Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  The Janissaries seemed satisfied.

  *

  William was thoroughly aware of the enormous risk he was taking. He understood that Ahmed, however disparagingly he spoke of his brothers, was himself the true son of his father: Mahomet would have taken command of the army himself, not handed it over to another general while he lurked in safety.

  He also understood that the Prince must have somehow sold himself to the Persians in order to gain their aid. He could not tell what promises had been made, but undoubtedly it involved some cession of territory — perhaps even a withdrawal of the Erzurum garrison and a yielding of the entire Taurus region to the Shah.

  But those were things which could be settled after the victory — if there was one. He himself had not been a party to any agreements, therefore could not be bound by them. He was aware, too, that even with the assistance of forty thousand Persians he would command an army inferior to that which Bayazid could put into the field, if he chose. And that if he lost this time, he would surely be impaled. And this time no one would lift a finger to help him.

  Yet he had no choice but to act…or to admit that he was hardly better than the craven Sultan himself.

  *

  “So now you go to war,” Giovanna said.

  They had shared their bed for so long they seemed as married as two people could ever be. He never summoned Golkha nowadays; the Circassian had grown enormously fat and listless.

  “It is what we have planned for fifteen years,” he reminded her.

  “They have been good years.” But she knew better than to allow her sadness to interfere with masculine ambitions. “Bring my son back to me, William.”

  For Harry Hawkwood, now seventeen, would ride at his uncle’s shoulder.

  *

  William went about his business as cautiously as ever. As always he hoisted the standard, not of Prince Ahmed, but of “the True Sultan”, and under this, the following spring, he led his men down from the mountains to the Black Sea coast.

  Mustafa Pasha of Trebizond surrendered without a fight. “I have long known this day must come,” he said, “and I congratulate you. My men will ride beneath your banner.”

  But he frowned and tugged on his beard when he considered the Persians.

  William now held the Taurus region and a Black Sea port, thus he also commanded a fleet of sorts. The ships he despatched to Caffa and Kerch, on the borders of the khanate of the Crimea. The Crimea had paid tribute since 1475. Now it paid tribute to the one True Sultan. With their corn William could feed his growing army, augmented as it was by the Trebizond garrison.

  The following spring he marched through the mountains to Sivas. Capital of the province bearing its name, the city, although situated at more than four thousand feet above sea level, lay in the broad, fertile valley of the Kizil Irmak. A century earlier it had been reputed to contain a population of over a hundred and fifty thousand people, but it had never recovered from the frightful sack by Timur and his Mongols.

  The city abounded with Seljuk relics, including a Great Mosque, and the mausoleum of its founder, Sultan Kay-Ka’us I.

  More importantly, the valley of the Kizil Irmak stretched south almost to Kayseri, and then bent back to the north-west. By following this valley, assured always of food and water, an army could approach within a few miles of Ankara, and find itself in the very heartland of Anatolia — with the mountains behind it, and Brusa, the coast and Constantinople before.

  In the past all invaders from the east had approached by way of Sivas and the Kizil Irmak.

  William had expected to find the city barred to him, but the beylerbey, Ibrahim Pasha, willingly joined the rebel army, and another twenty thousand men enrolled beneath the green and crimson banners. William now commanded an army of a hundred thousand experienced soldiers.

  Prince Ahmed came to review his army outside Sivas.

  “When will you march?” he asked Hawk Pasha.

  “In the spring, my lord Prince,” William told him. “When will the cannon promised by the Shah arrive?”

  “There are difficulties, but they will be here, Hawk Pasha.”

  William realised he would have to do whatever he could, without artillery. Which meant that he must draw Bayazid’s army into the field and defeat it there; he had no means of assaulting walls.

  Ahmed remained in Sivas over the winter. He had brought his harem with him, and made himself thoroughly comfortable.

  William sent for Giovanna, and did likewise.

  “Next year,” he told her. “Next year will be one of the most important in the history of the Ottomans. Perhaps of the world.”

  “Next year you may well die,” she brooded. “Then I must die also, for I have no one else to live for.”

  “You have Harry,” he reminded her.

  “When you die, Harry will surely die at your side,” she said.

  Next year! William was fifty when the snows melted and the army began to prepare for its advance on Ankara; he meant to be across the Bosphorus by the autumn. As he could not batter down the walls of Constantinople, he must campaign as the Ottomans had done before the coming of the Hawkwoods, and overrun the entire rest of the empire. That would surely draw Bayazid into the field: he was no Constantine XI.

  But, before he had given the order to march, news came that an army was marching to meet him, flying the banners of the Sultan.

  *

  William could hardly believe his good fortune.

  “Does the Padishah command in person?” he asked the messenger.

  “No, my lord. The army is commanded by Prince Selim.”

  William looked at Ahmed.

  “Bah, he is but a boy,” Ahmed declared. “There is nought to fear.”

  “I did not suppose there was, my lord Prince.” William turned back to the messenger. “Does the Sultan’s army have artillery?”

  “Yes, my lord. There are twelve guns.”

