“Padishah…”
Mahomet gave a shout of laughter. “You are all but overcome, young Hawk. Well, I promised you a second woman. Take this creature if she pleases you. She can even become your wife, since she is now a widow.”
“Never,” Anna moaned.
Mahomet looked at her darkly. “Would you rather be stretched on your back in the public street for the sport of all of my warriors?” he hissed. “I have given you to Hawk Pasha. And you, Hawk Pasha,” he added, “service her well. If she does not bear your child within a year of this day, I will take her from you and give her to my Janissaries. Now go. Take your women and go.” Mahomet laughed again, pointing at the Grand Duchess. “Take her as well if she will amuse you. She will hardly amuse anyone else.”
Anthony vaulted the table and went towards them.
“You have sold your soul to the devil,” Anna sobbed at him. “We can never forgive you.”
“Well, so be it then,” Hawkwood growled.
BOOK THE SECOND
The Seraglio
“Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire.
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!”
OMAR KHAYYAM
7
The Brothers
“There! There!”
The tabalcans sounded, the trumpets blew, and the beaters raised their shrill shriek.
From the pine trees broke a huge yellow-brown beast, bounding stiff-legged as only a cat can, over the open ground towards the next wooded copse.
“A beauty!” shouted Prince Djem. “A beauty! Haste, Hawk, haste! We will claim him together.”
William Hawkwood spurred his horse beside that of the prince, and the two men galloped away from their escorts, bows already unslung and grasped in their right hands, minds for the moment entirely consumed with the excitement of the chase, and the possible reward at the end of it. Once this high plateau of central Anatolia had abounded in lion; in this year of 1481 the mighty beasts were all but extinct. Thus it was that the very moment Prince Djem, in his city of Brusa, had heard there was such a creature loose on the Ulu Dag, he had commanded an expedition to be made ready.
Now the moment of fulfilment was near.
The two young men — Djem but twenty-two years old, and William Hawkwood a year younger — made a strong contrast as they chased behind their quarry. The Ottoman prince was small and compact. His body was muscular enough but tending to plumpness. His nose was long and curved, to overhang his lips, where his moustache was just beginning to sprout; in this he resembled his father, the Sultan Mahomet II.
He resembled his father in more than features. His eyes, a deep blue, could turn colder than ice, suggesting the facets of the mind that lay behind them.
William Hawkwood was two inches taller than six feet. His complexion was ruddy, his hair a glowing red. His features were large and bold, in keeping with his body and the reputation of his family — he had not yet had the chance to prove himself in the field to be a worthy son of Hawk Pasha.
But as Hawk Pasha’s son, William had lived his entire life close to the side of the Sultan, and the Sultan’s sons. Prince Djem knew he had no more faithful follower than the youngest of the Hawkwoods.
The lion reached the fringe of trees and there hesitated, perhaps winded because of the altitude — hunters and quarry were some three thousand feet above sea level — and turning to snarl at his pursuers. He made a splendid picture, mane bristling, tail swirling, features contorted as he drew back lips in an angry snarl to reveal his gleaming teeth.
Djem — allowed by a respectful William Hawkwood to draw in front — pulled hard on his rein. The horse panted to a halt, and the lion changed his snarl into an imperious roar, lowering his haunches as he prepared to charge.
“To me!” Djem shouted, his voice high with fear.
“I am with you, my lord,” William replied; he had swerved his horse to one side, also drawing rein so as to whip an arrow from his quiver.
Behind them the earth still drummed as their escorts strove to catch up.
“Shoot, shoot!” Djem screamed. In his excitement he dropped his first arrow, and all but dropped his bow as well when he sought to retrieve it.
The lion swished its tail to and fro a last time, and bounded forward.
William released his string. Almost before the arrow had commenced its flight he was drawing and sighting a second. Like any Turkish noblemen, he had been taught horsemanship, and the art of fighting from horseback, from the moment he had been old enough to stand upright.
His first missile had already struck home. The lion was arrested in mid-stride, falling again to its haunches, stroking at its shoulder with a huge paw to remove the barb, and turning its head to snarl at this second antagonist. The doomed beast was so noble that William hesitated an instant in admiration, before loosing the second shaft.
Djem had now recovered himself, and fired at last. But his shot was wide — and the lion turned back to him.
“Shoot!” the prince begged. “Shoot!”
William’s second arrow also struck home, and the lion fell on its side, blood dripping down its tawny flanks. It was ready for the coup de grâce, and William had a third arrow on his string. But he knew better than to fire it. The kill must belong to the prince.
Djem had now got both his mount and himself under control, and he took careful aim. As the lion raised its head to utter a last defiant roar, the prince’s shaft struck it in the throat. The roar became a gurgle, and the beast fell over.
“A superb shot!” William cried. His upbringing had also taught him that a prince must always be congratulated.
“Is the beast dead?” Djem cautiously walked his horse forward.
“It is most certainly dying, my lord.”
