“My master has no doubt of that, Your Grace. Which is why he wishes to live in peace with you. Have we not agreed a pact of friendship?”
Constantine stared into his empty wine glass, as if hoping to see the future. Once again Anthony’s heart went out to him. When he had fled this city, he had hated everything Byzantine, and the Emperor as much as anyone. But this man deserved better than the fate hanging over him…
Finally the Emperor smiled sadly. “You and your family were wronged here in my city. I acknowledge it freely. I am glad that you have prospered, though it saddens my heart to see you in Ottoman robes. Now I am in your debt. Ask of me what you wish and I will grant it, save only that it does not betray my city or my people.”
“I would speak with my sister, Your Grace.”
The Emperor frowned. “You know that she is married to Basil Notaras?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“But she is still your sister — I understand that. I will convey your message to her. But you understand…I cannot force her to see you.”
“My sister will surely wish it, Your Grace.”
“Very well. I will inform her of your desire. But that is a very small request, young Hawkwood. Is there no other?”
“Am I allowed to inquire after the health of the lady Anna Notaras?”
Constantine inclined his head. “I trust you will not wish to see her also. Anna Notaras is married to Count Drakontes. It would be very unwise for you to attempt to see her… But I will endeavour to send your sister to you. More than that I cannot do. You are aware of the faction within this city — and now you are not only a Roman Catholic but you serve a Muslim prince.” His lips twisted. “There are many who would like nothing better than to cut you down. And what would Mahomet do then, do you suppose? Guard your back, young Hawkwood, and do nothing rash. I will send your sister to you.”
*
But the Emperor could not even accomplish that. As Anthony paced his apartment the following day, he received only a messenger with a letter.
‘You are evil,’ Catherine Notaras had written coldly. ‘You serve the devil — you and my father. You are apostates. Judas Iscariot was a saint compared with you. Get you gone from Constantinople. I do not wish to see your face again.’
“Well, young Hawk,” Mahmun asked, as Anthony crumpled the letter in his fist. “How much longer do we remain in this accursed city?”
“We leave today,” Anthony told him grimly. “Have we not accomplished everything we set out to do?”
*
They rode west, across the great plain to Adrianople, the capital of the beylerbey of Roumelia, as the Emir’s dominions in Europe were known. This was a journey of over a hundred miles. It took them a week, for once they left the walls of the city behind them they were in Ottoman territory, and at every stop they were greeted and fêted by the local commander, who wished to feast them and present them with beautiful girls or handsome boys, at least for the duration of each visit.
They rode through a fertile valley watered by the river Ergene, which they had to ford several times. To the north they saw the low hills of the Istranca Daglari, but in the valley it was warm, and there were continuous olive groves around them. They passed little villages sheltering around Christian churches, for the Turks never interfered with local custom or religion as long as all taxes were promptly paid. Yet they were the lords of this land, who expected headmen and peasants to bow low as they approached, and were quick to react to any insolence, real or imagined, with a flick of their whips. Equally they were feared for their peremptory recruitment of young boys for the Janissary corps, and more than once Anthony saw mothers hurrying their sons indoors as the cavalcade approached — as if that could have saved them, had they really been out on a recruiting expedition.
Adrianople itself was a sprawling town at the junction of the Tunca and Maritza rivers, and had been famous as a stronghold since Roman times. Now it was the largest city in the Ottoman Empire; indeed the late Emir Murad, Mahomet’s father, in the course of his endless wars of conquest in Europe had made Adrianople his capital.
Here they were treated to several days of feasting, and encouraged to sample the famous peynir, a white cheese of the district. Piri Pasha, the beylerbey, had heard of the red-haired gaiours who were serving the new Emir, and he was eager to look upon one of them. Every possible entertainment was provided for the delectation of his guests, while Piri’s sipahis and Janissaries displayed their military skill in gymkhanas and archery contests.
