The Janissaries looked at their Emir — and Mahomet nodded.
As the naked man was hustled forward, he again began to scream in a high-pitched wail. His wrists were now bound behind his back, and then he was lifted high by four of the Janissaries. Though frenziedly kicking his legs, he was helpless against so much combined strength. Slowly the Janissaries placed him over the stake, taking great care to insert the sharpened tip directly into his anus. They held him aloft for a few seconds, laughing and abusing him, then they released him and stepped away.
The man’s legs suddenly dropped to either side of the stake, just unable to reach the ground — and the most unearthly shriek broke from his lips. His body writhed as blood dripped down the lance, and he heaved desperately, attempting to throw himself clear of the stake — but it was already too deeply embedded in him. Anthony tried to look away, but discovered the Emir standing beside him.
“The more he writhes, the quicker the stake penetrates,” Mahomet observed, turning to study Anthony’s reaction.
Anthony forced himself to continue watching the dying wretch, forced himself to keep his face impassive. The victim’s feet could now reach the earth, so deeply and quickly had the stake entered, but now there was no strength left in them to raise him up. Mercifully it was over quickly, but still the man hung there. To his horror, Anthony saw the tip of the stake begin to emerge through the flesh of his breast.
Suddenly Mahomet gave another order. The Janissaries dug out the stake and raised it above them, beginning yet another march round the camp, with their grisly trophy.
Mahomet smiled at him. “Men do not easily forget an impalement,” he said. “Now come, we have much to do.”
*
It was time to break camp. Mahomet had accomplished the essentials of succession: destroying all possible rivals. Now it was time to mourn the dead Emir, so the Ottomans were, for the moment, turning their backs on the Bosphorus and the new Emir’s future ambitions.
Their destination was the city of Brusa, ancient burial place of the Ottoman emirs, where Murad was to be interred in great state. The Hawkwoods were amazed to learn that the embalmed body of the dead Emir was actually still in the camp with them.
Anthony was even more amazed and shocked to realise that Mara Brankovich had taken him into her bed with her husband’s corpse lying only a few feet away. At such a time her thoughts had already been ranging into the future.
The army and the harem took the coast road by way of Nicomedia and Sakarya, thence along the valley of the Gok, before climbing into the foothills of Mount Ulu. Here, in the northern foothills of the seven-thousand-foot peak, stood the sacred city of Brusa.
Their route took them through stark and forbidding country which rose from the coast to a level of some three thousand feet, and this high tableland was punctuated by mountain ranges which rose far higher still. The terrain was intersected by ravines and river valleys which had to be laboriously negotiated, while every so often an earth tremor brought the army to a standstill as boulders came crashing down from the heights above.
Such terrifying phenomena were apparently common enough in this strange land, but intensely disturbing to the Hawkwoods.
The vegetation matched the terrain, being no more than scrub in the valleys, but noble yet sinister pine forests grew on the mountain slopes. Wolves and hyenas, foxes and wildcats prowled around the encampment at night, and made it hideous with their howling, and more than once the Hawkwoods caught glimpses of large bears prowling among the trees. There was even talk of lion on the plateau, but none were seen.
Mahomet proceeded in the very centre of a vast accumulation of his people, a throwback to the past when the Ottomans had been a nomadic tribe wandering across central Asia.
The core of this moving nation was the army, composed of four elements. First marched a vast horde of bashi-bazouks, the irregulars, hardly more than brigands. They wore neither armour nor uniforms, but each man dressed and armed himself according to his means — using tulwars and spears, bows and axes indiscriminately; and where some wore silk, others were in homespun. Anthony gathered that they were paid no more than a pittance, and fought simply for the plunder they hoped to gain. They were thus even more restless in times of peace than the Janissaries, but they also had homes to go to. On this occasion they had accumulated simply on the news of the great Murad’s death, and would disperse to their farms once the mourning period was over — to be recalled to the Emir’s standard when next he chose to go to war. As soldiers, Anthony considered them worth only the uncertain force of large numbers and a great deal of alarming noise.
Behind the bashi-bazouks came the Anatolians, the true Turks, organised in infantry regiments, but still hardly more than irregular troops because of the inability of the Turks to accept the necessary discipline. Still, the Anatolians wore uniforms of a sort, thick green felt tunics which provided some protection; and if they were not fully armoured, they were equipped with a round shield to go with their spear and sword. Equally, as upholders of the Ottoman name and tradition, they were a more formidable proposition than the preceding bashi-bazouks.
Behind the Anatolians came the sipahis, the elite cavalry, in all the glory of their steel helmets and mail tunics, their baggy breeches and their flowing capes. They gloried in their name and tradition, and as mounted men came from the better class of people, fulfilling the only function acceptable to these born horsemen; for it was written in the annals of their race. “If a Turk dismounts from his horse to sit on a carpet, he becomes nothing.”
The sipahis did more than provide an escort for the Emir and his court. They ranged far and wide, sometimes riding with the bashi-bazouks, sometimes even farther, continually scouting, checking, warning…and ensuring that the enormous amount of food and grazing required by the army would always be available.
