at his own forward thinking. He will be absent from the scene; she will be absent from the scene. He had never liked the boy, he considered, as Eset left and his mother, the Valide Hatun, took his place. His father had fed him lokum. He hated lokum.

  He leaned forward and smiled at his mother. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘Of course I am comfortable.’ His mother folded the silk of her mantle as she sat. ‘What has changed? It is your wife you should worry about; is she comfortable, does she have her time with you? Worry about her.’

  He clasped his hands together and wondered how long his mother would stay. If he asked for coffee and fruit, she would be there all afternoon and he did not have all afternoon. There were things to arrange, the detail of hauling his giant cannon, which was as long as a line of ten oxen, all the way to the Bosphorus, not to mention the manpower needed to set it into place. If they left now, they would be there before the feast of Ramadan. That would mean he could move it into position before the walls of the fort were bricked up.

  ‘You are not listening to me, are you?’ she said, miserably. ‘You never listen. Even as a child you did not listen.’

  He looked at her face and wondered if she would miss Murad. He did not think she would, but women had a strange constitution. They expelled sons and daughters from their bodies then spent the rest of their lives trying to claim them back.

  ‘I have much to do,’ he said, looking past her. He patted her hand.

  ‘You want what your father wanted. But did it make him happy, did it make him live longer? No.’

  Mehmet pushed up his chin. ‘Constantinople is as good as taken. It is not that.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  A childlike excitement gripped him. He held his breath and said it. ‘Belgrade. If I take Belgrade, it will be done. They will fall before us like a bunch of unarmed clergy.’

  It was the waiting that was hardest, but he had planned it well enough. With Belgrade came the Danube River, and his ships would have free passage all the way to Vienna. With Vienna taken, the Holy Roman Empire would collapse. Without the Holy Roman Empire there would be nobody to pull the strings of that Catholic puppet, the Roman Pope – he would have to do that himself.

  ‘And then what will you do?’ his mother said.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘What any conqueror would do. Take what I have earned.’

  His mother smiled and nodded, but she did not understand. He asked her if she wished to smoke. She said that she did not.

  ‘You want me to come to the funeral?’

  He stiffened suddenly as she led him back to what he thought he’d left: his father on the washing block. ‘I want you to have your proper place,’ he said.

  A part of him wanted his mother to be happy, but the rest of him did not care much. He had made up his mind about family long ago. Vlad Dracula hadn’t. Dracula had held himself together with a thread of steel the day he rode out of the palace gate, but still, the thread would not hold. Beneath the surface of that skin of his was the pus of sentiment. If you scratched it, it would burn. He reminded himself to have him followed. His father had been fool enough to think that a Draculesti would be loyal, but he knew better. One false move from Murad’s protégé and he would be back at Edirne grinding coffee for the Defterdar.

  ‘So
, you have all you need?’ He stood up awkwardly.

  Understanding that her time was finished, the Valide Hatun pulled the silk over her head, regarded him with clerical eyes and made her own way out.

  Chapter 59

  Snow was falling around Corvin Castle, lowering the sky over its towers and spires and blanketing the ground in deep drifts of thick, crisp crystal. Standing before the castle doors at the flank of his horse, from which a vaporous steam was rising, Vlad Dracula felt neither Christian, nor Turk. He wore his pantaloon trousers belted at the hip like a Turk, but he had topped them with a heavy velvet tunic in the Hungarian fashion. The cloak that covered his shoulders was too long for a Burgundian, but a Turk would have worn it as he did, thrown over one shoulder where it gathered mounds of snow in the creases of the fold. He had been removed from the grip of the Turks but the mark of the Turk still clung to him. He had had three years of liberty, but he did not feel at liberty. The manacles he had once worn on his return from the fortress of Egrigoz were still locked; there was only one who could release them and he was there, beyond the doors of Corvin Castle.

  He pulled the bell rope, and waited. It was late in the day; soon the sun would be setting behind the hills of Hunedoara, Transylvania’s bedrock of iron and home of Huns. They said that the blood of the Huns ran in the veins of Hunyadi. It was what had given him the edge; it was why the Hungarians had wanted him.

  He looked at his feet and listened to the sound of wood being drawn back on the other side of the door. His horse was shivering and he was not much better off himself, wearied by the distance of the journey and the doubtful reception that he was likely to receive. Janos Hunyadi would be expecting him because he had sent word ahead, but he would be wary; he would be vigilant. He would expect the son of Dracul to draw a sword on him or pull out a knife and use it to avenge his father’s death. He would be expecting accusations and anger, but there was no more anger. For many months there had been, but he had fought it, mastered it and used it. Now he was ready to put it to work.

  The door was opened by one of Hunyadi’s servants, no more than a girl. She asked his name and he gave it. A guard ushered her aside.

  ‘Your sword?’ The guard stared at the sheath of his Turkish kilij.

  ‘He is expecting me?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And has he given you his permission to admit me?’

  ‘If he hadn’t, you would still be in the snow. He is in the Knight’s Hall. This way.’

  The halls of Corvin Castle exhaled a funk of must from the wine cellars, and from the chambers of an old armoury a memory rose up of long-worn leather, the blood and metal of the Crusades and the stains of forgotten combat. As for the Crusades themselves, said Hunyadi, when their greetings were over, they had been a mistake.

  ‘I learned it the hard way, the way a captain in the field is made to. You get up in the morning to fight, and when you put your head down at night, only then do you see it all for what it is.’

  ‘And what is it?’

  Hunyadi gestured to a seat at one end of a long wooden table. ‘A band of disunited liars,’ he said, gruffly. ‘But there is little we can do about that now. What has been done has been done, and if I could change it, I would, but once a man is dead, he is dead.’

  ‘My father?’

