House of War

by Victor Foia

  “Ah,” Vlad exclaimed with sham admiration. “Though unlearned in those languages, you can still judge someone’s fluency in them?”

  “As the Muslim proverb goes,” Gruya said in passable Turkish, ‘“pillow talk’s a better teacher than a mullah or a preacher.’”

  Vlad couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Women used to swoon at the sight of your manhood. Now they talk to you? So there is a downside to circumcision, after all.”

  “If I were you I’d worry more about my safety than the size of my squire’s prick.”

  “What does this stranger look like?”

  “He’s the rough sort. I make him handy with a knife.”

  “And his clothes?”

  “Dirty tunic, torn caftan, worn-out boots—practically a beggar.” Gruya puckered his lips and scratched his beard. “Oh, and he’s got one of those fox-trimmed caps the Florentines wear.”

  “Puzzling,” Vlad said. “A Christian who’s not from our parts, yet seems to know me.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a hired assassin. Why be so persistent at trying to find you?”

  “At least we know he isn’t in Zaganos’s pay,” Vlad said. “His men know where to find me.”

  “What if he’s Omar’s hireling? He’s been asking for ‘Vlad of Basarab,’ and Omar knows you by that name.”

  “Omar will do just about anything to get me, but I don’t see him teaming up with a kāfir to that end.”

  “If King Norbert can ally himself with Karaman,” Gruya said, “why couldn’t Omar take on a Christian partner?”

  Vlad cinched his sword belt. “Let’s go see what the stranger wants with me.”

  Gruya led Vlad and Lash to the Silk Bazaar khan, where the suspicious visitor had been returning every night. The inn was a small version of the caravanserais Vlad had encountered along the commercial roads. But here there was room in the courtyard for only a handful of wagons, and the ground floor was entirely taken with shops. Like in a caravanserai, sleeping chambers were located on the second floor.

  “What business does a beggar have lodging at a place for silk merchants?” Vlad said. “Rooms can’t be cheap here.”

  They arrived during the Maghrib prayer and found the khan near empty. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the red in the sky was drifting rapidly toward lavender. A couple of servants began to hang lanterns along the arcade, just as shopkeepers and buyers returning from the mosque started to pour into the courtyard. Within minutes the hum of banter and deal-making, coming from two dozen shops under the arcade, filled the enclosed space.

  “Our man likes to stroll, never buying anything, always asking about you,” Gruya said. “Then he goes to his room.”

  They promenaded along the arcade for about a quarter hour, passing in front of shops overflowing with fabrics and bales of silkworm cocoons. While pretending to admire the merchandise, they scanned the crowd of shoppers for the would-be assassin.

  Lash was the first to spot the fox-trimmed cap.

  The stranger was walking thirty feet ahead of them, now and then stopping briefly to query a shopper or a storekeeper. When he reached the steps leading to the second floor he began to climb. Vlad, Gruya, and Lash hurled forward to close the gap.

  “This is the time to get him,” Gruya whispered.

  “Grab him before he enters his room,” Vlad said, “but cause him no harm, unless he fights back.”

  Gruya and Lash dashed noiselessly after their quarry, taking two steps at a time. As soon as they were out of sight, Vlad heard a scuffle and muffled sounds on the landing above. When he arrived at the scene, the man was standing pinned by Gruya, back to the wall, arms splayed, a dagger at his throat; his cap had fallen to the ground.

  “Who are you?” Vlad said in Turkish. He scrutinized the man’s face but the light was too poor to make out his features.

  “Someone minding his business, as you should be doing,” the answer came in a gruff, belligerent tone.

  “Our friend’s likely to be an assassin,” Lash said in Romanian and handed Vlad a knife he’d retrieved from under the man’s caftan. “He’s wearing armor underneath, too.”

  “That doesn’t make him an assassin,” Vlad said, although the notion this man was protecting himself like a warrior troubled him. Ordinary travelers might be sporting knives, but they wouldn’t be wearing iron corselets under their tunics. He switched to Turkish again. “Why the armor?”

  This time the man remained silent.