Anthony looked on it all with cold eyes. After his sympathetic interview with Constantine, he had almost thought of trying to persuade Mahomet to leave Constantinople alone, and let it continue to exist, as it had existed for more than a thousand years, a relic of a glorious past which could not possibly interfere with Turkish aspirations. But he had left the city in a mood of simmering anger. His own sister had been turned against him — the only woman he had ever really loved, before the Emir Valideh. Well, then, let those arrogant tricksters experience whatever was now being prepared against them, and survive it if they could.
And when Piri Pasha insisted he sample the delights of a Greek virgin, selected especially for the Emir’s ambassador, he used the girl harshly and left her weeping. In her slender form he tried to expiate his anger against all her people.
***
After leaving Adrianople they made their way up the valley of the Maritza River to Philippopolis, the ancient Roman capital of Thrace, but more famous for its conquest much earlier, by Philip of Macedon, who had renamed the then city of Pulpudeva after himself. There was no trace of the great Macedonian to be found, although the Roman ruins remained. Dominating them all, however, were the walls of Tsar Ivan Assen’s fortress, for more recently the city had been the capital of the great Bulgarian military state which, under rulers such as Khan Krum, had posed such a threat to the then powerful Byzantine Empire. It had been Emperor Basil II who had finally crushed the Bulgars, earning thus the soubriquet of Bulgaroktonos, ‘the Bulgar-Slayer’. When he had forced the Bulgarian army to surrender at Balathista in 1014, he blinded all fifteen thousand, leaving a single eye to every tenth man to guide the survivors home. Legend had it that when the Tsar, Samuel, saw these, the shattered remains of his military power, he dropped down dead.
Now it was just sad to see how degenerate these once proud fighting men had become, as they bowed low before their Turkish masters.
Yet they remained brigands at heart. On the embassy’s second night in the city there was an alarm. Anthony threw aside his blanket, and the Bulgar girl who was warming him, seized up his sword and dashed outside to join the mêlée. Their camp had been invaded by several small boys in search of whatever they could find to steal. Five of them had been taken.
“Ha, ha,” Mahmun said. “We will take a leaf from Basil’s book and blind them. All except one, eh, to lead them home. Prepare a hot iron,” he ordered his servants.
The girl, who had emerged from Anthony’s tent, fell to her knees weeping. It appeared that one of the boys was her brother.
“Then she should be blinded, too,” Mahmun declared, “since she undoubtedly guided them in.”
I have no anger for these people, Anthony thought; they are not Byzantines. “No,” he insisted. “There will be no blinding. Have them all soundly flogged.” He pointed to the weeping girl. “And begin with her.”
*
After Philippopolis, they climbed into the Balkan mountains, making for Sofia, which they reached a month later. Now they had left the warmth and the olives behind, and were entering a rugged terrain more reminiscent of Anatolia. The city, which nestled in a basin in the mountains, was remarkable for its symmetry, for every street ran either north-south or east-west, while its water supply all but equalled that of Constantinople.
Like Adrianople, Sofia was the capital of a Roumelian province, and here again the beylerbey, Ahmad Pasha, lavishly entertained the youthful ambassador, proudly showing him Buyuk Dz
hamiya mosque with its imposing minaret, and forcing upon him, as gifts, examples of the local goldsmith industry as well as ornamental table pottery.
After another month’s weary travel in the mountains, often swept by icy blasts which had them cowering in their tents at night, although it was only October, they came to Nish on the borders of Serbia, famous as the birthplace of Constantine the Great. Messengers had been sent ahead, and in a village perched like an eagle’s nest halfway to the sky, with pine-clad peaks above and below, they were finally met by Prince George Brankovich.
For him Anthony had the same message as for Constantine.
“The Padishah is determined to settle once and for all the insolence of Drakul of Transylvania, Your Excellency,” he explained. “For this purpose he is mustering a great army, and intends to build a castle on the European shores of the Bosphorus, as a depot for his men.”