  Hunyadi looked him in the eye. ‘Yes, your father. You may not believe me when I tell you, but I liked him. I liked him very much.’

  Vlad observed him curiously. The last time he had seen his father’s supposed friend and ally was before the pilgrimage that had ended in disaster. Why had their father returned to Constantinople and put their lives in danger, and who was responsible for his death and the death of Mircea? Ever since his departure from Edirne, their final moments had goaded him. Murad had been holding something back. The truth had been denied him; another door had been shut in his face, but he would find a way to open it.

  ‘If you liked him, as you say you did, why kill him?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hunyadi, sitting down before him at the table. ‘You want a confession, so I will give it to you.’ He paused. ‘Your father had a basement room at the palace of Targoviste. You are aware of this, I think?’

  Vlad nodded, remembering the dark stairwell and the key.

  ‘Your father kept the contents of his basement well locked and concealed because he understood the value of what it contained. He had always been a protector of the Greeks, although it cost him dearly.’ The Hungarian captain studied his face. ‘And do not think for one instant it did not. He did not recover from the arrest of you and your brother, but he was not the only one to have had an interest in the scrolls and codices of the Greeks.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Captain.’

  Hunyadi arched his brow. ‘Really? You surprise me. You must have known your father trod carefully in his diocese. Too carefully, I would say, for his own good.’ Hunyadi leaned forward and flattened his hands on the table. ‘You see, the Catholic Church does not approve of strigois. They threaten the fabric of the faith; they eat into its integrity, devour its credibility. If you want some advice from one who admired your father, I will give that to you also, along with the admission of my guilt. I did not kill your father, but I played a part in his death nonetheless. What did kill him was his name. And so I will say this to you, Vlad Dracula, and you must take it as the counsel of a friend who wishes you well. Kill your name before it kills you.’

  The fire crackled at Vlad’s shoulder; the room turned around him. He thought of Egrigoz, the Grand Vizier, the seizures that had made him stronger, and the emblem of his father’s name the soothsayer had given him together with his note. The ghost of his father seemed to tap him on the shoulder. He shivered, and closed his hands around his amulet, still hidden against the skin of his neck. Mircea had placed it in his hand and he had taken it reluctantly, as though his brother wished him gone. He pushed his face up, steadied his eyes and pushed away remorse at the evil of his envy. ‘But you have not told me how they died.’

  Hunyadi stirred in his chair. ‘Your father took his own life. I am not saying his life and Mircea’s were not in danger, because they were, but when I came to arrest him, he was already dead. As for your brother, I cannot say. He was taken by the boyars, your noblemen, and has not been seen since.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a steady silence, during which Vlad felt the burden of two deaths settle squarely on his shoulders.

  Hunyadi seized his arm. ‘I promised your father I would set his son on his seat, and I will keep my promise.’ He stood up. ‘You are hungry and we must eat. On a full stomach the world seems better.’

  They dined well at Corvin Castle. Hunyadi watched him closely from the end of his long table, nodding to the servant to fill his cup and plate.

  ‘I have heard that you speak Turkish well; is that so?’

  He set aside his fork. He knew that he must eat, but he could neither chew nor swallow, and every mouthful was a memory of blood. ‘Where did you hear it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Someone who had passed through Edirne.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You were taught?’

  ‘I had a tutor, for a while.’

  ‘And your brother. He is…’

  ‘At Edirne.’

  Hunyadi wiped his hands carefully. ‘Murad did not release him, why?’

  ‘I cannot say, Captain.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hunyadi lowered his knife and lodged it beside his plate.

  More wine was brought. The servant who had opened the door now served him wine; the skin of her hand folded round his cup.

  Hunyadi leaned forward. ‘If you know the language of the Turks, you will know their minds. They have always kept troops in Morea and in the outlands of Constantinople. Some say they will strike; others say they won’t. You are aware of the death of Murad the Second and the ascension of his
son Mehmet? Yes, I thought as much. He is barely twenty summers old. I had thought you were the same age, but I would say you look much older. Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  Hunyadi stared at him. ‘You surprise me. It is because he is young that many believe he will shy away from the task his father dared not undertake.’

  ‘He will not shy away from it, Captain, and those who think he will are fools that do not know the meaning of ambition.’

  ‘And you do?’

  He wiped his mouth on the napkin and pushed his plate away. ‘Before the season is over, Mehmet will have his cannons pointed at the wall of Constantinople. Within months or even weeks the assault will begin. But it will not end there.’

  Hunyadi sipped his wine. ‘You think he will take Morea, the rest of old Thrace?’

  Vlad shook his head. ‘Thrace does not interest him because it is not the seat of empire.’

  Hunyadi lowered his cup. ‘The Christian Empire?’

  ‘The Catholic one, since the Orthodox one will by then have fallen. Once Mehmet has taken Constantinople, he will turn his armies north. Sofia has been lost, taken and annexed by the Turks. It will be overrun. Nis will be next, and from there, Belgrade.’

  Hunyadi stared at the table. ‘Belgrade will never fall. The fortifications are…’

  ‘Better than those of Constantinople, whose walls he will already have destroyed? No, he will assail them, and do not imagine that it will end there, because it won’t. From there the Danube River is easy. At the Iron Gates, on the border between my country and Serbia, the river narrows to a gorge; it would be simple enough to block the passage there. That leaves a one-way navigation route, which could be held twice as swiftly. Once Mehmet has the river under his control, Vienna will be just another city at the end of a river. And if he takes Vienna, the seat of the Habsburgs, there will be nothing to stand in his way in Western Christendom except the clergy of Rome, who have always relied on the countries in between.’ He crossed his hands on the table. ‘But since those countries will be in Muslim hands, we will all be on our knees.’