  “Let’s take him to his room before someone comes upon us,” Vlad ordered.

  Gruya swiveled the man around and tugged at his long hair, forcing his head backward. “You live if you cooperate,” he said in his broken Turkish.

  Lash fished the key out of the man’s sash and opened his room. Gruya shoved the prisoner in, then they all piled after him. Lash shut the door.

  “Where’s the lamp?” Vlad said.

  “At the right of the door, on a hook,” the stranger answered.

  Lash fussed with his flint and firestone to light a piece of char cloth and with it the oil lamp.

  Vlad touched Gruya’s shoulder. “Turn him around so I can see him.”

  Clean, well-fed, trimmed beard … except for his clothes, not the beggar Vlad expected. Had he seen this man before? There was something in his looks—freckles, reddish hair, ramrod bearing—that made him vaguely familiar. Then Vlad noticed he was missing two fingers on his right hand and gave a rapt cry. “Spencer?”

  “What?” Gruya said and let go of the man’s hair. “You know him?”

  “Vlad?” Spencer’s tone was that of one finding a lost brother. “What’s with the turban? Have you converted?”

  Vlad’s thoughts flew to Donatella. How is she? he craved to ask, faint with excitement at the thought that only a couple of weeks ago Spencer must’ve been in her presence. But he feared his voice would betray feelings for her he didn’t want to share with anyone. So instead, he gave Spencer a hug and said, “I remember you as a walking skeleton, not stout like a butcher’s wife.”

  Spencer chortled and returned Vlad’s hug. “Since Lady Donatella’s made me the steward of her estate she seems bent on fattening me,” he said, with pride. “‘You represent me now when you go out in the world,’ she said. ‘So I want you to look the part.’”

  “You aren’t making her proud with your clothes,” Vlad said.

  Spencer uncinched his sash then let his caftan fall to the floor. “Ah, these rags are just the costume that goes with my mission,” he said, with an air of mystery. Then he pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it to the ground as well. Instead of the chain mail Vlad had imagined, Spencer was wearing a buff-leather jerkin.

  “This is Donatella’s gift for you,” Spencer said, “and the reason for my trip to Bursa.” He removed his jerkin and held it up for Vlad’s inspection.

  Lash and Gruya crowded around Vlad, curious.

  “There are five pounds of silver in Venetian coins sewn inside the padding,” Spencer said, when Vlad remained silent. “Two thousand grossi. Enough to help you and your men reach Constantinople. Lady Donatella will take over your escape plans from that point on.”

  Gruya whistled in amazement, showing he understood enough of Spencer’s Turkish. “I want to see,” he said and took the garment from Spencer. He made a slit in it with his dagger and extracted a coin. “Quite shiny.” He pointed at an effigy on the obverse of the coin. “Who’s this?”

  Imagining that Donatella thought about him had soothed many of Vlad’s restless nights. Now here was proof she wanted him back. The scene of their wild embrace in Ca’ Loredano flashed through his mind, a whirlwind of sounds, smells, and tactile sensations. Embarrassed, he realized his fingers were moving in concert with his erotic thoughts.

  He took the coin from Gruya and held it to the light. “That’s Doge Foscari. The coin’s newly minted.”

  “Lady Donatella insisted all coins must still have their mint bloom,” Spencer said. “She
thought new coins would spare you trouble with the money changers, seeing there are so many clipped and counterfeit grossi in circulation these days.”

  Donatella’s attention to this detail further moved Vlad.

  The coin’s reverse showed Jesus wreathed in a legend that read, “Tibi laus et gloria.” He’d never seen that motto on a coin and took it as a clear sign. The Son of God was looking straight into Vlad’s eyes and appeared to be saying, “All is forgiven.” Vlad felt tears well and thought, “To You praise and glory be, Lord.”

  “Perhaps I should take a few coins to the bazaar right now,” Gruya said in Romanian, “just to make sure they are genuine.”

  Vlad took Spencer’s hands into his. “Tell Lady Donatella I can’t wait to—” He stopped, mortified. What am I doing? “—make love to her again,” he’d been about to say.

