He was not close to the end when Mehmet halted him with a word. ‘Look.’
Hamza looked. Studied. Nodded.
They had argued long about what Mehmet should wear this day. To exalt the status of a sultan, without setting him too far above those he needed to serve him. To remind them that he was, though young, a soldier of some experience from a tradition of military men. That he was also what he called himself – a gazi, a warrior of the faith, taking up the Prophet’s banner in a jihad eight hundred years old.
Mehmet was muscled from years of training at arms and on the wrestling floor. His armour emphasised that, the mail coat raised over padded shoulders, his chest plates lifted slightly. These were clearly old, dints visible, though polished to a brightness that would dazzle in the sunlight. Only in the helmet was there any ostentation, for though it was in the simple style of a metal turban, with more mail descending to protect the neck, a type that all his sipahi horsemen would wear, the metal was silver. And on its surface had been etched, in cursive Arabic lettering, a well-known haditha of Muhammad: ‘I will assist you with a thousand of the angels, ranks on ranks.’
Hamza went to Mehmet. Though as tall, he felt dwarfed by the shining bulk. Which was how he wanted to feel, what he hoped all would feel. ‘And your sword, master?’ he asked. ‘How did you decide?’
Mehmet opened his hand and an armourer placed a weapon in it. Mehmet pulled a hand’s span of steel from the battered sheath, to glitter in the sunlight. ‘I know what we discussed – a new sword, perhaps, so they would see a new leader and not …’ he hesitated, ‘a father’s insufficient son.’ He drew the sword fully now, dropped back into fighting stance, free hand out and forward, curved blade high and back. ‘But the men we are to persuade saw this sword melt the Crusader ranks at Varna, saw it scythe the very air upon the Field of the Blackbirds.’ He stepped back, swung it in a high cut that was yet low enough to have men ducking. ‘I decided that a small touch of my warrior father’s memory will not go amiss this day.’
It does not go amiss with me, who loved him, Hamza thought, but with you, who did not? Still, on balance he thought the choice was right. Murad had been one of the greatest warriors the House of Osman had ever produced. He had nearly always won.
Mehmet swept the blade through the air. ‘So what think you, Hamza? Am I not Achilles?’
Hamza nodded. His master considered the text of the Iliad as a near equal to the holiest of books. Achilles, the fearless, ruthless supreme warrior, was his model. ‘Every fibre of him, master. And are you ready now to go and mock the strutting Achaean lords?’
The younger man smiled. ‘I am ready. Stay by me. Guide me if I falter.’
‘I shall be your rock ever, master. Though you will need nothing from me but my praise when you have won them.’
‘Your lips to God’s ears.’ Mehmet lifted the sword into sunlight once more before sheathing it, then sliding it into its strapping at his belt. ‘Inshallah,’ he said, and led the way to the door.
He needed no fanfare, just the tent’s flaps thrown back. The hour had been judged precisely so that the sun, low in the west, shone through the otak’s aligned front entrance and made his armour dance with flame. Other servants had instructions to keep that canvas spread till Hamza signalled them to lower it. He did not do so till Mehmet had reached the centre of the raised platform and even the most reluctant had their noses pressed to the carpet for three full breaths.
‘Allahu akbar!’ Mehmet roared.
‘God is great!’ came the echo from fifty voices.
The flaps dropped, faces came up, men rose, and saw their sultan clearly for the first time. Saw too, just behind and to the side, the plain contrast of Mehmet’s imam, Aksemseddin, the cleric in sober brown and grey, a gold-leaf-covered copy of the Qur’an in his arms.
The Prophet’s warrior let them study him for half a dozen breaths before he beckoned. Only a few had been allowed the honour of kissing his hand.
The grand vizier, of course, would be first. The two belerbeys next – as governors of the larger provinces, it was expected. Other beys, only just below them in prestige, would follow. Every one of them he and Hamza had, in endless night-time analysis, named for animals. As each approached, Mehmet spoke the alias along with the name inside his head.
The Elephant came first, his grand vizier, Candarli Halil Pasha. The Ox and the Buffalo followed closely, Ishak and Karaca, belerbeys of Anatolia and Rumelia, who would command his Turkish and European levies respectively. Each bent, kissed, avoided his eyes. Mehmet watched them waddle back to their factions. Old bulls, he thought. Devoid of seed. Lowing for peace.
