Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  Hard as this work was — there was no opportunity for sailing, even had the winter weather been good enough; and Khair-ed-din had meanwhile taken himself off to North Africa — Harry had time to return to Hawk Palace nearly every night and seek the arms of Yana. Sasha and Tressilia were disgruntled, of course, and he realised the necessity of accommodating them both at least once a week.

  But Yana was the magnet that drew him again and again. He had experienced nothing like this before — he was like a young boy in his ardour, delighted yet dismayed. He could not really suppose he had fallen in love with a Russian savage; they had nothing in common save physical allure.

  Yet an allure was there: he now thought only of Yana’s body, her lips, her hair. It was a preoccupation soon observed by his mother and his aunt, and clearly it concerned them; they might be gaiours, but they had lived most of their lives in the Ottoman world and they understood as well as anyone that here a woman was solely for pleasure and child-bearing. A man’s major interests lay elsewhere.

  So perhaps they even welcomed the coming of spring, and the orders for the army to march.

  *

  By then Harry had made a decision.

  “We shall wait for news of you,” Giovanna told him tearfully, as he appeared before her wearing a chain-mail cuirass over his felt tunic, carrying his steel helmet wrapped in its turban, with his scimitar hanging at his side. “From Buda itself,” she added.

  “We shall get there without fail, Mother.” He kissed her hands.

  “And we shall keep your wild Russian safe for your return,” Aimée added.

  Harry grinned at them both. “You will not have to. She is to accompany me.”

  He turned to the archway and pointed out Diniz waiting with a shrouded figure.

  “You are taking Yana on the campaign?” Giovanna demanded.

  “A man must have a woman. This campaign may last for more than a year.”

  “Then take one of your wives.”

  “I prefer Yana. Besides, the Vizier Ibrahim is taking her sister, so they will be company for each other.”

  He felt that his mother’s continuing distrust of the Russian girl was absurd. Yana was merely his concubine, and there was no way she could have any influence over him or his career.

  Of course, if she secretly hated him, as Giovanna seemed to suspect, then she could poison him or stab him as he slept…but that would involve her in the most horrible death William Hawkwood could devise. The last concubine to kill her master had been tied in a sack with four cats and suspended from the upper windows of her late owner’s palace until all five were dead — and Yana would know of that.

  Besides, if she truly hated him, then she must be the best actress in the world.

  *

  Bands played and pennants flew as the Sultan rode out of Constantinople, accompanied by his staff. The army had started moving some hours before, the timariots forming an advanced screen, followed by the bashi-bazouks and the Anatolians, with the elite sipahis and Janissaries now waiting to be led by the Sultan and the Grand Vizier, and Hawk Pasha.

  Harry Hawkwood could scarcely remember the number of times he had watched this army march forth — always to victory. But then it had been commanded by Selim the Grim. He wondered by what name the new Sultan would be remembered to posterity?

  Suleiman made a diminutive, trim, erect figure in his cloth-of-gold tunic, riding a similarly caparisoned black stallion. He smiled all around at his people, and they cheered him. No sultan since the Conqueror had been so well known to them. Bayazid had lived in seclusion, Selim had spent hardly a year of his reign in Constantinople. Suleiman had been among them all the time — this was the first time he was leaving the city in three years. And if the growth of custom and protocol made it less easy for him to go personally amongst his people than did his great-grandfather, he still attended the mosque regularly, surrounded by his pashas and viziers and guards to be sure, but nonetheless visible at a distance.

  His youth also made him popular. At twenty-six he had been the youngest new sultan since Mahomet, and he was still only thirty-two; while his brief reign had been one of unbroken success.

  Behind the pashas came their baggage-trains, and the harems comprising those of their women they had selected to accompany them on the campaign. Few had brought more than one or two favourites. It was noted that the Sultan did not bring a harem at all. Neither did Hawk Pasha.