  He turned to Gruya. “Spencer and I have a few words to exchange in private. You and Lash take the money to our chamber and hide it. This silver’s our safe-conduct out of here, so don’t even dream of spending any of it on your charitable causes.”

  Vlad waited for his companions to leave the room then faced Spencer. “Tell Lady Donatella I can’t wait to recount to her my adventures since we last saw each other.”

  “Your conversion will be a shock to her.”

  Vlad gave Spencer an abbreviated version of the events related to Gruya’s arrival in Bursa, without mentioning Omar and the fire. No need to worry Donatella with that.

  “But what about your soul?” Spencer said, grim. He wasn’t convinced that saving Gruya’s life justified Vlad’s abandoning his faith, even if only on the surface.

  “Lady Donatella’s gift makes my escape imminent,” Vlad said. The fresh prospect of soon returning to Christendom silenced Vlad’s guilt. “Once I’m free, the conversion’s moot. Tell her she’s rescuing me just in time. Murad’s coming to Bursa in a few weeks, and he’d be sending me to a far off fortress if he found me here.”

  “We thought Murad was expecting an attack from Hungary in the new year,” Spencer said. “Why then is he coming to Bursa?”

  “He’s hoping to discourage King Norbert from launching the crusade by securing peace with Karaman.”

  “For my mistress’s sake, I hope Murad succeeds. War always disturbs the sea traffic between Constantinople and Venice.”

  “That’s right,” Vlad said. “She’s expecting news from Bianca when the sea lanes open in the spring.” In his excitement he’d forgotten about Donatella’s daughter.

  “It’s not that,” Spencer said. “She knows already Bianca’s arrived safe in Venice. But, Her Ladyship needs the sea unaffected by war for her own visit there next summer.”

  Donatella would need someone strong and fearless to guard her on such a perilous journey. Vlad saw himself as that someone and became lightheaded at the prospect. A voyage at sea with a beautiful woman he’d comfort during storms, defend against pirates, make love to every night under the stars; that must’ve been her escape plan for him.

  “A dangerous trip for an unescorted woman,” he said.

  Spencer gave a short cackle. “As a former pirate I certainly agree.”

  “She needs to be well protected.”

  “That’s why her husband has decided to send her off with a convoy of three armed galleys, as soon as their child is born.”

  Spencer’s words were nonsensical, and Vlad stared at his friend for evidence of mischief. Then, as seconds crawled by and Spencer didn’t amend his pronouncement, the bottom of Vlad’s stomach seemed to rip open.

  “What husband?” he said in a faint voice.

  “Oh, I thought you’ve heard by now of Her Ladyship’s marriage to Podestà Grimaldi.” Spencer’s tone showed he didn’t think the news mattered much to Vlad.

  A chasm opened under Vlad’s feet and sucked away most of his energy. He glanced around for something to sit on. When he found nothing, he dragged himself backward to the door and leaned his back on it. A thunderous noise rumbled in his head as waves of shame and humiliation buffeted him. He saw Spencer’s lips move but make no sound, while an inner voice said, with bitter scorn, You’re a laughable fool.

  Then the interminable moments of anguish passed and a cold peace descended upon him. The dissonance in his head gave place to the murmuring of a line from the Qur’an. If you suffer treachery on the part of people, then throw it back to them on equal terms.

  “I was joking before about wanting to get away from here,” he said with a smile he hoped would deceive. “And since I’m provided with all the necessities by the Turks, I don’t need Lady Donatella’s silver.” He flicked the grosso at Spencer, then, as he left the room, said over his shoulder, “I’ll have my servant return the rest of her money in the morning.”

  Once he was alone in the frigid outdoors, the roiling in his guts returned. He trudged on, listless, unaware of his surroundings until a gust of wind coming from the mountainside pelted him with frozen rain droplets. He found himself on the Irgandı Bridge under the light of a solitary lantern swaying from a pole planted on the parapet. The swollen waters of Gökdere were gurgling ominous in the darkness below. He took out Donatella’s kerchief from inside his shirt and, after a moment of hesitation, let it fly in the wind. For an instant, the purple swath of silk caught the light of the lantern, then vanished.