He had a different smile for the two men – the two animals, Cheetah and Bear – who came next. Zaganos was an Albanian, a convert, more fanatical for the faith than almost any born to it. He was lean, fast, young, ambitious. The other man was huge and also well named. Baltaoglu was a Bulgarian, a former prisoner and slave, who had embraced Islam only to rise as fast as he could, his skills at naval war matched by the brutality with which he pursued it. They worked as a pair, a young Balkan alliance against the old Anatolians.
A last man came when they retreated – Imran, agha of the janissaries. His bow was brief, his kiss likewise, his leaving swift. He and his sultan had little love, for he had been Murad’s man entirely. But Mehmet knew as he watched the man walk away and stand directly in between the camps of war and peace with the other undecided, the majority in the room, that he could be persuaded. Janissaries got restless with too much peace and made trouble. Like cheetahs, they needed the hunt.
He looked at all who’d greeted him, at the others behind grouped mainly in the middle. Suddenly he felt uncertain. What was it he was going to say? In what order? He turned … and Hamza was right behind him. In his adviser’s stare, he found certainty again. And when he looked again at the upturned faces, sought out those of the men he must persuade or overcome, he saw that he had marked them all. Mud, that had been on his hands, was now on their faces. His grand vizier was wiping grit from his lips. It made Mehmet smile – and then he was speaking.
‘Lords of the horizon,’ he said, lifting off his great silver helmet, ‘pashas of lands that stretch from the mountains of the Tartar to the seas of the Greeks, all united under Allah, praise Him …’ He paused as ‘Praise Him!’ was shouted in response, then added, ‘Welcome, lords, to the end and the beginning of history!’
Some men, already aligning themselves with him, cheered. Most did not. He lifted a hand, and received immediate silence. In a quieter voice he continued, ‘You know why we are gathered here. And since it is not a secret …’ he turned to Hamza, nodded, watched his adviser leave by the back of the tent, turned back, ‘let me remind you where we seek to conquer, why we seek it and how. Let me shout the name, so that it goes to God’s ears as tribute, as prayer.’ He threw back his head and yelled, ‘Constantinople!’
He looked down again. ‘Constantinople,’ he repeated softly. ‘We also call it the Red Apple. How many times have the sons of Isaac camped before its walls, waiting for that luscious fruit to drop into our hands? In the memories of men gathered here are visions of my grandfather, whose name I bear to my honour, packing up his tents and stealing away from that prize. My own father, Murad, an incomparable warrior, could not cut the fruit away from the tree. So why do I, grandson, son of such esteemed warriors, believe that I can do what they failed to do?’ His voice dropped and he smiled. ‘Because prophecy is the voice of destiny – and it is prophesied that it is time for the Red Apple to fall. Did not the Prophet, most exalted, say: “Have ye heard of a city of which one side is land and two others sea? The Hour of Judgement shall not sound until seventy thousand sons of Isaac shall capture it.”’
He stared out, letting the Prophet’s words rest in their ears a moment. ‘You know that we have already assembled the number of the prophecy,’ he continued. ‘You have brought them yourselves to gather beneath my tug. More are coming. Many more. Yet what size of
army will face us? Our enemies have never been weaker, nor more disunited. We will fight only those impoverished few who live there. No one will come to their aid. Oh, they will make great noises, they will clash their arms – but they will not lift them. I have treaties signed with the dread Hunyadi, the White Knight of Hungary. With Brankovitch of Serbia. The Pope weeps … and does little more. And if conscience does finally strike them all and they set out, it will be too late.’ His voice dropped and men leaned closer. ‘Too late. For we will already have turned their temple, the Hagia Sophia, into a mosque.’
More cries of ‘God is great!’ came then, from more voices. He could feel a shift in the room. Not enough, yet. Soon perhaps. After other persuasions.
He took a breath. ‘Isolated, alone, weakened? Yes. But if we leave Constantinople now – now when we are so strong, when stars and man align – who knows if some other power will not come and make it strong again? Our enemies the Venetians, who held it once. Our enemies the Hungarians, always seeking to hurt us. As long as its gates are closed to us, they could be opened to an enemy who could do what these Greeks can no longer do – use the best-placed harbour in the world, the city that cuts our lands of Anatolia and Rumelia in half, to stab us in the back.’
