Anthony frowned. “Do you wish this, Highness, that I should be all things to your son?”
Mara knelt again before him. “I wish my son to rule the world. In Constantinople they call me whore and succubus. I wish them to wallow in their own blood. But when the world is his, I wish him to be a second Caesar, a second Alexander. I too am read in these matters, young Hawk. A conqueror needs an aide ever at his shoulder, and not one appointed by law or religion or custom. The mufti are bound by the Anyi, the ancient law of the Ottomans, handed down from generation to generation. These are laws no man may break, not even the Emir. The imams are bound by the law of the Koran, which is even more sacred than the Anyi. The viziers are bound by their own interests. The very Janissaries are bound by their desire for plunder. You can be Mahomet’s guide and friend. It is more important to be a friend — so you do not wish him to enter you. I will assist you in resisting his advances, because I too wish him to seek only women. The other way lies corrupt influence, and too often disaster. By remaining a friend rather than a lover, you can lead my son to strength and yourself to prosperity.”
“You make me dizzy, Highness.”
“I will make you more dizzy yet, young Hawk. You must persuade your father to lend his skills to the Emir’s cause. Then there is no star in the firmament which lies beyond his reach. But you yourself will remain loyal only to me…and to my son.” She smiled and took his hands between hers. Her bodice had somehow opened, and his hands were placed on her naked breasts. They were as firm as a young girl’s, but with nipples which seemed to fill his palms. “I have told you, I looked upon you in my son’s audience chamber, last night, naked and filthy, and knew what I wanted, and how much I could do with a man such as you.” And, with another twitch of her lips, “I am a woman who makes decisions. I am also a widow — and the Emir Valideh. Since a fortnight ago, I own no master save my passions. But I will own you, young Hawk, and between us maybe we will own the world.” She stood up, and his hands slipped down her thighs. But as they did so, her pantaloons slipped with them. Anthony stared in awe at her naked flesh, his aches and pains disappearing as if by magic.
The Emir Valideh gave a throaty laugh at his stunned expression. “Have you never been with a woman?”
Anthony shook his head.
Mara took his hands from her thighs and gestured him to his feet. “Then will you be even more truly mine,” she said, “because, as long as you live, you will know no other woman to compare with me.” She released his trousers and allowed them to fall to his knees. “How long have I waited for one such as now,” she murmured. She stared into his eyes. “But this love is a secret one, young Hawk. Disclose any of this to your father, even to your mirror, and I will myself flay the skin from your living flesh.”
Anthony licked his lips. “But the Kislar Agha…”
“Like you, he will never betray me.” She held him between both her hands; even her threat had been unable to stop him hardening.
“Now come to me,” she said softly, “and I will teach you of love.”
***
The Emir Mahomet II stood on the battlements of Anatolia-Hissar and gazed across the Bosphorus towards Constantinople. Around him were gathered his pashas and his advisors: Halil, the Grand Vizier, whom the Hawkwoods had mistaken for the Emir himself the previous night; Zagan, inferior only to him; Caraja the Anatolian; Isaac the Jew; Baltoglu the Bulgarian renegade, who was admiral of the Ottoman fleet; Hamoud, his deputy; and the others. Standing with them were John and Anthony Hawkwood.
Below them, drawn up on the cliff-top, as if about to launch an assault across the water, was a brigade of Janissaries, their brilliant uniforms glowing in the morning sunlight. And below them, moored along the beach, were the seventy-odd galleys of the Turkish fleet; not yet on a scale to match the ambitions of this young prince, John Hawkwood thought. But the Ottomans knew little of the sea.
“Constantinople,” mused the Emir. “Tell me this, Hawk. My sipahis water their horses in the Danube. My ancestors are buried in the shadow of the Taurus Mountains. Yet this one city, in the very centre of my dominions, still resists me. How can that be? Are those walls truly impregnable?”
“To the assault of flesh and blood, O Padishah,” John replied, having been advised of the correct way to address his new master, “I believe they are, if resolutely defended.”
