He could feel the hair on his neck prickling. But he was the commander of these men, and he needed to make a decision. “How well are those people armed, do you suppose?” he asked.
“Oh, they’ll be poorly armed, young Hawk,” Halim said contemptuously. “Sticks and staves, some axes, rough pikes, perhaps a few swords. They do not even know the use of the bow in the mountains.”
“And are your sipahis as expert as their forefathers?” He remembered Halim’s men riding round the hapless Genoese sailors, destroying them with their arrows; he also remembered what Mahomet had told him of how the Turkish forebears had fought on the Asian steppes.
“They are better,” Halim boasted proudly.
“Then listen closely to what I have to say. Because if we attempt my stratagem and fail, we are destroyed.”
Mahmun tugged at his beard as Anthony outlined his plan — but Halim was delighted.
“Truly the Emir will be proud to hear of this,” he said.
“Only if it works,” Anthony reminded him. “So let’s get to it.”
The Ottoman party approached closer to the barricade, from behind which a great shouting arose. Halim walked his horse forward, as if to inspect the enemy, then returned to the main body and gave his orders.
These had already been explained to the sipahis, so he merely went through the motions, with much gesticulating. The horsemen formed up, all forty of them, leaving the servants with Hawkwood and Mahmun to form a rearguard. Then, at the signal from Halim, they charged the barricade with their lances raised.
Instantly some hundred men rose up and began to hurl stones at them, while others emerged from the trees, as Anthony had expected.
The sipahis swiftly reined back their horses in apparent dismay, then turned and fled before the mob could reach them. It was the same strategy used by Genghis Khan two hundred years earlier and by William the Conqueror against the Anglo-Saxons at Hastings some two hundred years before that, and indeed by the Parthians against the legions of Crassus before the birth of Christ. But the Croatian bandits could hardly know of such military precedents. Whooping and screaming, they left their protected position, and ran along the road, brandishing their primitive weapons, while more and more men, and even women, emerged from the trees.
The sipahis galloped back to where Hawkwood waited, and there jostled about as if in great terror.
Anthony calculated that almost all of their opponents had by now left concealment.
“Now, Halim,” he shouted. “Now!”
“Now!” Halim roared.
The sipahis turned their horses again. Their lances were back in their rests, and in their place each man held a bow with an arrow already on its string. Now they began to walk their horses back towards the advancing mob, which could not number less than three hundred.
The Croats checked as they observed this sudden volte-face of the cavalry…and the sipahis urged their mounts into a trot, followed by Hawkwood, Mahmun and the servants, with swords drawn. Before the Croats could understand what was happening, the cavalry was within range, and the first flight of arrows was hissing through the air.
A great wail of dismay arose from the mob as some twenty of them sprawled on the ground, shrieking in agony. Before they could think what to do, a second flight tore into them — and then a third. As they began to fall back, the impact of the fourth flight sent them running helter-skelter along the track and into the trees, leaving some seventy men and women scattered on the ground.
Hawkwood raised his sword. “Charge them!” he shouted. “All together now.”
The servants closed up behind the sipahis. The bows were slung and the lances again taken from their rests, then the entire Ottoman party surged forward. The wounded Croats screamed as they were trampled by flying hooves; those who had been slow taking to the trees screamed even louder as they were sought out by the couched lances. Then the Ottomans were through, and careering down the track, their horses snorting and panting.
“A splendid victory,” Halim shouted. “Truly you are worthy of the Emir’s esteem, young Hawk.”
*
They were now sure of a welcome whenever they approached a town or encampment. The population was sparse and, apart from the garrisons, entirely Slav and Christian. As such they might have been expected to hate their conquerors even more than did the Greeks or the Bulgars. Or the Croats.
But the townspeople were mainly second-and third-generation Turkish subjects, who on the whole had learned to accept the whims of their masters, and to benefit from the rule of law which various emirs had firmly established, and which they carried out ruthlessly. There was some unrest amongst the Janissary commanders, however, as they asked when the new Emir, whom they had never seen, was going to lead his armies to war.
“There will be war soon enough,” Hawkwood promised them; “war such as you have never seen. War to satisfy the most bloodthirsty man on earth.”
“That is surely Drakul of Wallachia,” said the commander of the border guard as he and Anthony stood on the banks of the broad-flowing river and gazed at the forest on the northern side. The embassy had been looking at Wallachian territory for some days now, but Drakul’s capital, Bukres, lay well to the east, and Anthony was not anxious to enter Wallachia until he needed to. According to his map, this frontier post was actually the nearest to the city.
“Has there been no word at all of the last embassy sent there?”
“None. We see little of what happens yonder. But the Wallachians are watching us all the time. You take your life in your hands, young Hawk.”
“We are on a mission for the Emir,” Anthony said severely.
But he could not help feeling sombre the next day, as the embassy was slowly ferried across the river by raft, along with their horses and equipment.
“I shall await your return with interest,” the captain remarked.
*
Once they entered the forest, they were almost immediately out of sight of the river. Soon it began to rain, and the teeming downpour helped limit visibility but surrounded them with an eerie rustling noise amid the clustering trees.