  ***

  The army had a long way to go, supposing that King Louis did not assume the offensive and risk an invasion of Ottoman territory. From Constantinople the mighty force took the road to Adrianople, so well known to both Hawkwoods, and thence into the mountains — towards Philippopolis and Sofia, Nish and Belgrade.

  This route Anthony Hawkwood had ridden on an embassy for Mahomet the Conqueror, William Hawkwood had ridden the opposite way with his beautiful French bride, and William and his nephew had led this same army to the conquest of Belgrade.

  It took the great army four months to reach Belgrade, but they were four boisterously happy months. The Turks, with their extreme concern for personal cleanliness, were able to avoid the diseases which would have decimated a Christian army over such a long period. They marched through lands which paid tribute, and which were obliged to support the army, and therefore they suffered no privations — however much the Greek, Bulgar and Serb communities starved as they were stripped bare by the passing horde.

  Wherever they camped, they formed a tented city several miles square. Overnight the camps became huge markets, to which hawkers came from miles around to offer their wares to the soldiers. No doubt many of these were spies, but Hawk Pasha cared nothing for that; any information carried away by Hungarian agents could do nothing more than strike terror into Christian hearts.

  Information about the Christian force was entirely lacking, however. Hawk Pasha did not suppose any would be gained before he debouched on to the Hungarian plain.

  The pashas and viziers had each his own tent, varying in elaboration according to his desire for display and the size of the harem he had brought with him. They invited each other to meals and vied in the entertainments they could produce.

  Suleiman often ate with the Hawkwoods and Ibrahim, as if these were his closest associates. None of them were Turks, of course, and this disturbed many of the other pashas. But Suleiman wished to discuss military matters, as this was his first major experience as commander, so he listened raptly to William Hawkwood’s tales of past campaigns, imbibing the older man’s expert knowledge.

  Ibrahim preferred to tell jokes and speak of women. He never mentioned the finances of the empire, although Harry noted that in every village that they passed the Vizier would ride off to confer with the local garrison commander or headman about the efficient collection of taxes, seeing for himself where taxes could properly be increased. And he was as tireless in his pursuit of business during the day as his pursuit of pleasure during evening and night.

  On one unusually warm July evening, when they were within a few marches of Belgrade, and the air was sultry with the promise of rain while thunder growled in the distance and lightning flickered over the mountains, it was Ibrahim who proposed to have the girls dance for them. Harry did not immediately understand which girls he meant, but Ibrahim was conferring with the Sultan.

  “You have not seen these girls, O Padishah. They come from the Russian steppes and are creatures of wondrous beauty. At least, my Roxelana is.” He glanced at Harry. “I have no doubt her sister is just as splendid.”

  “Russians, you say,” Suleiman mused. He too glanced at Harry and could read the disapproval in his face. “But they are your women, Ibrahim. They should not be displayed.”

  “It is of no matter, Padishah. They are but slave girls.”

  Harry no longer regarded Yana as merely a slave, and he looked at his uncle for support. But Hawk Pasha’s eyes were shut; he was finding the march fatiguing, although he refused on that account to slow the Turkish adva
nce.

  “Roxelana is an exquisite dancer,” Ibrahim continued. “How about her sister, young Hawk?”

  “I have never seen her dance,” Harry confessed. It had not occurred to him to ask her to; just looking at her was titillating enough.

  “It is in their blood.” Ibrahim clapped his hands. “Bring the woman Roxelana to me,” he ordered the eunuch, then glanced at Harry.

  Harry sighed, but Suleiman was looking interested. The Sultan had been too long without women’s company.

  “Tell Diniz to have the woman Yana sent to me,” Harry said resignedly.

  “You will not forget these women, Padishah,” Ibrahim promised.

  The two girls were brought in, suitably shrouded in haiks and yashmaks. They had spent considerable time together on the march, often sharing the same pannier on the back of a mule. Harry wondered if it was time they spent swearing eternal hatred to their captors, or merely comparing the sexual attributes of their respective masters…

  Ibrahim had sent for musicians, and two came in to sit on the floor at the far side of the tent. One would blow a pipe; one would beat a tabalcan. A eunuch had blindfolded each of them.

