She and Ayesha had cowered in a palm grove, uncertain what to do next — and there they had been found. They had gazed at the men with terrified eyes, seeking the bowstrings which would mean the end of their lives, and of Anthony’s too.
But the men who had found them were not assassins. They had been sent by Dragut Pasha, to bring them to safety.
Dragut had been as shocked as anyone when he had learned of Hawk Pasha’s death. That the assassins had carried the Sultan’s warrant had merely bewildered him, for he knew that Suleiman had no more faithful servant than this English renegade.
It was not part of Dragut’s nature to rebel, no more than it had been in Harry Hawkwood’s nature. So, accepting the deed as the Sultan’s will, he had fêted the assassins and sent then on their way.
But, by then, he had already found Harry Hawkwood’s wife and son. He had taken them into his own house, and raised the boy as his own. Aimée Ferrand had screamed for vengeance as she died, but that was not in Dragut’s thinking. The Padishah had issued an instruction, that was sufficient… The Padishah must have had reasons over and above any ordinary man’s knowledge.
But that did not mean he, Dragut, could not love his dead friend’s son, or raise him to be a naval commander — perhaps a successor to himself.
Felicity had been aghast at his pliancy but she had had no option. Dragut had welcomed her, and seen that she was neither molested nor sold, for all that she was about the most beautiful woman in Tunis, but he would not permit her to talk of leaving.
“The Hawks have always served the Padishah,” he explained patiently. “There have been Hawks executed before, yet their sons became pashas. Somehow, I do not know how, your husband incurred the enmity of the Sultan Valideh.”
For no one doubted that Roxelana was the true Sultan Valideh, even if Gulbehar still lived, and Prince Mustafa was still heir to the divan; it was well known that the Sultan spent more time with Prince Selim, his son by Roxelana, and that he valued her daughter just as highly.
“But the Sultan Valideh may well pass away,” Dragut had insisted. “Or she may lose favour — who can tell? And when that happens, lady, your son will be restored to favour.”
The whole idea had revolted Felicity, however much she had had to accept it. And it had grown more obnoxious as the years passed, and news from Constantinople told only of the Sultan Valideh’s increasing power. In time Roxelana had married her daughter to a high official, Rustem, who was promptly made Grand Vizier. Then had come her crowning stroke; only three years ago, word had reached Algiers that Prince Mustafa had been executed for treason, by order of the Sultan. So Gulbehar had become no more than an elderly lady of the harem, and Roxelana was now Sultan Valideh in fact as well as by general acceptance. With her son as heir to the divan, and her son-in-law Grand Vizier, she all but ruled the Ottoman Empire.
And my son, Felicity thought, fights for her — she who killed his father!
But now, at least, he had once more returned alive.
*
She listened for his footsteps, and realised that he was not alone.
Since Harry’s murder, she found any deviation from the norm alarming, and so she stood up, heart pounding, to watch the two men striding towards her.
Dragut Pasha was a tall man, with a hatchet face and a long black moustache which drooped to either side of his thin lips. He was, by repute, a harsh and cruel man to his enemies, or to any who would oppose him. He had never been either harsh or cruel to Harry Hawkwood’s widow, save in his refusal to let her leave Algiers and take her son.
But Dragut was also a successful man. If he lacked the flamboyance of Khair-ed-din, he had yet more solid triumphs to his credit. And he enjoyed his success, and his fame. His clothes were finest silk, his sword hilt encrusted with gold and precious stones. He walked as should a man who had never been defeated in twenty years.
But Felicity had eyes only for the young man at his side. Tall as Dragut was, Anthony Hawkwood towered above him. Six feet four inches tall, with shoulders to match, glowing red hair and beard, sapphire-like eyes — and the immense confidence that only perfect health combined with a certainty of one’s own abilities can bring.
Because she loved him to the point of jealousy, and feared to lose him to another woman, she had refused to allow him to marry, for all that he was now twenty years old. Instead he had been given two concubines, and these had so far been sufficient. Yet, of course he would have to marry, and soon. But a Turkish wife would strengthen the ties binding him to the Ottoman, and weaken those binding him to her. And Felicity was determined to put off that evil day to the last possible moment.