“Ha!” Djem dismounted and drew his sword. On foot he approached the quivering, groaning prey even more cautiously. Then he swung the scimitar, and hacked into its head. The lion growled, and rolled over. Djem leapt backwards, then moved forward again to strike at the unprotected belly of the beast. Blood spurted as the lion collapsed, all its great muscles seeming to lose their strength at the same moment.
William had also dismounted. “Bravo, my lord! You have despatched him.”
“Ha!” Djem cried again, and started to hack at the body with all his force.
William could only wait until he was exhausted, as did the escort gathered at a respectful distance.
“Foul thing!” Djem panted, swinging his sword. “Didst thou think thou could match strength with a prince of the House of Othman?”
At last he stopped, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his silk tunic. “I have killed a monster,” he said. “My father will be proud of this.”
“No, my lord,” William said. “You have killed a monarch.”
Djem shot him a glance.
“Your father will be even prouder of that,” William added.
“Ha!” Djem shouted. “Ha ha! You are right, young Hawk.” He swung into the saddle. “Fetch home that carrion,” he commanded his guards.
*
“You are a mighty hunter,” Sereta said, and kissed her husband, while the two little boys scrabbled at his boots.
“Hush,” William said. “It was the prince who slew the lion.” He placed his finger on her lips, as she tried to protest. “The prince slew the lion, wife. There is an end to the matter.”
Black-haired and black-eyed, softly plump of body, Sereta pouted and threw herself on to a divan. She was nineteen years of age, and had been William’s wife for four of them.
The Sultan himself had chosen her with the agreement of Anthony Hawkwood, Hawk Pasha, his dearest friend, the moment William had been circumcised and become a man. Sereta was the daughter of an army commander, and had brought with her a large dowry and a determined sense of loyalty to her new husband.
After the dream in whi
ch every virgin in the empire was supposed to indulge, that of succeeding in one of the annual selections for the Sultan’s harem, the next best thing was surely to aspire to the House of Hawkwood. Sometimes it was whispered that this order was reversed in the hearts and minds of many. To be selected for the Sultan was not necessarily to attain power or happiness; more often than not it entailed a lifetime of sexual and social neglect — except where relief could be found amongst the other hapless inmates of the seraglio…or from a helpful eunuch.
But marriage to a Hawk, it was known, introduced a girl to an unimaginable world: where there were no other wives; where the yashmak was not worn, even in the company of male relatives and guests; where the wife was allowed to remain at her husband’s side, at least while indoors. Laila, daughter of Mahmun Pasha, had been the first to sample such strange delights, when the Emir — as the Sultan was then known — had given her in marriage to Anthony Hawkwood. But Laila had been a sad choice. However much she might have enjoyed her illustrious position, she had proved barren. She had died relatively young, many said of grief.
Anthony Hawkwood had by then taken another wife, the proud Greek lady, Anna Notaras, whom he had plucked from the burning ruin of Constantinople. Rumour had it that his physical relations with his second wife had at first resembled repeated rape: that the most heart-rending screams had been heard in his palace during the early days of their marriage.
However true that might be, Anna Notaras had yet borne three sons and two daughters for her renegade English husband. And Anthony Hawkwood had not found it necessary to marry again.
William knew all the rumours. He granted some truth in them, because in his own youth he had observed his mother watching his father always with a peculiar apprehension. Beautiful in an aquiline fashion, and still haughty when the occasion permitted it, she had somehow reminded him of a proud mare who has been broken by the horsetamer.
William and his mother had never been close. Like his two older brothers he had been educated with men, sent to the school of the Janissaries before he was ten years old, learned to kill before he had learned to love. Thus he had never learned to love: Sereta and her children were possessions, symbols of his wealth and his manhood. Perhaps love would come in time.
The Sultan, although he insisted upon certain essential rites such as circumcision, had never sought to force the Hawkwoods to Mahommedanism; he understood that part of their value to him lay in their being gaiours who, when necessary, could be used to deal diplomatically with other infidels. More important he knew that, as Christians, their place and power within the Ottoman structure depended on him and him alone. No other family could he allow himself to trust so completely.
Thus it was that he had brought up William Hawkwood and his own youngest son, Djem — also his favourite, it was said — almost as brothers. But William was not summoned to prayer, and it was understood that his sons would be Christian, whoever their mother. And if, like his father, he chose to live in the Frankish fashion, with a single woman, that was his own business.
William Hawkwood quarrelled with none of this — concerned only with acting the part given him by fate: that of being Hawk Pasha’s youngest son. He had known virtually from birth that his was a renegade family, destined not only to live but also to earn fame and fortune in a heathen land — and more often than not to lead the Turks in battle against Christians. He had also understood from childhood that it was his destiny to be a soldier: a commander of artillery like his famous forebears. Though he himself he had never actually fired a shot in anger, he knew that his father had been a formidable soldier, and this was a cause for pride. And if he had been told often enough that the Sultan’s nickname, as a young man, had been Hunkar, ‘Drinker of Blood’ — nowadays Mahomet preferred to be known as ‘the Conqueror’ — yet he did not fear him; because he himself was the son of Hawk Pasha. Rather was he proud, too, to serve the greatest monarch in the world!