  “Play,” Ibrahim commanded.

  The somewhat plaintive music drifted across the tent, punctuated by the rhythmic thudding of the drum.

  William Hawkwood stretched and opened his eyes.

  “Dance!” Ibrahim said.

  It was a word Roxelana understood. She murmured to her sister, and after a moment’s hesitation herself began to move, slowly and sinuously, in time to the music, twisting her arms, posturing her shoulders, occasionally stamping her feet.

  After a few moments Yana followed her example. Despite himself Harry was fascinated.

  Roxelana was the leader in everything. After she had postured before the four men for perhaps sixty seconds, her haik began to slip. First one shoulder was revealed, then the other. Then the garment dropped lower. For a few seconds more it clung around her hips, exposing her white tunic, then it fell to her ankles and she stepped out of it. The tunic extended down to her thighs, so her legs were now revealed. She had also kicked off her sandals.

  Yana eventually followed her example.

  Now Suleiman was leaning forward with interest, and even Hawk Pasha was sitting up to stare.

  Roxelana’s movements quickened. When she turned, often on one leg, the tunic fluttered open to reveal traces of pale buttock.

  Roxelana now gripped her tunic in both hands as she spun round and round; her hair flew straight out from her head as she exposed herself from the waist down, and then lifted the garment even higher to show her breasts. The tunic covered her face as she danced, and Harry Hawkwood heard the sharp intake of Suleiman’s breath as he gazed at her.

  Finally the tunic floated to the floor. Yana’s soon followed, and for a few seconds the sisters danced naked save for their yashmaks. Then Roxelana stopped, and Yana beside her. Roxelana gazed at Ibrahim. He had certainly tamed her, Harry thought, and she had lived with Turkish custom long enough to await his command before unveiling herself.

  “Show yourself,” Ibrahim commanded with pride.

  A quick movement and the yashmak was gone. She stared at the Sultan now, a woman less of beauty than sheer animal attraction as her nostrils dilated and her breasts and belly heaved.

  “Will you not reveal yours, too, young Hawk?” Suleiman asked softly.

  “Of course, Padishah.”

  Harry waved a hand and Yana removed her yashmak in turn.

  “As you said, Ibrahim, they are rare gems,” the Sultan commented.

  “Does Roxelana please you, Padishah?”

  “I would have to be a eunuch for her not to do so, Vizier.”

  “Then she is yours.”

  Suleiman frowned at him in surprise.

  “She is my gift to you, Padishah. For how may any man campaign without a woman.”

  “And you?”

  “I will find something worth buying in the market at Belgrade, I have no doubt, or amongst the Magyars. Why do you not take them both? I have no doubt young Hawk will be pleased to follow my example.”

  Suleiman looked from Roxelana to Yana, while Harry held his breath. There was no way he could refuse; but the thought of losing Yana was distressing.

  But Suleiman shook his head. “No. I think one Russian at a time is all that I can manage. You are indeed generous, Ibrahim Pasha. I am in your debt.”

  He stood up, a sudden heat rising within him as he looked at the naked beauty before him. “I will retire now. Does she speak Turkish?”

  “Alas no, Padishah, but I have taught her some words of Greek.”

  Suleiman nodded. “Have her washed clean and sent to me.” He disappeared into the inner chamber of the tent.

  *

  “Ibrahim is a very smart fellow,” William Hawkwood observed as they returned to their tents. “I imagine he had some such plan as this thought out. He seeks always the favour of his master, by whatever means.”

  “Do you suppose I should have insisted that he take Yana as well?” Harry asked.

  “I am glad you did not. I would not have you go to such lengths to ingratiate yourself with the Sultan as to play the pimp. Besides, I have heard it said that you are inordinately fond of that little Russian.”

  “I have never met a woman who so pleases me, Uncle.”