“Dragut Pasha!” She bowed her head to the elder man, then turned. “My son!”
“Mother!” Anthony embraced her. “We have the most tremendous news.”
“You have had a successful voyage.”
Dragut Pasha smiled. “Indeed, lady. Our holds are filled. But that is not what brings me to you. There is news from Istanbul.”
For so had Suleiman decreed that the city of Constantinople should be renamed, the shorter name being a corruption of the longer, which did not come easily off a Turkish tongue.
Felicity caught her breath. “What news?” As far as she was concerned, Istanbul, Constantinople, call it what they wished, was the deepest pit of hell.
“You tell her, boy,” Dragut prompted.
“It was a sea-captain we met, from Venice, Mother,” Anthony explained. “He told us, Mother…Roxelana is dead.”
Felicity frowned at him. “A Venetian sea-captain told you this?”
“He was just out of Istanbul, lady,” Dragut said. “It is all the news there.”
“Well…” Felicity slumped down. “If that is true, it is at least a cloud lifted from over our heads.”
“It is more than that, lady,” Dragut said.
Felicity raised her head to gaze at him.
“You will know that I have visited Istanbul regularly,” Dragut continued, “and have had audiences with the Sultan and his viziers. The Padishah became aware some time ago of how the Russian woman had bedevilled him. He would not put her away, because she was the mother of Prince Selim, and, some say, because even to the end she retained some strange hold over him. Yet he does regret many deeds she inveigled him into. He now sorely regrets the execution of Ibrahim, and of his son Mustafa. And it is said, too, that he regrets the execution of Hawk Pasha.”
“Rumours,” Felicity said sadly.
“Things I have heard from the Porte itself, lady,” Dragut insisted. “And it is at least true that he has sent away Rustem, and elevated Mahomet Sokullu to be Grand Vizier in his stead.”
“How can those things concern us now?” Felicity asked. “Hawk Pasha is dead, and not even the Sultan can bring him back to life.”
“But there can be another Hawk Pasha, lady,” Dragut argued. “For a hundred years there has been a Hawk Pasha. There should be one again.”
Felicity looked at her son.
“The great Pasha is right, Mother,” Anthony said. “You have told me of the riches our family once had, and the palace in Istanbul. Why should I not reclaim these things, now that the witch is dead?”
“Because you do not know if these rumours are true,” Felicity cried. “To go to Istanbul, unbidden by the Sultan, would be to extend your neck for the string to be tied around it.”
Anthony looked at Dragut for support.
“That is certainly possible, lady,” Dragut agreed. “But the risk is no greater than that of being struck by a shot when we engage in battle. And the prize to be gained is far greater.”
“The greatest prize of all, my lord Pasha, would be for my son and I to be allowed to leave this place, and find our way back to England and my family. Why will you not allow this?”
“Because it is the Hawk Pasha’s place to fight for the Sultan,” Dragut said patiently. “This is his destiny, revealed both by kismet and by his ancestors.”
Felicity sighed
. She and Dragut had debated this matter too often in the past.
“Besides,” Dragut said, “have you ever asked your son if he wishes to return to England?”
Felicity gazed at Anthony. No, she thought. I have never asked my son, because you have bewitched him with the glory of fighting beneath your banner and with the tales of his father’s prowess. You have turned him into a heathen pirate. And now you would send him to his death. But if he wishes to go, then is he lost to me whether he is executed or not. The favour of the Sultan would be the strongest of all bonds.
“Anthony, do you wish to return to Istanbul?” she asked.
“Yes, Mother. I wish to face the Padishah and know my fate.”
Felicity looked at Dragut.
“Young Hawk’s galley will leave tomorrow,” he said. “I myself will accompany him.”
“Then I also will return to Istanbul,” Felicity sighed. If her son was going to die, she wished to be at his side. And this time she would not run away.