“A dank and terrible place.” Mahmun shuddered.
“You are an old woman,” Halim sneered. “Are we not Ottomans? These savages are destined to serve us. They must never think they can aspire to anything better.”
Anthony let them wrangle. He would decide how to handle the Wallachians when he needed to…because he certainly intended to return alive.
They had progressed for a full three days before the trees began to thin, and they were stopped by Wallachian horseguards. They had known that they were being overlooked ever since leaving the river; more than once they had heard the clink of harness beyond the screening trees. Hawkwood had told his people to ignore such sounds; the Wallachians would show themselves when they were ready, and they themselves were not here to fight but to treat.
Now he faced several hundred mounted warriors wearing rudimentary armour — some had helmets, some cuirasses, and others shields, but none a complete equipage — and armed with spears and bows as well as swords. He did not reckon them very disciplined; a regiment of Janissaries would very soon have routed them, he had no doubt. But they certainly outnumbered the Turkish party.
He rode forward with his hand held high, and after a moment the commander of the Wallachian horse left his ranks to approach him.
“I am ambassador from the Emir Mahomet II,” Hawkwood said in Greek.
“We recognise no Turkish emirs,” the captain replied in kind.
“You will recognise this one, friend,” Anthony promised him. “I have come to speak with your prince. So take me to him.”
*
Drakul’s capital city of Bukres was only a few days away, but it was an unpleasant journey for the Ottomans. They were surrounded by ever more Wallachian soldiers, both on horse and foot, as well as a growing band of camp followers. And although no violence was offered, they were very aware of being like prison
ers.
On the fifth day they reached the city. It turned out to be nothing more than an accumulation of wooden huts, seeming even more desolate through the constant drizzle. Before the outlying houses, however, stood what appeared to be a grove of bare trees. It was not until they drew near that the startled Turks could discern that this was actually a grove of impaled men, long since rotted to skeletons, but still thrust skywards by the tall poles which had penetrated their vitals.
“By the beard of the Prophet,” Mahmun muttered. “That is what happened to our people.”
Anthony swallowed anxiously. As Mahomet had once said, an impalement once witnessed can never be forgotten — and here were the corpses of more than a hundred men. Wallachian children now played at the foot of these grisly totems with shrill, happy cries; no doubt they had uttered the very same cries while those men had been writhing and dying in agony.
“Courage,” Halim growled. “We are Ottomans.” He sat his horse with exaggerated stiffness.
The embassy proceeded further between the squalid houses, hooves squelching in the mud, while dogs barked and filthy children ran beside them. The palace of the prince turned out to be a much larger hut set within a wooden palisade. After the embassy was allowed into this enclosure, the gates were closed firmly behind them.
“These people are savages,” Mahmun commented, looking around with visible distaste.
In silence the three envoys were escorted up some wooden steps and into a wooden porch, their wet clothes steaming in the sudden warmth. Here stood more guards and a couple of major-domos. Obviously news of their coming had been sent ahead.
“Uncover,” ordered one of these officials in Latin. He wore a tabard of some value, but over mean clothes, and he did not appear to have washed in some time.
“Uncover?” Halim demanded.
“No man may remain covered in the presence of the prince,” the major-domo announced, haughtily.
Halim gazed at Mahmun in consternation.
“We are here on a peaceful mission, my friends,” Hawkwood said. “It will pay us to humour this prince.” He took off his helmet, and handed it to his servant.
The major-domo stared at him in amazement. “You are an Ottoman?”
“No,” Anthony told him. “But I serve the Emir.”
The man was still gaping at his red hair, when Halim announced loudly, “An Ottoman uncovers for no man. We do not even uncover for the Emir.”
“Then you may not enter the presence of the prince,” the major-domo repeated.
“I will see this prince,” Halim declared. “I am an envoy of the Emir.”
Mahmun stroked his beard.
“It really would be best to humour him,” Anthony suggested again.
“Bah,” Halim said, “you are a gaiour, young Hawk. You do not understand these things. Come, Mahmun, let us see this so-called prince.”
The guards made to check them as the two Turks marched forward, but the major-domo shook his head, and they were admitted.
Hawkwood followed more slowly, into a smoke-filled room, for a huge log fire blazed in an open grate to one side. There were several men in the room and also, he realised with surprise, several women clustered on the far side, away from the fire, whispering amongst themselves and clicking their fans.
They were no more prepossessing than their menfolk, but were positive beauties when compared with the man who sat on the chair which faced the door. He was hunched over, which made him seem almost dwarfish, and his bare head was covered with shaggy black hair which mingled in with his moustache and beard, without any gaps. His hooked nose seemed to hang right over his thin lips, while snakelike green eyes peered out from beneath his low brows.
“Who are these people?” he demanded, his voice sibilant.
Obviously he already knew, but was ready to take offence at the Ottomans’ lack of courtesy.
Anthony stepped forward. “I come from the Emir Mahomet, the second of that immortal name. My master is Lord of Karaman and Sivas, Anatolia and Jandar, Greece and Roumelia, and is paid tribute by the men of Serbia and of…” he drew a long breath, “Wallachia.”
Drakul’s brows seemed to draw closer together. “You are no Turk!”