  “Well, there is no harm is that,” William said. And he should know, Harry thought, remembering how his uncle had kept his love for Aimée Ferrand alive over eighteen years of separation. “Provided, of course, that pleasure never interferes with your obligations as a man. Our business is fighting the Padishah’s wars, Harry, and nothing else matters. And that is ultimately the surest way to the Sultan’s esteem. We are only a few days from Belgrade, and thus from Hungary. We are on the path to glory, boy, so now is no time to think of women.”

  But Yana had never proved so loving as she was that night. Harry could not decide whether she was grateful for not being sent to the Sultan’s bed, or merely excited by the evening and the presence of other men.

  *

  Belgrade was reached in the third week of August, and the army was immediately ferried across the Danube to assault the frontier fortress of Peterwardein. Now they had passed beyond the boundaries of the Ottoman empire, and were in Hungary.

  Peterwardein fell without much delay, and every man of its garrison was beheaded. Hawk Pasha immediately sent out a screen of timariots, while the army slowly advanced north-westward, in the general direction of Buda.

  Now they had left the high country behind and were marching on a great plain which stretched as far as the eye could see, and on which rustling wheatfields, only half-harvested because of the war, suggested unimaginable fertility. The weather was warm, the breezes balmy… Harry had never known a campaign undertaken in such delightful surroundings.

  They came across villages whose barns were bulging with corn, their byres filled with cattle. They killed all the men and older women, and took the younger women and children as slaves. They ate the cattle and the corn.

  The timariots returned in great excitement. The Hungarian host had now been sighted; occupying a position on the plain known as Mohacs, in a huge bend of the Danube.

  Hawk Pasha rode forward to see for himself. With him went the Sultan, Ibrahim, Harry and several pashas. They stood their horses on a shallow rise and looked out at a sea of waving banners and glinting armour. The Hungarian army was already drawn up in battle array, as if expecting an immediate assault.

  “How many?” Suleiman inquired.

  The distance was too great to attempt counting heads, but William used his years of campaigning experience to estimate the size of each of the contingents facing him. “I doubt there are more than twenty-five thousand, Padishah,” he said.

  “Are these all the men Europe can send against me?”

  “No. But the Franks continue to be disunited. That is their curse and our advantage, Padishah. Every Frank
ish king thinks he alone can command an army, and is jealous of sharing his prerogatives; they will not wait for aid, even if it is on its way. This Louis of Hungary is a young man eager for glory.”

  “He will acquire the glory of the grave,” Suleiman remarked. “Tell me what you deduce from his dispositions, Hawk Pasha.”

  “The King means to fight a defensive battle, Padishah.” William pointed from place to place as he spoke. “You will see that his infantry are drawn up in three phalanxes; each must be about four thousand men.”

  “Are they all Hungarians?”

  William studied them a few minutes longer. “Some are Germans, I would say, from their helmets. Many have arquebuses. The rest have pikes.”

  “He has squadrons of cavalry between each of the infantry battles,” Ibrahim observed.

  “That is so. Why, I cannot imagine. They will do him no good there. But you will see, Padishah, that the main body of his cavalry is assembled behind the infantry, and that cavalry numbers at least half of his entire host. And you will also see that his cannon, it looks like a score of guns, are placed in front of his centre. He is thus established in a position which it will be hazardous to attack frontally without incurring severe casualties. You will further see that the Hungarian left flank rests on that marshy area where the Danube has broken its bank. Any troops advancing through that morass would have a hard time of it.”

  “But his right flank is exposed,” Suleiman said.

  “Indeed it is, Padishah. It is in the air. But the King has surely intended this.”

  “Why?”

  “It will be his understanding that, as we cannot outflank him on his left, and to attack frontally will be too costly, in his estimation, we must outflank his right. Thus he is in possession, he assumes, of our strategy. He will be seeking to launch his cavalry on us when we are committed to that manoeuvre.”

  “We outnumber him four to one,” Ibrahim said contemptuously, “and with the same ratio in cavalry. Do we have anything to fear?”