Behind the sipahis, and directly surrounding the harem and the person of the Emir, came the Janissaries, the ultimate power behind the Ottoman triumphs. Ten thousand strong, their gaudy blue and red uniforms stood out even amongst the bright colours of the Emir’s entourage, they marched with strict discipline — any man who disobeyed an order immediately suffered the bastinado — an excruciating caning on the soles of his feet — while the ultimate disgrace that could befall a Janissary was to be dismissed from the service and sent home. Their weapons, which — like the sipahis’ — consisted of spear, sword and bow, were always at the ready. They were a magnificent body of men, John Hawkwood conceded, as good as any foot soldiers he had ever seen. If, as Mahomet had explained, theirs was an inward-turned, intensely private community which centred upon their precious food kettles, they were also a potentially irresistible weapon, if properly used.
The truly amazing aspect of this vast concourse of men, women and animals was its cleanliness. Any European army, even a fraction the size of this Ottoman force, encamped thus in one place for upwards of a week, would have turned the entire area into a vast, foetid cesspit, with all the consequent risk of disease, and the stench would have accompanied it on its march. But personal discipline was strict in the Turkish camp, and every man was required to dig his own latrine, and fill it up with earth afterwards.
In the very heart of this great army was the Emir himself, with his viziers and generals, his harem — even on the march concealed in curtained litters — and his adoptive mother. Also his two newest recruits. Often Mahomet would send for one or other of the Hawkwoods to ride beside him. With John he spoke of cannon and armaments, and the walls of Constantinople. With Anthony he spoke of other things.
“Your kings in England do not march like this?” he observed.
“They make processions around the country from time to time,” Anthony explained, “but never on this scale. England is not so large a realm as your dominions.”
“I know too little of my dominions,” Mahomet observed, “and this I must correct.” He sighed. “There is so much to do, and so little time. I know that this moving of every worldly p
ossession, whenever the Emir must leave one place for another, is wasteful of time no less than resources. Yet it is the custom of my people, and of all the peoples in the world there can be none so ruled by custom as the Turks. We have a saying that perhaps you have not heard, young Hawk. It goes like this:
To hold a land you need armed men.
To keep armed men you share out property,
To have property you need rich folk,
Only by laws can you make folk rich —
If one of these lacks, all four will lack.
Where all four lack, the land is lost.
Do you agree with that saying, young Hawk?”
“I would say it is very true.”
“But it is the law which is the foundation of everything. To be able to change the law, I must accomplish something very great.” His expression grew solemn and his fingers curled into a fist. “I must take Constantinople.”
Was this thoughtful, ambitious, cautious young man the same who had recently strangled his own brother, and commanded a dutiful underling to be impaled?
But, despite what Mara had told him of the Emir’s rigorous upbringing, Anthony found Mahomet more surprising yet in his knowledge of history and politics, of the ancient Greeks and Romans and of their writings, and above all of poetry.
“The Muslim world has been rich in poets,” he told Anthony. “Have you not heard of Omar Khayyam?”
“No, O Padishah.”
Then your education has been neglected, and must be improved. Omar was a Persian, and is not perhaps the best guide and mentor for a young man; he was overfond of wine, and thus he broke the law. But his use of words is exquisite, and he is not without philosophical value. I will give you a book of his work when we reach Brusa.”
Anthony could only bow his head, while the nearby viziers pulled their beards; it was obvious they did not approve of the favour being shown to the red-headed youth.
He saw and heard nothing more of the Emir Valideh during the journey, which took several weeks, and he could not make up his mind whether to be glad or sorry about this. Perhaps she had sated herself with him, and had now forgotten him. He still remembered the feel, the scent, and allure of her — as she had promised he would do, to the end of his days. But the thought that, if ever discovered in her tent, he might face impalement was blood-chilling.
Equally terrifying was the realisation that if Mara Brankovich ever sent for him and he did not obey her summons, he might be flayed alive.
*
Brusa was like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of a desert. Surrounded by orchards, and watered by several rushing streams that cascaded down the side of the mountain, it was a town of brightly coloured houses built on narrow, winding streets, their gardens dotted with fountains in every possible design. There were several thermal baths, fed by mountain springs, which were in constant use, at least by the men of the city. If the Hawkwoods had been taken aback at the luxury of life in Constantinople, as compared with their native England, it was even more surprising to observe the comfort and cleanliness that every Turk seemed to regard as his right.
But Brusa was also the burial place of the emirs. On a terrace above the town were to be seen the tombs of both Othman and Orkhan. The Emir Mahomet I was buried inside the city itself, and work had already commenced on building a mausoleum, in the sacred colour of green, over his grave. Immediately on arrival in the town, the official interment of Murad began as well as the official mourning period, and plans were put in hand to erect another huge mausoleum over his grave, too, to be called the Muradiye Cami. All ordinary work was suspended until the full mourning was complete — even the local manufacture of silk textiles, which occupied most of the men not in the army. Every day the blowing of doleful whistles, the clashing of cymbals, and the slow and steady beating of drums filled the air.