“I have the honour to be English, Prince. My name is Anthony Hawkwood.”
“And you serve the Turk?”
“It pleases the Emir to employ me, yes.”
“You are a renegade.”
“I am a man who knows where his future lies; where all of our futures lie.” Hawkwood gazed straight into the prince’s eyes. “You would do well to know this.”
They stared at each other for several seconds, then Drakul asked, “And these?”
“My associates here are Halim Pasha and Mahmun Pasha.”
“Turks,” Drakul said contemptuously. “They anger me.”
“It is not their custom to uncover, even before their own Emir.”
“What do I care for Turkish customs?” Drakul asked. “What has this Emir to say to me?”
“Firstly, he wishes to known for what reason you have put to death so many of his people.”
“They angered me.”
“I will return that answer to my master,” Hawkwood said, firmly. “That will anger him.”
“You are a bold rascal,” Drakul commented, “but you have not come all this way to inquire after a few Turks?”
“No, Prince. My master tells me your father swore allegiance to the Emir’s father, the great Murad.”
“My father was a fool.”
“I will relate that also to my master. But my master now wishes to know whether you intend peace or war with the empire of the crescent?”
“I will tell him when I have decided on that,” Drakul said.
Anthony bowed. “My master has ordered me to tell you this. He is embarked upon a great enterprise. Those princes who give him their blessing will be honoured and rewarded when the enterprise is completed. Those who withhold such blessing will be regarded as enemies and driven to the ends of the earth.”
Drakul gazed at him. “The Emir means to attack Constantinople,” he remarked.
“He is embarked upon a great enterprise, Prince.”
“He must take me for a fool. As he is a fool himself. A mere boy pitting himself against Constantinople!”
“He asks your blessing.”
Drakul considered for several seconds. “I give it to him,” he said at last. “Constantinople is a den of apostates. It should be destroyed. My soldiers will not cross the river.”
Anthony bowed, a surge of relief rushing through him. “I will convey that answer too to my master,” he said. “He will be pleased.”
“Then tell him so. Go now…but not those,” Drakul snapped as Halim and Mahmun made to move backwards.
“Prince?” Anthony asked.
“They have angered me,” Drakul repeated.
“As I have explained, Prince, it is not the custom…”
“I heard your words, English renegade. It is not their custom to uncover before anyone, even their Emir. Well then…” Drakul smiled the most evil smile Anthony had ever seen. “Who am I to make a man break his custom? They do not uncover. Well, then, they will never uncover again.” He signalled his guards. “Seize those men and nail their helmets to their skulls.” His grin turned to a bellow of laughter. “That will be sport for the ladies.”
*
“Drakul did that?” Mahomet gazed at Anthony in astonishment. “And after impaling my previous ambassadors?” He gave a shout of laughter. “What a man!” he cried.
“Halim Pasha and Mahmun Pasha must be avenged, O Padishah,” Hawkwood said. “Halim was a fool, but Mahmun was innocent — and my father-in-law. How can I face my wife with such a tale?”
“Oh, they will be avenged,” Mahomet promised. “But that will have to wait. And it will be difficult. How do you destroy a man who acts in such a grand manner?” He grew serious. “But he let you return to me.”
“Perhaps b
ecause I am a coward, O Padishah. I did not defy him.”
“Because you are a wise man, young Hawk, and a trustworthy servant. It is not an ambassador’s business to defy those he is sent to. You have faithfully carried out my instructions, and you have learned much on your mission.”
“I have learned that the world is larger and more forbidding than I had supposed.”
“That is knowledge worth having. I am pleased with you, young Hawk. Now…now, we commence our campaign.”
*
It was a sorry homecoming. The Emir might be pleased and amused, Anthony thought, but he himself had been bitterly humiliated at being forced to watch his two associates die in so terrible a fashion.
Then there was Laila to face. She beat her breast and tore her hair in her grief — all the greater because her father’s body had not been returned. Anthony knew she blamed him for the catastrophe. He had been in charge of the embassy.
His parents were overjoyed to have him back after more than six months — but their joy was overshadowed by the news he brought them of their daughter Catherine, and by their realisation that the great campaign was at last about to begin.
“My family is all but destroyed,” Mary Hawkwood said sadly. “Only you remain, Anthony. And now you, too, must go to war.”
His father was more cheerful: the great bombard had been completed, and fired.
“It has done everything I had hoped,” John Hawkwood boasted. “It has hurled a huge stone ball upwards of a mile. It is the most devastating weapon ever made.”
“Have you fired an iron ball yet?” Anthony asked eagerly.
John shook his head. “I have been able to cast only six, for there is not much iron in Anatolia. They are not to be wasted in advance. But the Emir is pleased.”
*
On his long, weary, dispiriting return from Wallachia Anthony had often dreamed of the arms of the Emir Valideh. But there came no summons. He sought out the Kislar Agha.
“The Emir Valideh is ill,” he was told. “You would do best to forget she ever lived, young Hawk.”
Anthony felt a chill run up his spine. For if the Emir Valideh was to die, he would be at the mercy of this eunuch.
*
Ottoman Page 15