House of War

by Victor Foia

  “We weren’t planning to go,” Vlad said, annoyed to see his day managed by Mehmed. “We’re both tired and in pain from what happened yesterday. Besides, this mosque suits us just fine.”

  “Every good Muslim has the obligation to attend the khutbah, sermon, at the Friday Mosque,” Yunus said, springing forward from nearby. “It’s the one occasion during the week when the sultan’s name is mentioned in public prayers.”

  “Perhaps these two newly minted Muslims don’t care for such a ritual,” Hamza chimed in, popping up behind Yunus. “What is the sultan to the Wallachians but an enemy—a constant threat?”

  “Please come,” Mehmed cried. “You’ll both be getting a gift from Mustafa Bey. There will be sweets, military music, public speeches …”

  “Order them to go, master,” Yunus said. “Don’t let them talk to you as if they were your equal.”

  “You know nothing of friendship between free men,” Mehmed snapped and kicked Yunus in the shin. Then he turned to Vlad with a pleading look. “The Grand Mosque was built by Beyazid and it’s one of the largest in the world. You’ll be impressed, I promise.”

  Dreading the public exposure promised by Mehmed, Vlad shook his head and took off for the second court where his sleeping chamber was located. But curiosity about Beyazid’s mosque had already tickled his interest. As his opa’s nemesis, this sultan interested Vlad more than all other Ottoman rulers. He slowed and waited for Mehmed to catch up to him.

  “I’ll come to your great-grandfather’s mosque,” he said with a conciliatory smile, “if you tell me about his time as Tamerlane’s prisoner.”

  Mehmed’s face reddened. He pursed his lips and remained silent.

  “Tamerlane didn’t treat Beyazid as a prisoner but as a valued guest,” Hamza said.

  Yunus thrust his face close to Vlad’s and piped, “The stories about Beyazid being kept in a cage until his death are lies.”

  “My lala was part of Tamerlane’s war booty at Ankara,” Vlad said. “He told me a different story.”

  “And you believe a slave over the official Ottoman war records?” Hamza scoffed.

  “Lala Gunther saw Tamerlane use your sultan for a footstool in the presence of foreign dignitaries.” Vlad couldn’t tell if Gunther’s account of Beyazid’s humiliation was factual, or suffered from wishful thinking. But Mehmed was bound to know the truth about his worshiped ancestor. Should I needle him for it? “If true, that’s a sorry outcome for someone who’d promised to ride his horse into Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome.”

  Mehmed’s head jerked up as if a wasp had stung his butt.

  “That wasn’t a promise, but a solemn oath. And he would’ve done it had he not been captured by the Mongols.”

  “Beyazid Khan lost to Tamerlane at Ankara because his Wallachian allies fled the field at the height of the battle,” Yunus said.

  Hamza jabbed a finger at Vlad’s chest. “That’s true. Tamerlane wouldn’t have won without your grandfather’s betrayal.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be the ones pointing out my grandfather’s pivotal influence over world events,” Vlad said, with a grin that infuriated Mehmed’s underlings. “Why, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’re admiring his military sagacity.” He could’ve added that Opa, as a tributary king, was a forced ally. He’d sent Beyazid a cavalry squadron only under duress.

  “Hamza and Yunus are ignorant saps,” Mehmed said and flipped his hands, dismissive. The two men fell behind, and Mehmed resumed his walk flanked by Vlad and Gruya. “Tamerlane won by deception and sorcery, not by strength. You want to hear my oath? One day I’ll have my horse shit on that sheepherder’s tomb in Samarkand.” His calm tone showed he must’ve mulled over Beyazid’s shameful death in captivity long enough to no longer be riled by the memory of it. “Afterward, I’ll fulfill Beyazid’s quest: raise the Ottoman flag over the Vatican.”

  Tired of their jealousy against Vlad, Mehmed ordered Hamza and Yusuf to remain at the palace. Then he took Vlad and Gruya on a roundabout walk through neighborhoods not affected by the fire, reaching Ulu Camii in about an hour.

  “By next Friday you both should be able to ride horses,” Mehmed said. “Then it will take us only minutes to get here.”

  “What’s my horse’s name?” Vlad said. Then he added with warmth, “It was a generous gift.” He’d glanced at the black mare for only a few moments, yet he remembered her every feature and longed to run his hand through her mane.