*
Anthony Hawkwood stood in the prow of his galley as it nosed its way from Marmara into the Bosphorus. He had stood there much of the previous night, eagerly awaiting his first glimpse of that city of which he had heard so much, for so long.
He had been conceived in this place, but had never seen it. Now he was returning to reclaim his destiny. His father had been executed by order of the Sultan, but this was a fate which overhung every pasha who might fall under suspicion. Thus equally Anthony did not doubt that he would be able to make his way with even greater success than Harry Hawkwood had ever done. Besides, he could conceive of no other way of life than captaining a galley in the service of the Sultan to make war upon his enemies. And one day he hoped to command a fleet.
Ayesha stood beside him. She was even more excited than he, because she too had never seen Istanbul. And, even more than he, perhaps, she knew that here was his destiny.
Which was also her destiny.
For she had nursed him ever since he could remember, and in many ways she was a second mother to him.
Now they gazed together at the great walls looming out of the morning mist, at the towers and domes beyond, and they gasped in wonder. To the already existing marvels of Constantinople, the mosque that had once been St Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, the Mosque of Mahomet II and the Mosque of Selim, had been added the Mosque of Suleiman, the greatest of them all.
“It is a creation of Sinan the architect,” Dragut told them, joining them in the bow. “Much of the beauty that is Istanbul was created by that one man.”
By now they could see the Golden Horn.
“When the infidels held this city,” Dragut said, “they maintained a boom made of iron chain across the harbour, to keep their enemies out. Now there is no need of a boom.”
For the Black Sea had become a Turkish lake.
The galley swept into the curving harbour, the oars were shipped, and the ship glided alongside one of the many quays. Dragut Pasha’s pennant had been recognised, and a space hastily made for him, while the harbour captain himself hurried forward to greet the famous admiral.
*
Anthony gazed up the hill of Galata towards the Hawk Palace.
“Your great-grandfather built that house,” Felicity told him. “I have lived in it only briefly, but it was a wonderful place.”
“You will live there again, Mother,” Anthony promised. “And it will again be a wonderful place.”
“We must make haste,” Dragut told him. “Word of your return will be spreading. It were best we reached the Seraglio before rumour. Ayesha, do you escort the Lady Felicity to seek accommodation in Galata until our return.”
“And if you do not return?” Felicity asked.
Dragut gave a snort of laughter, then handed her a bag of gold coins. “Then betake yourself to England, lady. Because we shall be dead.”
*
Dragut hurried Anthony off before Felicity could protest further. They caught the ferry to the Watergate on the city side of the Golden Horn, and pressed into the thronged streets. Men and women glanced at them, and then away again. Dragut was well known, but it was seldom he walked the streets virtually alone, and without the pomp surrounding his rank.
But was he alone? Or was that not a ghost striding beside him? It was not a question anyone was prepared to ask.
As Dragut and Hawkwood passed through the white gate into old Byzantium Anthony gazed in wonder at the marvellous architecture with which he was surrounded, at the space and air, so different to the crowded city behind them, and then at the Seraglio itself, the most splendid building he had ever seen.
“Follow me in all things,” Dragut warned, as they approached the Porte.
Anthony nodded.
“Dragut Pasha, seeking an audience with the Padishah,” Dragut told the captain of the guard. “You will inform the Grand Vizier of my presence.”
He was one of the very few men in the entire Ottoman empire who could make that bold request, as opposed to merely taking his place outside in the yard and hoping to be noticed.
The captain saluted, and sent one of his men scurrying into the interior of the palace. He himself looked Anthony up and down.
“Your servant will wait here, great Pasha,” he said.
“He is not a servant,” Dragut told him. “And we will both speak with the Padishah.”
This time the captain hesitated, then he turned and led them through the inner court, which was crowded with men speaking together. Everyone turned to stare at the admiral and his companion, then their chatter was renewed with increased excitement.
At the inner doorway a man waited. Though not very old, he was richly dressed, and wore the high square turban of the Grand Vizier. This was the man who had replaced Rustem when that scoundrel’s peculations had become known after the death of Roxelana. Being the Sultan’s son-in-law, Rustem had not been executed — but he had been exiled to his country estate, far from Istanbul.