The Hawkwoods were left very much to themselves during this period, but to their great joy Mary was released from the harem and allowed to join them in the house placed at their disposal. She looked in good health again, and had been given a deal of sumptuous clothing to wear; but she also seemed different somehow. In the privacy of their bedchamber, John discovered immediately that she had been shaved. She was embarrassed about this, but also defiant, explaining that all Turkish women were thus shaved, and that she had had no choice. Perhaps, he reflected, all her other slight changes stemmed from such simple cultural readjustments.
“Do the women shave each other?” he asked, intrigued despite himself.
“No,” Mary replied, blushing.
“You mean you must do it to yourself?”
“No,” Mary repeated, her colour deepening.
“Then who…by God!” John said.
Mary rested her hand on his arm. “They are not men.”
“Indeed? They are alive, therefore they eat and drink. Therefore they feel.”
She sighed. “I cannot answer that. It is the custom.” Suddenly she was anxious. “You will not tell the boy of it?”
“He has eyes in his head, and he must eventually discover how Turkish women behave. But I will not tell him.”
It was a relief to see that she had regained a great deal of her confidence — even while being shaved by blackamoors! And what else had she experienced during her weeks in the harem? In Constantinople he had heard tales enough of the unnatural lusts enjoyed by women cooped up together away from all male company save that of their single lord.
Yet that thought too was strangely titillating, and besides, he had some confessing of his own to do, about enlisting with the Turks against Constantinople.
She gazed at him, blankly.
“I did it to save all our lives, for there was no other way to accomplish that. But equally do I still seek revenge upon those who have wronged us.”
After a moment Mary smiled. “I love you now more than ever for behaving like a man instead of a whipped cur, husband. My heard bled for you when you were forced to creep away from Constantinople into the darkness. But if these people will give you a sword and armour, then I shall be proud of you again.”
John Hawkwood’s answering smile was grim. “They have promised me more than that, Mary. They have promised me steel, and a forge, and the men to make my cannon for me.”
*
As soon as the official mourning period was over, John Hawkwood set to work casting the iron for his bombards, beating the leather to bind the barrels, designing the carriages, and calculating the charges. And also to put into practice one or two other ideas he had developed over the years of studying his profession.
He had no false optimism regarding the task he had been set. He knew, as he had helped maintain them, the sheer strength of the walls of Constantinople. He knew the sea-facing walls were indeed impregnable. Supposing the increased Ottoman fleet — the building of additional ships had already been put in hand — did manage to break the boom and occupy the Golden Horn, his task would then be simplified; but he did not know for sure they would be able to do that. And if the Janissaries could be armed with handguns, they would afford his artillerymen better protection than with bows and arrows…but to approach too close to the walls would still be a most costly and dangerous business. Therefore, merely to build cannon similar in size to those mounted in Constantinople — and they were the largest he had ever used — would be a waste of time. At least one of his guns had to outrange those mounted on the walls.
They would also need to hurl their stone balls with sufficient velocity to smash a breech large enough to admit the Turkish army. Hawkwood was a professional soldier: he knew all about siegecraft. He knew that determined defenders could often repair in a night the damage done by besiegers during the day; just as he knew that a wall which collapsed in a pile of rubble could often be made even more easily defensible than one which stood upright, waiting to be undermined.
He needed exceptional guns — and he needed to design them himself. He must be certain, too, that the amount of powder used to achieve the
results he sought would not simply blow his iron cylinders apart.
And he needed something even more than that — but he had a secret plan locked away in his mind.
John had never lacked confidence. And now he had a dream of building the ultimate cannon: a bombard so huge and destructive that it would bestow the mastery of the world on its possessor. The Emir Mahomet had just given him the opportunity to make that dream come true.
*
Anthony was delighted to see his parents enjoying a second childhood of love, even if his mother occasionally found it difficult to adapt to her new life. She was still afflicted by the catastrophes which had overcome her eldest son and her wilful daughter, but she never once reproached her husband for having launched them all on this unending adventure.
Now that she was restored to freedom, she longed to revert to normal western ways, but that was impossible. If she considered her Turkish clothes — pantaloons and bolero — to be obscene, nevertheless she had no choice but to wear them, and being wrapped in a haik when going out gave her total anonymity. But when she ventured forth to the souk on their second day together in Brusa, she found herself the only woman without a yashmak, and fled back to the house in confusion.
Even more embarrassing were the servants the Emir presented to his commander of artillery, for these were eunuchs. But John gently persuaded her to accept them, as he himself was prepared to accept everything about their strange new life. Soon Mary was making her own couscous, and enjoying other Turkish culinary delights. The most popular vegetable was the aubergine, which was served by itself sliced, or stuffed with minced lamb and peppers, or in a variety of other ways. None of the Hawkwoods, however, could accustom themselves to the Turkish habit of eating just about every part of the lamb or goat, from the eyeballs to the testicles.
And Mary could not but be delighted with her new house and garden, not so large or well situated as in Constantinople, but of a totally different style in which soft archways replaced internal doors and gave access to paved central courtyards, each of which contained an elaborately carved stone fountain. This open building was full of light and air and the sound of rushing water, and if, in the winter months, a cold breeze from time to time swept down from the mountains, this made the warmth of the divan with its sheepskin blanket the more delightful.
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