  “I thought about giving you an Arabian,” Mehmed said. “They’re better-looking, but for endurance and riding in the hills, the Akhal-Teke horses have no match. Alexander the Great preferred them over Arabians. I named her Samur, Sable, but you can choose another name if you want.”

  The Grand Mosque with its twenty domes soared to an awe-inspiring height, reducing the humans within to pitiable dimensions. Qur’an verses, in a bold calligraphy whose red lines resembled bullwhip lashes on pale skin, decorated the twelve immense columns supporting the roof. Over the sixteen-sided ablution fountain at the center of the hall, shafts of bluish light descended from dusty skylights, appearing as diaphanous ladders.

  “Do you feel Beyazid’s presence?” Mehmed whispered, eyes moist. “Can you believe that Father doesn’t like to pray here? ‘Too ostentatious to please Allah,’ he says.”

  “I like your father more and more,” Vlad said, and received a dark look from Mehmed.

  “The mihrab alone cost Beyazid half the ransom paid by the Duke of Burgundy for his son John, Count of Nevers.” Mehmed pointed to a semicircular niche at the center of the south wall. “It’s made of gold tiles.”

  Gunther had recounted how following his victory over the crusaders at Nicopolis, Beyazid gave himself to endless bouts of drinking and spectacular orgies with youths of both sexes. Perhaps the splendor of this mosque was his way of atoning for those excesses.

  Throughout the prayer session, Gruya remonstrated under his breath against the repeated standings and prostrations that caused pain to his recently “clipped manhood.”

  “I’m going straight to the Christian Quarter after this and drink until I feel no pain,” he whispered to Vlad, instead of uttering the obligatory Allāhu Akbars. Despite the cool air in the mosque, his forehead was beaded with sweat. The circumcision, coming on the heels of the ordeal Gruya had suffered at the hands of Zaganos’s men, was taking its toll on him.

  “For once,” Vlad whispered back, breaking his own recitation of the sūrah al-Fātiḥah, “I don’t blame you. Wait for the town governor’s speeches to be over, then go. Just don’t let the Turks see you drink.”

  “Not coming along?”

  “I’m back on duty helping Mehmed with his Qur’an study.”

  When the khutbah ended, Vlad and Gruya found themselves swept out of the mosque by a garrulous group of pages Mehmed had sent for them. The boy was standing outside the main portal under the vaulted iwan, explaining something to a dignified man in his sixties. Beyond them Vlad saw the meydan that stretched in front of the mosque, shaded by tall cypresses. The worshipers who had already left the prayer hall were gathered there in small groups, laughing and carrying on quiet conversations. Hawkers of ayran, fruit, and sweets moved amongst them, carrying their wares on wooden trays.

  When Mehmed saw Vlad and Gruya he waved a kerchief and a Janissary mehterân band assembled nearby began to play a march. Over the brassy din of cymbals and the deep rumbling of the kös drums Mehmed shouted into the old man’s ear, “Meet Abdullah Emirzade and his servant, Abdullah bin Novak.”

  The governor, whose henna-dyed beard resembled an inverted torch flame, turned a pair of rheumy, kohl-lined eyes on Vlad. Then he placed his right hand over his heart and bowed imperceptibly. An arak miswak, toothpick, poked out of his turban.

  “These are the two heroes I spoke to you about, Mustafa Bey,” Mehmed added, beaming with something akin to pride of ownership. Then he raised his kerchief again, and the band went silent.

  “I met your
father the year he became the Emir of Eflâk, Wallachia,” Mustafa said to Vlad with a wry smile. “A reckless man, I thought. He dared say no to Murad Khan, who ordered him to join us in a raid on Transylvania. ‘I don’t fight Christians, unless they be my enemies,’ he said. The sultan wanted to depose him on the spot, but didn’t have a handy replacement.”

  Mehmed lit up with an idea. “Now that Vlad has become a believer, Father could make him the Emir of Wallachia.”

  “I don’t fight Christians either, unless they be my enemies,” Vlad said in a chilly tone.

  “My friend has a great sense of humor, Mustafa Bey,” Mehmed said. He cast Vlad a reproachful look, then took Mustafa by the arm and led him to the top of the iwan’s steps. “But we have no time for jokes. The crowd’s awaiting your speech.”

  With the music halted, the people on the meydan turned their eyes to the porch. Mustafa Bey greeted them by raising his arms.