Another murmur came, more uncertainty in it. Mehmet pressed on. ‘Now, as never before, we have a chance to end that threat for ever.’
He could feel the change under the canvas. Men beginning to make up their minds. Yet he sensed that too many still balanced on the dagger’s edge.
It was his time. The moment he and Hamza had discussed. The moment of hazard. He turned to the one man who could yet tip it either way. ‘What do you say, my grand vizier, most esteemed of all my father’s and my advisers? Doubt still rests upon that venerable brow. Speak it. We would be honoured to hear your wisdom.’
Candarli Halil Pasha blinked. All knew that the young sultan could move no enterprise without his help. So to consult in open council was to invite him to sway the waverers back. It was a challenge, there was danger in it, and he chose his response with care. ‘Asylum of the world, guide of all nations, I hear you. Your words are wise, your preparations clear, your courage and skills undoubted. Yet you have talked already about the great warriors – your own unparalleled grandfather and father were two of them and I stood beside them both – who came to this place and failed.’
He paused, so Mehmet’s words were not exactly an interruption. ‘And why did they fail so, old warrior?’
‘There are men here perhaps more qualified than I to speak of this. But I believe two things have always thwarted the sons of Isaac whatsoever their numbers and faith. Two – water and stone.’ He looked around, licked still gritty lips. ‘The seas that lap the city on two sides and the triple walls that seal off the land.’
Assenting murmurs came. It was the moment Mehmet and Hamza had foreseen; the time for two strokes, swift as sword thrusts. One in words. One in … something else.
‘I thank you, uncle, for your wisdom. They are both questions I have long pondered, as many have pondered before me. Water and stone indeed.’ He looked behind him. Hamza had returned to the tent. He nodded and Mehmet turned back. ‘We are gazis and prefer to feel God’s good earth under our hooves than shifting planks beneath our feet, do we not? Yet, as you have stated, a city surrounded by water needs command of that water to be taken. I will take command of it.’
He opened a hand. Hamza placed a roll of parchment in it. Mehmet began to read. ‘Know that in boatyards up and down my empire, men have been hard at work, building, repairing. The day we march on Constantinople is the day our fleet will sail from Gallipoli. A fleet of one hundred and twenty vessels.’ There were gasps at that. ‘There will be twelve – twelve! – full war triremes. Eighty fustae each armed with cannon. Thirty fighting transport ships. Even if renegades of Venice and Genoa sail against us, how many will they muster? Twelve? Twenty? The seas, Candarli Halil, will be ours.’
The grand vizier was not the only man who looked shocked as Mehmet rolled up the paper and tapped it against his breastplate. ‘Now … what else was it that has always thwarted us, uncle?’
‘The walls,’ the old man stuttered. ‘The walls that … that …’
‘The walls that defeated every army that camped before them, including my father’s? Including Eyoub, the Prophet’s banner-bearer, whose grave I would seek beneath them and raise a temple over it?’ Mehmet nodded. ‘But neither of them had what I have,’ he added.
‘And what is that, lord?’
It was time. ‘Something to take away stone as easily … as easily as I can take away canvas.’
He did not look back. Simply lifted his hand, held it high, let it fall. Hamza, holding the fold of the entrance, looked outside and did the same.
The pavilion was not the largest. Indeed, it had been chosen for the purpose it was put to now. Four big men rushed to the centre to grasp the thick pole there. As soon as they had a firm grip, Hamza beckoned again – and the canvas walls vanished, drawn up fast and away by a system of pulleys, men and horses.
One moment his council had been standing sheltered in a tent. The next they were in the open air, shading their eyes against bright winter sunlight, blinking at what they had not seen before – that the tent they’d entered from the city gate behind them had been set atop a hill; that from its summit, a valley dropped and rose gently to another summit perhaps a mile away. That the distance between the two was lined by thousands upon thousands of soldiers in two huge bodies, a wide avenue between them. Finally that they shared their hilltop with the largest cannon any man there had ever seen.