“And are there sufficient resolute men within those walls?”
“The Emperor commands less than five thousand men.”
“Less than five thousand? I command many times that.”
“Five thousand are sufficient to defend the walls, and they will be resolutely led.”
Mahomet frowned at him. “Are you telling me the city cannot be taken?”
“It would doubtless fall to a siege, O Padishah,” suggested Halil.
“You are a frightened old man,” Mahomet declared scornfully. “A siege? Has not Constantinople been besieged before? Did not the Arabs lay siege to those walls for two years, without success? I cannot wait two years for failure. My Janissaries wait for me to lead them to victory. If they have not yet overturned their kettles, it is because I have been Emir for scarce a week. But I must prove myself no less a leader than my father. And it must be done soon.” He glanced at the Hawkwoods. “Know you the story of the Janissaries, Hawk?”
“I know of their reputation.”
“They are our strength,” Mahomet said. “And our weakness. When my great ancestor, Othman, rode out of the east, he led only Turks. Our cavalry was the finest in the world. It is, still. Othman had no need of foot soldiers. It was his son, Orkhan, who discovered that horsemen cannot capture walled towns. Thus Orkhan founded an infantry corps, which was called simply yaya, or foot soldiers. They were professionals, and were paid a silver coin a day. But they were useless. My people are like the wind. They cannot be tamed, only joined in their endeavours. The wind cannot take a walled town either. So the great Orkhan cast about him, and determined to create an army which knew nothing but war and obedience. Those men down there were all born Christians, but taken from their families in childhood, to be brought up in the Muslim way.”
His gaze drifted over Anthony, standing at his father’s side, and Anthony’s heartbeat quickened. But this boy knew nothing. None of these men, even his father, knew anything of the true meaning of life. Because none of these men had ever knelt between the pulsing thighs of the most beautiful woman in the world and heard her moan in ecstasy.
“These levies were known as tsheries, or troops, and jani, or new, hence their name,” Mahomet continued. “They were, and are, brought up in the strictest discipline and seclusion, and taught loyalty only to the Emir. And how may a man’s loyalty be fully secured? Through his stomach. The Janissaries are fed as I myself am fed. Their very general is known as the tsborbadji, the soup-maker. Their colonels are the ashdijbashis, or chief cooks; and their adjutants the sakabashis, or water-carriers. If their blood-red banner, which you see yonder, bears the sign of the crescent and the two-edged sword of Omar, the regimental totem is the meat kettle.
“Their foundation was many years ago. Now they are, as you have truly said, a force to be feared throughout the world. And they are aware of it. They know their power. They know the tremor which runs through the veins of my people when the Janissaries overturn their meat kettles in discontent. They have not done so yet in my reign. They wait to be led against their enemies. But that must happen soon.”
The Emir’s fingers twitched. Anthony wondered at what might be the dreams of a man so apparently powerful, yet so aware that his power rested on the uncertain, seething heat of a volcano or, as he had himself put it, a whirlwind, upon whose terrifying might he must ride throughout his life.
John Hawkwood was no less aware of the Emir’s agitation, and had already made his decision. This boy was his and his family’s only hope of survival. But more: in his ignorance and uncertainty he was more of a ladder to be climbed to power and prosperity than ever Cons
tantine the Emperor had been. And what did he still owe Constantine, who for all his desire to be loyal to his friends had lacked the strength to save William? Now they could only be avenged.
“I can show you how to take Constantinople, O Padishah,” he said at last.
There was a rustle amongst the men surrounding the Emir, all of whom spoke at least a smattering of Latin.
“Speak,” Mahomet commanded sharply.
“There are several things that need to be done. Mere numbers of men will not avail, by themselves. You need more than men. In the first place, you need ships: many more ships than you now possess.”
Mahomet glanced at Baltoglu, and the admiral nodded vigorously.
“Then we will have ships,” Mahomet said. “They will commence building tomorrow. You think ships will take Constantinople, Hawk?”