  “Yesterday, in the midst of the terrible fire that destroyed most of the Yeşil Quarter,” he intoned theatrically, “these two young men ignored their own pain and safety to save the lives of others.” He indicated Vlad and Gruya with a sweep of his hand and waited for the crowd to gather closer before he continued. “Only minutes after undergoing circumcision, Abdullah Emirzade and Abdullah bin Novak had to choose between fleeing from the fire and braving it to rescue those helpless folks who had no one to carry them to safety.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through the meydan.

  Vlad translated for Gruya.

  “Tell Red Beard I did it thinking the victims were Christian,” Gruya said, affecting a solemn stance and bowing his head to Mustafa Bey.

  Vlad imitated Gruya’s gesture and said, “My friend hopes that saving Allah’s servants will count in his favor on the Day of Resurrection.”

  “Allah loves those who perform deeds of righteousness,” Mustafa Bey proclaimed and cast Gruya a benevolent look. “Bin Novak shall be counted among them, Insha’Allāh.”

  Then he launched into listing the many dead and describing in detail the fire that had consumed more than four dozen tenements, before the brave Janissaries brought it under control. It was, according to him, Allah’s will that some people die and many houses perish in the flames. And it was also His will that the precious Yeşil Camii be spared. “Allah is al-Muḥyīy, the Bringer of Life, just as He is al-Mumīt, the Destroyer. Subḥana’llāh.”

  At that moment a rider approached the edge of the meydan in a clatter of hoofbeats, and everyone turned to watch him. It proved to be a çavuş who vaulted out of the saddle and made his way through the crowd with the authority of an official envoy. Upon reaching Mehmed he whispered something into his ear, then glanced at Vlad.

  Mehmed’s face went pale. He looked at Vlad with knitted brows, searchingly, then left with the çavuş. Over the heads of the people, Vlad saw Mehmed mount the çavuş’s horse and take off at a hurried pace.

  Mustafa Bey appeared disconcerted by Mehmed’s precipitous departure and eager to close the ceremony. “I now present you, Emirzade, with this precious kiliç crafted by a master armorer at the court of Osman Ghazi, one hundred years ago.”

  One of the bey’s servants girded Vlad with a leather baldric from which dangled the sword. Vlad noticed with a shudder that the iron guard was fashioned as the three-barred Orthodox cross, and wondered if the armorer had been a covert Christian. He drew out the sword to check its sheen and concluded it was a credible weapon indeed. When he looked closer at the blade, he discerned Arabic writing in near worn-out gold inlay: ‘“Fight those who don’t believe in Allah until they are humbled.’” He turned the kiliç on the other side to read, ‘“Kill the unbelievers wherever you find them, capture them, besiege them, and sit in wait for them at every place of ambush.”’

  Vlad’s work with Mehmed on memorizing the Qur’an had advanced far enough for him to recognize these admonitions as verses from Chapter Nine, titled, “Repentance.” An uneasy feeling took hold of him. The cross of Christ? Nine, Vlad’s number in the Book of Life? Repentance? What message was the dead swordsmith passing on to Vlad?

  Gruya received a curved damascene dagger, whose silver pommel was shaped as a lion’s head. He tested the sharpness of the blade on the hair of his left arm. Satisfied, he sent the dagger twirling ten feet in the air, then caught it with a flourish by the hilt on the way down.

  The crowd saluted his dexterity with friendly laughter.

  When the ceremony ended, Gruya took off in search of food and drink, moving at a pace that showed he’d forgotten about the pain in his shortened manhood. Vlad returned to the palace at a slow pace, skirting the neighborhoods still smoldering in the wake of the fire.

  On the way he turned over in his mind the possibilities behind Mehmed’s quirky behavior. It was evident the message brought by the çavuş was related in some manner to Vlad. Had they found Omar, perhaps? No … Mehmed would’ve shared that good news with Vlad. An alarming dispatch from Murad’s spies in Hungary, then? Yes, that was it. The crusade must’ve finally started. Vlad cursed aloud in Hungarian and a passerby looked at him, startled. The crusade would raise the stakes for Vlad, if Zaganos could manufacture proof Wallachia was a participant. But no false proof was needed if Marcus were spotted in Buda, wearing King Norbert’s colors. Vlad cursed again, this time in Romanian. That hotheaded brother of his was apt to ignore Father’s orders and enlist in the crusade, even if it meant Vlad’s execution by the Turks. The irony that only months ago he himself had conspired with Marcus toward the same aim nettled him now.