William Hawkwood had also long been aware that the favourite prince with whom he was so closely associated was a coward — and a vicious one at that. This was a penance to be borne by those who served. Djem certainly relied on his English friend, and more so with every passing year, it seemed. When he had been given command of the garrison of Brusa, it was natural that William would accompany him as his captain of artillery. Anthony Hawkwood was the greatest artillerist in the world; his sons could only succeed him.
That way lay advancement, even if a certain amount of sycophancy was needed — that too was a requirement for those who served. William could at least be sure that Djem would never be Sultan, at least as long as his elder brother Bayazid lived. But even Bayazid’s inheritance of the sword of Othman was surely many years in the future: the Sultan was hardly fifty, and as powerfully strong, in both mind and body, as ever.
Meanwhile there were the perquisites of independence to be enjoyed. Nestling at the foot of Mount Ulu, Brusa was one of the most delightful places on earth, where the only sound competing with the sighing of the wind was the even more restful ripple of flowing water.
Though cold in winter, it was never uncomfortable. Even when it snowed the sun was soon out to create a vista of breath-taking beauty, while in the summer the climate was perfect. The high Anatolian plateau behind the city provided not only an ample playground for hunting, but also ideal territory for William and Djem to exercise their troops, which included a regiment of Janissaries.
The city itself was the focal point of the entire Ottoman state. Constantinople might have risen from its ashes of 1453 to become the supreme city it had previously been, but Brusa contained the tombs of Djem’s ancestors. And it would no doubt contain his tomb as well, in the course of time.
It was a place far removed from the constantly warring boundaries of the empire, or the intrigues of the Porte — as the Ottoman court had come to be known, from the Sultan’s habit of receiving foreign ambassadors in the porch of his palace. It was a place where the Turks practised the arts of peace; working at ceramics, or at their silk embroidery which was already world famous. It was a place in which to be happy and grow fat, to hunt and to play, to make love to one’s willing wife, and watch the growing strength and vigour of one’s children.
So long as nothing changed.
*
The horseman’s face was grey with fatigue, and fear, as he galloped his exhausted mount over the cobbles, striking sparks to left and right. People hurried from their houses and employments to gaze at him, and discuss what news he might have brought. Terrible news, to be sure: his haste and his demeanour indicated that.
“There has been some calamity,” the onlookers whispered.
“The Janissaries have been defeated!”
Unimaginable thought.
No one was capable of imagining the news the messenger actually did bring.
Prince Djem stared at him in consternation. “The Conqueror is dead?” he whispered. “How can this be?”
“Poison,” growled Omar Pasha, the commander of the garrison.
“Was it poison?” William Hawkwood asked.
“It is not supposed so, my lord,” the messenger said. “The Padishah suddenly collapsed, complaining of great pain, and then died. My lord prince, your brother the Sultan Bayazid, commands your presence in Constantinople.”
“Strike off that man’s head,” Djem commanded.
“My lord prince!” William protested.
“His head,” Djem shouted. “Take his head.”
The messenger was hurried from the chamber. He did not protest; he could have hoped for little else.
“The Sultan Bayazid,” Djem growled, sagging back on to the divan from which he had risen on hearing the news. “By what right does he claim the sultanate?”
“By right of birth,” William ventured. “He is the eldest son.”
“I would have been my father’s choice, had he lived,” Djem said.
“I have no doubt of it, my lord. But who can gainsay the will of Allah?”
> “Ha! I do not accept that. And Bayazid must take me for a fool. Go to Constantinople? I might as well cut my own throat.”
“But you have been summoned by the Sultan,” Omar protested.
“I have been summoned by my brother, who now claims to be the Sultan,” Djem declared. “He summons me to execution.”
“You do not know this,” William said.
“Did not my father murder every one of his brothers? Did he not set the precedent, and justify it by quoting the Koran? And Bayazid hates me for being my father’s favourite. I will not tamely go to be slaughtered like a sheep.”
“But if you defy the Sultan, my lord,” Omar said, “you will be regarded as a rebel.”
“The Padishah will most certainly send an army against you,” William said.
“And do we not have soldiers of our own? Have I not two proven generals?” He looked from face to face. “Besides, I have a plan which will weaken Bayazid’s resolve; he has never had much stomach for war. I will offer to divide the empire with him. He can have Europe, and even Constantinople. I will keep Asia, and Brusa.” He leaned back with a smile.
Omar and William gazed at each other. To suppose that any Ottoman sultan would agree to dividing his empire was equivalent to supposing that one day the skies might fall. And to rebel against the Sultan could lead only to death. William’s predicament was even worse than Omar’s.
“With humble respect, my lord prince,” he said, “if Bayazid declines your offer and sends an army against you, it will most certainly be commanded by my father, who will have my brothers at his side. I would therefore beg you to permit me to withdraw.”
“I will not permit you to withdraw, young Hawk. I need you to command my artillery.”
“But, my lord…”
“As to opposing one’s relatives, if Bayazid is foolish enough to refuse my offer, will I not be opposing my own brother?”
William opened his mouth and then closed it again. That was Djem’s own choice. Perhaps it was his only choice. But it was not William Hawkwood’s only choice.
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