  21

  ENEMIES OF JIHĀD

  December 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  After a few days of recitation and meditation on the sheik’s question, Omar stopped keeping track of time. He felt that weeks must’ve passed, but when Jalāl returned, Omar couldn’t say how many.

  “The Christians are the enemies of jihād,” he said and anticipated Jalāl’s approbation.

  The old man’s face gave no indication of what he felt, but his words left no doubt he was disappointed with Omar. “Increase your number of recitations to six hundred, twice daily. Then give me a new answer to Sheik al-Masudi’s question.”

  Omar felt a wave of shame sweep through him. Hubris had led him to treat the sheik’s question superficially. And now he’d forfeited the privilege of kneeling in front of him. What if I never come up with the right answer?

  Omar’s recitations took so much of the night at both ends that little time was left for sleep. At first, he couldn’t complete a single set of recitations without missing the count and having to start all over. But one night, the voice he’d been hearing with increasing frequency took over the burden of repeating the Qur’anic verses, and he never missed the count again.

  When Jalāl returned, Omar felt confident his answer would gain him the visit with the saint he craved now more than anything else.

  “Believers who trade with unbelievers are the enemies of jihād,” he said and closed his eyes so as not to see Jalāl’s reaction.

  “Nine hundred times,” was the only thing Jalāl said. Then he left the cell with bent back and shuffling steps that spoke more clearly of his disappointment than words could.

  But now the voice made the recitations a child’s play. Omar not only kept the count correctly, but increased the number of repetitions to one thousand before dawn and to fifteen hundred after the sunset. All the time, Omar’s mind remained free to ponder the saint’s question.

  When Jalāl entered his cell one evening, Omar was certain he had the correct answer.

  “Believers who speak to the infidel of peace are the enemies of jihād,” he said.

  Jalāl recompensed him with a warm smile. “And now, you’re ready to take the next step on the path to the Ultimate Truth.”

  22

  WAR LOGISTICS

  December 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  The morning after the Spencer incident, Gruya showed up at the palace as soon as the gates opened. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, like those of a miner worked to exhaustion.

  “It’s taken me all night, and still I’ve managed to say goodbye to only a fraction of my widows,” he said. “I need rest s
o I might resume my task tonight. I promise I’ll be ready to leave town in four days, if I have to work at it day and night.” Then he slid to the floor and fell asleep.

  “Don’t tell him what I’ve decided about the silver until he’s done with all his goodbyes,” Vlad instructed Lash. “He’ll be better able to take the bad news then.”

  Vlad left to attend a new series of lectures on the “The Art of War.” He found Mehmed’s classroom filled to capacity with young men who were being trained as assistant quartermasters for the sultan’s army. The instructor was an octogenarian who’d served under the previous two sultans. He was seated cross-legged on a little dais in the center of the room, and from outward appearances was asleep.

  “Don’t expect anything interesting from this class,” Mehmed whispered at Vlad. “Enver Pasha has the reputation of one who likes to dwell on minutia no one cares about.”

  “I have much yet to learn about war,” Vlad said, thinking any distraction that took his mind off Donatella was welcome.

  “There is nothing I can learn about war from someone who’s never fought one,” Mehmed said. “I’d rather be tending to flowers and trees in my greenhouse.”

  “I’ll take detailed notes if you want to skip class.”

  Mehmed shook his head, morose. “I can’t miss any class, with Father arriving in a few weeks. I want to be in good standing with my teachers so he’ll grant me an unusual favor I have in mind.”

  With Mehmed seated on his pillow in front of the dais, all murmurs in the classroom ceased.

  The silence awoke Enver, who scanned the room and gave his students a toothless smile. “War is a clashing of arms,” he said in a deep and resonant voice that belied his advanced age. He was a diminutive man with a face like a withered date, and black, vivacious eyes dancing behind slanted eyelids. “Clouds of arrows darkening the sky; steel biting into flesh; bombards spreading terror with their noise and sulfurous stink ...”