Cradled by wooden blocks, settled into the ground like a huge black worm, it wasn’t just large. It was monstrous. Five tall men lying toe to fingertip could not have equalled its length. Its vast girth tapered to a narrower end that no man would be able to wrap his arms around.
It was the drawing of Mehmet’s sword that drew their eyes back to him. He had donned his helmet again, and once more his armour shimmered in light. He raised the weapon high into the sunlight, brought it scything down, crying out one word: ‘Now!’ As a man who seemed all soot thrust a glowing taper into the breech, Mehmet sheathed his sword, raised the forefinger on each hand and spoke again. ‘You may wish to do this,’ he called. And he put a finger in each ear.
Some did, most were too stunned, too slow, and so were destined to hear the cannon’s roar for weeks afterwards. To some it was as if hell itself had gaped, exploded forth flames and the screams of all who had ever died. To others, to Jew, Christian or Muslim gathered near, it was as if Armageddon had finally come.
Sound was one thing. Sight another. From monstrous flames a comet shot, trailing fire and smoke, soaring the length of the valley between the massed ranks of men to finally, with a sound more of animal than of man, bury itself in those slopes a mile away.
The cheering from the army went on for a while, funnelled up to them by the valley’s contours.
Mehmet stepped to the edge of the pit. The smoke that filled it slowly cleared, and once more the monster could be seen. Men swarmed around it, using soaked bales of cloth to cool it down. In their midst was the man as black as his creation, though his colour came from gunpowder and not brass. ‘So, Urban Bey?’ Mehmet called to him. ‘Are you happy at your child’s first cough?’
The black-clad man spat before he spoke, in heavily accented Osmanlica. ‘I am, lord,’ replied Urban the Transylvanian. ‘But I would see the afterbirth.’
‘Then let us go and see it.’ Mehmet turned to Hamza, standing a little back from the crowd on the emplacement’s slope. At his master’s nod, he beckoned other waiting men forward.
‘Lords,’ Hamza called. ‘Will you ride?’
There were horses for all, and even the most venerable, like the grand vizier, mounted. If a Turk could still walk, he could still sit on a saddle.
Mehmet led them sweeping down the valley, a bolt of mounted light that passed from him onto the st
eel ranks that lined his path, and back again. His tens of thousands of soldiers cheered, ululating their loyalty in shrill extended cries.
They galloped the whole way, all freed of the confines of the tent and most from their doubts. Reaching a small cluster of men, Mehmet reined in, dismounted. The mob opened to him, admitting him to what they were grouped around – a rough-edged tunnel, about half as wide as a man is tall, dug straight into the earth. Perhaps straight through to hell itself, for smoke rose in wisps from the jagged entrance.
When the rest of the horsemen had gathered around him, Mehmet signalled to one of the men, prostrate before his sultan. ‘Brother, you look the tallest here. Slide in and tell me how deep it is buried.’
The man bowed, swallowed and then slid feet first into the earth. He disappeared – and then the wiggling tips of fingers were thrust out.
Mehmet could not check the murmuring, did not want to. ‘Content, Urban Bey?’ he said. The begrimed gunner’s black face showed white in his smile. Mehmet turned away from him, back to his council. He looked straight at Candarli Halil Pasha. ‘Your last question, Uncle, was how I would do what my father and grandfather and eight hundred years of the Prophet’s followers have failed to do.’ He pointed into the hole. ‘The stone down there is granite. I will fire stones like it, every day, every hour. Until the walls collapse. And then I will lead the heroes of Anatolia and Rumelia, the Kurds of the mountains, the Arabs of the deserts, the janissaries of my heart …’ he turned and smiled at their commander, ‘over those walls. And I will take my war standard and the Holy Qur’an and pluck out the core of the Red Apple.’
Those who doubted could doubt no more. Those who still opposed could not be seen to be doing so. All the men of the Council could do, from the grand vizier down, was cheer. The cry spread back again into the valley and the soldiers drawn up there, whose ranks melded into a mob that rushed now to the base of the slope, held back by the household guards, triple-ranked. The cry filled the valley, doubling, if possible, when Mehmet leapt onto his horse, drew his father’s sword and once again gave the war cry of the Faithful.
A Place Called Armageddon Page 11