Dragut bowed, “My lord Sokullu.”
“Dragut Pasha. Surely it is some great event that brings you so privily to Istanbul?” remarked the Grand Vizier.
“This is a private visit, my lord Vizier. I have a protégé to introduce to the Padishah.”
Sokullu looked more closely at Anthony Hawkwood. “By the beard of the Prophet,” he muttered, seizing his own beard.
As Anthony gazed at strong features, spoiled by a crafty expression in the eyes and the cynical twist of the lips, he recalled that Mahomet Sokullu, kidnapped as a child from Christian parents and raised in the Janissary school, had enjoyed a distinguished career which included the command of the Turkish eastern fleet. But since he had only recently been elevated to be second man in the empire, no doubt this Vizier did not yet feel his position secure. More certainly, he knew he would one day have to deal with Roxelana’s son Selim, who was now heir to the divan.
Sokullu examined Hawkwood with no less interest, then said, “I knew your father, young Hawk.”
Anthony bowed, wondering if Sokullu had had any part to play in the assassination. But he was not here for revenge.
“You shall have your audience,” Sokullu went on. “I think the Padishah will be interested to speak with you.”
Dragut and Hawkwood were ushered into the centre court, where there was yet another throng of men milling about and gossiping, many of them clutching rolls of parchment which they no doubt hoped to be able to present to the Sultan himself.
There were even men in the doublet and hose of Western Europe, speaking in a variety of tongues. But not in English, which Anthony had been taught by his mother.
Minutes after Sokullu had left them, a servant emerged from the Porte and hurried into the throng towards them. All heads turned expectantly, and there were frowns of dismay and anger when the two newest arrivals were singled out and led towards the waiting Vizier.
Sokullu bowed. “The Padishah is pleased to receive you in audience, young Hawk.”
Anthony glanced at
Dragut, who gave him a grin.
“Be yourself, boy. That is all a man can ever be.”
As they entered the Porte, they could see the legendary divan itself, but it was empty. Moving in front of them, Sokullu now took his seat nearby. To either side were seated other viziers — and other pashas, too, clad in steel cuirasses inlaid with gold and silver, around which their silk robes flowed in a variety of brilliant colours to match the jewels encrusting their helmets and sword hilts. For was not this the richest civilisation in the world?
“Welcome to Istanbul, my lord Admiral,” Sokullu began formally. “And to you also, young Hawk.”
Dragut bowed, and Anthony followed his example, all the while wondering where the Sultan himself was. Then he noticed the screen, set well back on the left of the room — and he knew. His heart pounded.
“I understand you have brought the young Hawk here to present him to the Padishah,” Sokullu continued. “Tell me what you seek from our master, young Hawk.”
Anthony gave Dragut another quick glance, and received another nod.
“I seek service worthy of my name and lineage, my lord Vizier,” he said. “I am the son of Hawk Pasha.”
“This is well known, and your sentiments do you credit.” Sokullu glanced at the screen.
“I will speak with young Hawk,” the voice of Suleiman was finally heard.
At the sound of the quiet voice, every head at once bowed. Then could be heard the rustle of silk and the soft closing of a door.
“Now is your future determined, should you please the Padishah, young Hawk,” Sokullu whispered. “Go with this servant.”
A eunuch had appeared at the side of the divan. Anthony glanced at his foster-father, and again Dragut nodded. Anthony followed the eunuch along a carpeted corridor, redolent with sweet scents, and into an inner chamber hung with the richest drapes he had ever seen. There the Sultan was seated upon a divan set against the wall, closely screened to either side.
The eunuch held out his hand, and Anthony hesitated, uncertain of the fellow’s meaning. Then the eunuch pointed to his belt, and Anthony understood. He unbuckled the scimitar which hung at his side, and handed it over. Still the eunuch waited, until Anthony had also given him his poignard. The servant prostrated himself briefly before the divan, then rose to leave the room, carrying Hawkwood’s weapons.
Ottoman Page 52