George Brankovich stroked his beard. Wrapped in furs and wearing somewhat decrepit armour, so that he looked as much like a bandit as any Bulgar, he had none of the beauty of his famous aunt, and his eyes were shifty — where one of Mara’s glories was the steadfastness of her gaze. “What do the Greeks say to this?” he said at last.
“They understand the requirements of the Emir, Excellency.”
Brankovich grinned. “Then must I also. His requirement is that I prevent Hunyadi from taking the field against the Ottomans while the Janissaries are committed in the north.”
“The Emir’s requirement is that you prevent Hunyadi from taking the field,” Anthony explained, “wherever the necessities of his campaign may take the Emir.”
Brankovich studied him for several seconds. Then he grinned again. “I am not a fool, young Hawkwood. Nor is Mahomet, it appears. I will do as he requires. Now tell me, you must be very close to the Emir to be given such authority at so young an age.”
“I am blessed with good fortune,” Anthony said piously.
“Yet since you are close to the Emir, have you no other word for me?”
Anthony gazed at him. “A word to be conveyed in private, Excellency.”
The room was quickly cleared, much to the resentment of Mahmun and Halim.
“Well?” Brankovich demanded.
Anthony took out his purse, and from it removed the emerald ring, placing it on the table between them.
Brankovich stared at it. “Who gave you this?”
“Someone who wished me to present it to you as a gift.”
Brankovich frowned. “You have seen my aunt? But that is impossible.”
“The Emir Valideh has ways of making her wishes known, Your Excellency.”
“The Emir Valideh,” Brankovich mused. “She has risen so far? And you have seen her?” he said again.
But to Anthony lying was now second nature. “As you have said, that is impossible. Yet your aunt did know of my mission, and sent word to command me to give you that ring, so that you might believe the message I also bring from her.”
The prince picked up the ring, looked at it carefully, then pocketed it. “Tell me the message.”
“The Emir Valideh wishes you to know that she is all-powerful in the court of the Emir, and that she wishes him success in all things.”
“Then must I labour to please my aunt,” said the prince.
*
From Nish it was but a short journey to Belgrade, known as the White City from the colour of its houses. It stood on the borders of Hungary, and now for the first time they were venturing beyond Turkish territory, for the city had been besieged in 1440 and the Ottomans had suffered one of their few reverses before its walls. Yet the Hungarians were anxious to remain on good terms with the threatening cloud to the southeast — at least until they had recouped the immense losses they had suffered on the Field of the Blackbirds three years earlier — and the ambassadors were entertained in some style before being ferried across the Danube to the Hungarian shore. This was the first time Anthony had beheld the mighty, slow-moving river which was the main artery of Europe.
Waiting for them on the far bank was Janos Hunyadi himself.
Anthony had been looking forward to meeting this famous general, probably Europe’s greatest soldier since the death of Great Harry. Nor was he disappointed.
Hunyadi was now over sixty years old, and had been campaigning for more than forty of them. If he had been defeated at Kossovo, that could well be attributed to Serbian treachery, and he had beaten the Ottomans often enough on other fields to earn their respect.
Anthony gazed at a man of medium height, clean-shaven save for a long moustache, with a strong mouth and chin and high cheekbones. He wore full armour, even a gorgette, and a curious peaked cap, also made of steel.
But his greeting was friendly enough. “Hawkwood,” he said. “I have heard of your father — and of your troubles in Constantinople. Surely the Greeks heap perils on their own heads! And now you serve the Emir. Tell me of him.”
“He is a mighty warrior, Your Excellency.”
Hunyadi gave a cold smile. “A boy of twenty-two who has not yet led a campaign?”
“He will soon lead a campaign, Excellency. It is preparing now. It will be the greatest campaign since Timur the Lame marched on Turkey.”
Hunyadi’s smile faded into a frown. “Against whom will this campaign be mounted?”
Anthony gazed into the Hungarian hero’s eyes. “Drakul of Wallachia, who no longer admits Ottoman overlordship.”