  “Two batteries,” Ahmed muttered, his ashen face entirely belying his earlier words. “What will you do, Hawk Pasha? We have no artillery.”

  “Your ally has let us down, my lord Prince. But, no matter, we shall fight the decisive battle outside Sivas. Will you take command?”

  “Me?” Ahmed looked startled. “No, no, I must return to Mosul and report the situation to the Shah. He will be interested. Send me word of your victory, Hawk Pasha, so that I may then return to you.”

  But not of my defeat, William thought. Because then you will stay in Persia, awaiting your father’s bowstring.

  “Why do we fight for such a creature?” Walid growled.

  “Because he is the son of the Sultan.”

  “And another approaches,” Walid reminded him.

  But this one was prepared to fight in person.

  William sent an advance guard of sipahis out to discover the whereabouts of the royal army, while he marched his own men out of the city and encamped them on his chosen site: an open area of some miles’ breadth. It could be no part of his strategy merely to repel the Sultan’s force; he had to defeat them decisively, despite their artillery.

  The people of Sivas watched them go with grim faces. They knew that were this rebel army defeated, their city would again be sacked.

  *

  William rode amongst his men, speaking with every regiment, telling them that they must win this battle, or else they and their families would all perish. He promised them each a large donation when finally they marched into Constantinople.

  He could not speak Iranian, so he had the Persian commander. Nadir Ali, translate for him.

  Then he returned to his tent to wait.

  He had sent Giovanna back to Erzurum. He could do nothing more for her. She, like everyone else, lived or died on the outcome of the coming battle.

  He was conscious of a great sense of loneliness. When he had been young, he had relied on the support and advice of two strong brothers and a great and powerful father. Now they were all gone, with their talents and their knowl
edge. He was fifty, and he was the very last Hawkwood save for the boy who waited outside his tent.

  For all his successes as a guerrilla leader over the past fifteen years, he had never commanded an army in a pitched battle against an equal enemy. Much less one likely to be superior.

  But then he remembered that Selim was ten years his junior and, owing to the weakness of his father, he too could never have commanded an army in battle.

  Harry Hawkwood now stood at the doorway to the tent. “The Sultan’s army approaches, Uncle,” he said.

  It was just dawn.

  “Have the tabalcans and bugles sounded,” William said. His servants came in to strap on his cuirass, hand him his helmet and wrap the turban round the steel. They buckled on his scimitar.

  When he went outside, his stallion was waiting for him. His quiver hung down on his left-hand side, his bow on his right. He mounted and rode out to watch his troops deploying: Ibrahim Pasha commanded the men from Sivas and Trebizond on the right; Mustafa had been left to guard the coast road; the Persians were on the left. The Janissaries and the mountaineers, in the centre, he would command himself. The sipahis were stationed even more to the right than the Sivans, concealed in a wood. His victory depended on them, because success depended on eliminating the guns at the very outset. He planned to hold off the royal army with his infantry, and deliver a flank attack with his cavalry aimed at the artillery batteries.

  It went against the rules of war to launch cavalry against unbroken troops. But they would be attacking from the flank, and the guns would be pointing straight ahead; they would not be turned in time, and an attempt to do so would surely disrupt the loyalist ranks.

  He had nothing better.

  “Remember,” he told Walid, who commanded the horse. “Your charge must succeed. We cannot stand a bombardment for long.”

  “It will succeed,” Walid promised.

  His dispositions made, William walked his horse out in front of his men, Harry and his bugler at either side. They watched the road where it followed the bend of the river, some three miles away. They could hear now the sounds of many marching feet and hooves — and the rumble of the gun carriages. He listened to the approach of such an army once before.

  He glanced at Harry, and Harry grinned at him. The boy knew no fear.

  A regiment of sipahis came into sight. They were followed by the bashi-bazouks, who took up their position exactly opposite the centre of William’s army. The Anatolians debouched to left and right to form the two wings. Behind them were the Janissaries, several thousand of them, denoted by the white plumes in their helmets. When they halted at their appointed position, the plumes gave off a tremendous rustle. William could not see what they were doing, but he knew they were placing the rests for their arquebuses.

  William could not see the cannon either, but he knew they would be in front of the Janissaries and behind the bashi-bazouks.

  Behind the Janissaries was the main body of sipahis, and behind them again the baggage-train.

  William estimated there were not less than a hundred and twenty thousand men opposed to him.

  Slowly the royal army marched into position. Messengers rushed from one command to another, ordering, instructing, directing. But it was already approaching dusk. There would be no battle until tomorrow.

  William frowned. Making their way through the ranks of the irregulars, and greeted by them with huzzas and the clashing of weapons, was a group of horsemen. They rode beneath the green flag of the Ottomans fluttering in the breeze, and there were personal pennants as well.

  William narrowed his eyes still further, trying to identify some of the officers, but the distance was too great.

  The officers reached the foremost rank of the bashis, who gave a great cheer. The rebels returned a loud shout, and then both armies fell silent, save for the stamping of horses’ hooves, the shuffling of feet.

  Two of the horsemen left the bashis and advanced into the open space between the armies. One carried a white flag.