  Vlad was accosted at the palace entrance by the same çavuş who’d come to Ulu Camii with news for Mehmed.

  “Prince Mehmed commands your presence in the Audience Hall,” the man said in a colorless tone that gave Vlad no hint of the nature of this request.

  No sooner had he entered the hall than Mehmed bucked him like a stag in rut.

  “How could you?” Mehmed said one last time, then wrested his wrists free from Vlad’s grip. “I took you for my friend, but you’ve proved to be nothing but a munāfiq, a hypocrite who feigned belief in the true faith.”

  18

  İBRAHIM’S PRECEDENT

  November 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  Hamza and Yunus sprang forward and took hold of Vlad’s arms.

  “This is a crime worthy of death, not amputation,” Hamza said, gleeful. He removed Vlad’s sword and attached it to his own belt.

  “And this time a kadı’s present to sign your sentence,” Yunus added.

  Mehmed turned to the people he’d left behind. “Bring forth the witness.”

  Zaganos stepped aside to let a small person advance. Vlad recognized Hekim Şerafeddin’s apprentice and his fears about problems stemming from back home subsided.

  “Repeat, for Emirzade’s benefit, what you told us,” Zaganos prompted the boy with exaggerated kindness.

  “This morning, after Salah al-Fajr, a friend of mine who’s a slave at the palace told me something that surprised me.”

  “Skip the introduction,” Zaganos said.

  The apprentice, swelled with the importance of his testimony, seemed inclined not to omit any details. He cleared his throat and continued. “My friend saw Abdullah Emirzade enter the palace mosque even though—”

  A slap from Zaganos across the side of his head sent the apprentice’s turban flying to Mehmed’s feet.

  “Tell us again what you know, not what you’ve heard,” Zaganos said, his tone still sweet.

  “Emirzade isn’t circumcised,” the apprentice said, retreating from Zaganos. “My master has circumcised the other kāfir, but not this one.”

  “You took advantage of the fire and Şerafeddin’s death to fake your conversion,” Mehmed shouted, looking Vlad in the eye. It sounded as if Zaganos’s words were spitting out of Mehmed’s mouth. “Then you defiled the mosque with your presence as an unbeliever. For that sacrilege even Father would agree you must die, hostage or not.”

  The gr
oup of old men broke into loud vociferations, resembling a disorganized Greek chorus. One word floated repeatedly above the others, always uttered with pronounced loathing: munāfiq, hypocrite.

  The oldest of the jurists silenced his colleagues with an authoritative gesture. “The Qur’an says, ‘Surely the munāfiqūn are condemned to the lowest stage of the hell-fire and you shall find no one helping them.’” He looked around for approval, and the Greek chorus obliged him with its refrain of munāfiq.

  “Sūrah 9:18 says,” the jurist continued, “‘only he shall visit the mosques of Allah who believes in Allah and fears none but Allah.’”

  How everything revolves around nine, Vlad thought, adding up the numbers. He wasn’t surprised, but at a loss to discern a meaning to this persistent recurrence of his number. If God wanted to remind Vlad of his destiny, why would He choose the heathen as His conduit?

  Another jurist broke away from the group and pointed an accusatory finger at Vlad. “Pretending to be a Muslim,” he said, “is punishable by death.”

  “But he did profess the Shahada three times with conviction, as required,” said a sympathetic voice Vlad recognized as belonging to the imam from the day before.

  “That’s not enough,” shouted Zaganos. “Anyone can say the words, but only the circumcision proves—”

  “If Hekim Şerafeddin failed to perform the operation,” Tirendaz said, addressing himself to Mehmed, “that isn’t Emirzade’s fault. You should give him the chance to be circumcised by your own hekim.”

  “Yes, I could perform the circumcision immediately at the Darüşşifa, and the issue would become moot,” said a kind-looking old Jew dressed in dark colors and wearing a square black cap.

  “Too late for Hekim Yakup’s blade and his House of Healing,” Zaganos hissed, dismissive. “This munāfiq has desecrated the mosque, and that can’t be undone. It’s time now for the executioner’s blade.”

  The chorus showed its support for Zaganos with a series of menacing grunts.