“That will be the greatest campaign of the century.”
“It would be wise for you to believe it, sir. The Emir wishes you to understand this, and wishes to be sure of your neutrality in the conflict.”
“I have no friendship with Drakul,” Hunyadi observed.
“Other factors may arise. The Emir offers a three-year pact of friendship between the Ottomans and the Hungarians. I am empowered to conclude such a pact.”
“It will take three years for the Emir to defeat Drakul?”
“I have said other factors may arise, Excellency.”
“Three years,” Hunyadi said thoughtfully, “in which I will not war upon the Ottomans. And I will not lead an army to the succour of Constantinople, should that factor arise. Am I not right, boy?”
“You will not make war on the Ottomans, so long as they do not war on you,” Anthony said carefully.
Hunyadi considered some more. Then he said, “I do not know if your Emir is truly a great warrior, young Hawkwood, but I understand that he is a careful man, who prepares his way. This is certainly admirable. I have no love for the Greeks; they always expect others to do their fighting for them. Tell your Emir that I will adhere to this three-year truce, and that I wish him well in his campaign…against Drakul of Wallachia.”
*
“I find it hard to believe,” Anthony confessed to Halim and Mahmun, “that these leaders abandon each other so willingly to their fate, when if they would but combine against us our master’s plans might be unachievable.”
“But that is the Christian way,” Halim explained. “They have always preferred to fight each other than contend with either the Arabs in the old days, or Genghis Khan, or ourselves. Do not the Franks fight each other constantly? You are a Frank, yet your father has told us how he fought against his fellows.”
“My father is English,” Anthony said, “as am I. The Franks are a different people, and our enemies.”
“How can that be?” Halim inquired. “You are all Christians, and you all obey the Pope. How can you be enemies? I will tell you how,” he went on to answer his own question: “It is because you are infidels, and lack the grace of God.”
Anthony was not prepared to answer that. He was indeed appalled by the way the various Christian princes, even the great Hunyadi, were prepared to abandon Constantinople to its fate — although none of them seemed to have the slightest doubt as to Mahomet’s true intentions. So perhaps Halim was right.
***
Now began the difficult and truly dangerous part of their j
ourney, as they turned their horses to the east, for Wallachia. Mahomet’s dominions were bounded by the Danube, although they could cut off the great bend of the river by traversing the mountains; this undoubtedly saved a great deal of time. But for the next month the going was harder than ever, as they made their way through the high passes, often along tracks wide enough to permit the passage only of a horse and its rider, with sheer drops of several hundred feet to one side; sometimes in blinding rainstorms which turned tracks into torrents, or snow flurries which had them shivering and unable to see more than a few feet in front of them.
They moved from one Turkish garrison town to the next, not only to rest, recuperate and change their horses, but also to ensure protection from the bands of fighting men not yet reconciled to Ottoman overlordship. These were hardly more than brigands, and generally not disposed to attack a well-armed party of sixty men. But as the embassy descended once more towards the river, they found themselves early one morning facing a track barricaded with tree trunks, and defended by a large body of men.
It was a carefully chosen spot, for the next Turkish garrison lay twenty miles in front of them, and the last fifty miles behind. There could be no question of going back.
“We must charge them,” Halim declared. He was a commander of sipahis, and believed in straightforward assault.
“We will lose too many men,” Mahmun objected. “Let us negotiate. If necessary, let us buy our way through.”
They both looked at Anthony, although this was surely a business of which they knew much more than he.
He studied the situation as best he could. In the gloom of the winter’s morning it was difficult to estimate anything clearly. But even if their enemies had been tracking the Ottoman party on the previous day, before setting up this ambush, it would have been difficult for them to determine the exact composition of the caravan.
On the other hand, an ambush presumed there were also men concealed in the trees to either side of them, awaiting a signal to attack. These would have to be drawn out before any real advance was possible.
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