“Not by themselves. But ships will prevent men and food from reaching the city to relieve it. The next thing you need are handguns for your Janissaries. The defenders of Constantinople are already equipped with handguns.”
Mahomet looked questioningly at Zagan.
“I have already said this, O Padishah,” Zagan agreed. “At Kossovo the gaiours were armed with such handguns, and they did mighty execution in our ranks. I spoke of this to the great Murad, and he swore to consider it. But he was a sick man even then.”
“Handguns,” Mahomet mused. “Then we shall purchase handguns. And you maintain that handguns will capture Constantinople, Hawk? Handguns and ships?”
“Sufficient ships and handguns will enable your Janissaries to fight against the Christians on equal terms, but they will not cause the walls of Constantinople to crumble before your attack. Only cannon will do that.”
“Cannon!” Mahomet exclaimed, and again his generals rustled. “My people know nothing of cannon.”
“I know of cannon, O Padishah.”
Mahomet was again staring longingly at the city across the water. Now he turned his head. “Is this true?”
“I am a master gunner,” John Hawkwood declared proudly. “I served the guns for Great Harry.”
Mahomet stroked his beard.
“Where are these cannon to be obtained?” Halil asked contemptuously. “Not even the Venetians will sell us cannon.”
“I will build your cannon for you,” Hawkwood declared. “But first give me a forge, and iron, and labour.”
Mahomet continued to tug at his beard. “Will these cannon be as large as those on the walls of Constantinople?”
“I will build you the largest cannon ever seen on earth, O Padishah. The walls will tremble to its very report.”
“By Allah,” Mahomet said. “Do that, Hawk, and I will make you rich beyond your dreams. How long will it take you to build this machine?”
John hesitated. He had never actually made a cannon in his life, though he did know all the theory of it. “To cast a cannon capable of breaching the walls of Constantinople might take a year.”
“A year?” The Emir’s voice showed his dismay.
“You will need at least a year to build your fleet and to equip your Janissaries with handguns. It will be a year in which your people will clearly see what you are preparing, and will understand that you are but ensuring their victory.”
“And a year in which Constantinople can be made ever stronger,” Halil growled.
“Not so, Great Vizier,” John insisted. “Constantinople lives in hopes and dreams. The Byzantines dream that with the death of Murad their troubles are over for several years. Assure them of this, O Padishah — convince them that you are a man of peace and they will believe you, even while you are preparing for war.”
Mahomet smiled, and his white teeth gleamed. “Truly you are a man of distinction, Hawk,” he said. “I believe you have been sent to me by Allah. Yes…” He paused and looked over the battlements at a squadron of sipahis who had just galloped into the encampment in a cloud of dust. There was now a great deal of excited clamour from down there. “Mansur,” he muttered. “Can it be?”
“It must be, O Padishah,” Halil said, and hurried from the Emir’s presence.
Mahomet followed more slowly, accompanied by the remainder of his entourage.
“Father,” Anthony muttered, “do you know what you are doing?”
“Our choice is between death and life, boy. But life with fame and fortune, perhaps. I thought you supported me, in that.”
“As regards Constantinople, willingly. But this Emir seeks the conquest of the world, Father. Give him cannon and he may well achieve that.”
“Bah,” John Hawkwood snorted. “He is but an inexperienced boy. He will follow the advice of his generals, of whom I shall be among the foremost once Constantinople falls. Then our family will be avenged, son. Remember that.”
Anthony made no reply, remembering what the Emir Valideh had told him. But remembering that clouded his mind with too many other memories, too. Never had he known such satin skin, such unbridled passion. In a woman old enough to be his mother! Would she send for him again? If she did not, he believed he might die…
When they reached the courtyard where the sipahis had dismounted, they found, on the ground before them, two men bound hand and foot, writhing in the dust, choking and gasping. As they came closer, Anthony could see that both were very young — younger indeed than himself.