  This man left his companion in turn, and trotted forward. He advanced to within twenty yards of William, and called, “Are you he who calls himself Hawk Pasha?”

  William was looking at a boy younger even than Harry. He had a long, thin face, as yet beardless, nor was there a moustache. The lips were firm, the forehead high. The face lacked the cruel cast of Mahomet and his immediate descendants, but possessed the boldness of his great-grandfather.

  “I am he,” William answered.

  “My father, Prince Selim, would speak with you.”

  William realised that this must be Selim’s only son, Prince Suleiman. He looked past the Prince at the lone horseman, who sat in his saddle, absolutely still.

  “It may be a trap, Uncle,” Harry muttered.

  “I will speak with him,” William decided, and urged his horse forward.

  Suleiman rode in front of him until they came up to the Prince.

  “Return to the ranks,” Selim said to his son.

  Suleiman cantered back to the bashis.

  William gazed at Prince Selim and was suddenly conscious of apprehension where he had known little before.

  Was this truly a son of Bayazid? William could hardly remember the Conqueror, but this trim, erect horseman, his cuirass intertwined with gold thread, reminded him of everything he had heard of Mahomet. The thin lips, the slightly drooping nose, the moustache, were all reminiscent of his grandfather. No doubt his brothers and his father possessed the same characteristics.

  But none of them had the firmness of expression, then steadiness of eye of this man.

  William at once understood that here was the true Ottoman — the only true living Ottoman, save perhaps for the boy who had now regained the royal ranks.

  For his part, Selim inspected William with no less interest.

  “I last saw you seventeen years ago,” he said. “When you stood before my father on your return from Italy.”

  “I remember, my lord Prince.”

  Selim studied him. “Before a great wrong was done you, Hawk Pasha.”

  William frowned. This was hardly the statement of an enemy.

  He looked past the Prince at the royal army. “Your men are well disposed, my lord Prince.”

  “I was well taught, Hawk Pasha. I campaigned with your father.”

  “You are fortunate, my lord.”

  “Indeed. I would have you be fortunate also, Hawk Pasha. You have taken up arms against my father. That I can understand, because of the wrong done to you. But you fight for my brother, who is a fool and a coward. Do you not realise that?”

  William made no reply, which was reply enough.

  Selim pointed at the rebel left wing. “You also ally yourself with the Persians. Surely you know that they are our hereditary enemies, who seek only to create discord among us for their own benefit? Do you not also know that they are heretics who are an abomination in the sight of Allah?”

  “A man must seek his allies where he can find them, my lord Prince. There are not sufficient men in these mountains to raise an army to oppose yours.”

  “Then why oppose mine, Hawk Pasha? Do you not realise that there are sufficient men in your army and mine to work our will upon the whole world?”

  William gazed at him.

  “I offer you a free pardon if you will march beneath my banner,” Selim said. “More, I offer you the command of my army, beneath me. You bear a famous name in the history of my people. Do not now disgrace it and cast it in the dust.”

  “My lord, I am sworn to the cause of Prince Ahmed.”

  “Not so, Hawk Pasha. I have been told that you are sworn to the cause of the true Ottoman. Is that not so?”

  William gazed at him.

  “My brother’s cause is a false cause, Hawk Pasha, and you know this. My brother is a vicious man. Once you have gained his victory for him, should fortune smile upon you, he will have your head because you will be grown too powerful.”

  “My lord…”


  Selim gave a grim smile. “And would I not do the same? I do not fear you, Hawk Pasha, because I too am a soldier. More than that, I know I can trust you because your name is Hawk. I will honour you above all other men, as my grandfather honoured your father. I swear this, by the memory of Mahomet.”

  An oath he would certainly keep. And this was a man to be followed by one who had once determined to devote his life to the service of the Ottomans. He was the only one to follow.

  “My lord Prince, I am outlawed by your father. Nor can I accept any forgiveness from him, for I have none for him.”

  “Hawk Pasha, Bayazid has sat upon the divan too long and to too little purpose. Unite your force with mine. As I have said, there is none can stand against us.”

  William stared at him. Does Bayazid have any idea, he wondered, how all his sons despise him?

  Selim had noted the hesitation.

  “When my father is deposed,” he said, “he will be incarcerated in a special palace I shall have built. With him will go his favourite wives, concubines and eunuchs, to a certain number. All save one. She was obtained illegally, and has been used illegally ever since.”

  William’s head jerked. “Surely my wife is dead?”

  “Not so. She lives in my father’s harem, Hawk Pasha. I know this, for he has boasted of it. I do not know what tenderness you can feel for your wife after so many years. Perhaps you wish only to strangle her; that will be your decision. But I will restore your wife to you.”

  William could hardly believe it: Aimée still alive!

  What would she be like after eighteen years in Bayazid’s harem? Would she be anything like the girl he had once loved? That was impossible. So, as Selim had suggested, perhaps all he would wish to do to her would be to wrap a bowstring round that marvellous neck and consign her to the Bosphorus.

  But he knew that he had to see her again, no matter the pain involved.

  “If we agree to march together, my lord Prince,” he said. “What am I to tell my allies?”