Mahomet stood before the two prisoners and addressed them in Turkish. Though Anthony could not understand what was said, one of the men, the more richly dressed of the pair, argued back with great vehemence, despite his discomfort.
Mahomet listened to him in silence, his face as softly impassive as ever. Then he replied, quietly but firmly. Two of the Janissaries had moved forward to stand at his shoulder. Now, without hesitation, they stooped beside the young man, a bow-string in their hands. He tried to protest, but the string was coiled round his neck, and quickly tightened by powerful fingers. The young man’s eyes seemed to swell from his head, and his tongue from his gaping mouth. There came a dreadful gurgling noise from the back of his throat, and the veins seemed about to force their way from his temples… Then he died.
Anthony swallowed, in shock — and then again, as he discovered the Emir was gazing straight at him. He licked his lips nervously, and Mahomet smiled. “You should praise God that you are but the son of a soldier, young Hawk,” he said, “and not the son of a prince.”
For a moment Anthony could not speak. My God, he thought in panic, if this man ever discovers what has passed between me and his mother…
“What was that man’s crime, O Padishah?” he asked in awe.
Mahomet’s features twisted. “He was my brother.”
“Your…brother?”
“He is the last of them,” Mahomet said with some satisfaction, gazing at the distorted features of the dead youth. “I had almost thought he had escaped — but Mansur has done well.”
“You have murdered all of your brothers?” Anthony gabbled in consternation, forgetting his place.
A brief frown crossed Mahomet’s brow, but then he smiled. “It is not done so in the West — but the West is weak, and in great confusion. Here I am strong, and I am not confused. Does not the Koran itself say: discord is worse than murder? There will be no discord in the House of Othman.”
Anthony was speechless. Beside him, John Hawkwood was also struck dumb.
“As for the other,” Mahomet said, turning to look down at the second young man, whose eyeballs gaped white with fear. “He is guilty of helping my brother in his escape.”
“Was he not obeying orders, O Padishah?” John Hawkwood asked at last.
“Orders which do not lead to success cause much misery to those who obey them,” Mahomet agreed. “For this creature, I have in mind much misery.”
The Hawkwoods exchanged glances.
“What will be his punishment?” John asked.
“He will be impaled,” Mahomet said, “as a warning to others.” He turned to Anthony. “You will watch this, young Hawk
. It is a salutary experience.”
4
The Favourite
When the man on the ground was told what was going to happen to him, he gave a scream of the purest agony and began to writhe and plead.
Mahomet regarded him contemptuously, and snapped out another order. Clearly the sentence was to be carried out immediately.
“By God,” John Hawkwood muttered in English. “I should not like to fall foul of this young fellow. Nor should you, boy.”
“What is impalement, Father?” Anthony asked in awe.
“A most terrible form of execution, boy. Brace yourself.”
Already the preparations were in hand. Several of the Janissaries were digging a hole in the earth before the castle. Others had dragged the victim to his feet and were now stripping him of his clothing, mocking him as they did so, while tears ran down his face and his eyes rolled wildly as he continued to beg for mercy.
When he was totally naked, his wrists were bound together in front of him, and then attached to a rope so that he could be led off by the Janissaries to make the rounds of the camp. Everywhere men came out of their tents to jeer at him, and Anthony could not doubt that the women were also watching and laughing from inside, even if they did not show themselves. Was Mara also gazing at the stricken man, anticipating the horror that was to come?
By now the Janissaries had completed digging their hole, some four feet deep. In this they fixed the shaft of a wooden lance, some eight feet long, and bedded it so firmly and deep that only the top four feet protruded. Anthony gazed at it in horror. It was nowhere thicker than four inches in diameter, and the steel tip had been removed. But, in its place, the tip of the wood itself had been carved into a sharp point.
Anthony swallowed, his throat dry. He dared not even look at his father.
By now the condemned man had been brought back. Through exhaustion he had ceased weeping and begging, but when he saw the stake his face began to work in horrible contortions.
Ottoman Page 9