Barbara found she was panting as this strange woman put into words all the nameless fears which haunted her midnight hours. But this woman? Her mother-in-law?
“What we have discussed here today must never be revealed.” Felicity said. “Ayesha is a dear sweet woman, but to her Suleiman is almost a god, and she will hear nothing against him. Equally must we never reveal our private conversations to my son. He was educated to hold the same belief. Yet we must use our combined efforts to wean him away from this unholy purpose he now fulfils.”
“To what end, my lady?”
“We must persuade him to flee Turkey — to take service with the Christians. Would not your Doge be pleased to have the aid of so famous a sailor?”
Barbara could think of nothing to reply to that. So far as she could guess, everyone in Venice regarded the name of Hawk with the same fear and loathing as that of Dragut or Khair-ed-din. Their most likely reaction to Anthony’s arrival in their midst would be to garrotte him.
“I see you agree with me,” Felicity said, and listened to the sound of Ayesha’s feet as the Arab woman returned. “We will speak of it again later, when we can be private.”
*
The Turkish fleet spread wide across the Aegean Sea. It was the proudest sight Anthony had ever beheld, perhaps the proudest moment of his life.
The fleet formed three vast squadrons of eighty galleys each. The centre squadron was commanded by Ali Monizindade Pasha, the left wing by Uluch Ali Pasha — he was actually Dey of Algiers, but preferred to seek glory under the Sultan — the right by Pertau Pasha. As there was a light northerly breeze, the sails were set, but purely to provide auxiliary power. The oars dipped rhythmically into the sea, and the blades sparkled as they were recovered for the next stroke. Throughout the fleet, throughout the day, the steady beat of the drums reverberated, drowning even the hiss of water away from the huge, shining, gilded beaks.
On each foredeck two cannon were mounted, the gunners standing to attention beside them.
From each masthead floated the pennants of the commanders, and, from the flagships, the pennants of the admirals; Ali Pasha’s masthead also flew the pennant of the Sultan himself.
It was a magnificent array of ships and men, the most powerful force on earth.
*
“If only we had someone to fight.” Ali Monizindade smiled.
If was evening, and the ships were anchored in the vast bay on the south side of the island of Santorini. This same bay had been created by an earthquake many centuries before — indeed, there were scholars who said it was the Santorini earthquake that had put the legend of the lost city of Atlantis into the mind of Plato the Greek. Not that there was any evidence of a lost city beneath these crystal clear waters.
The admirals drank sherbet as they waited to dine with their commander-in-chief, and waited, too, to hear what he would say.
“The Spaniards will come again, one day,” Uluch Ali commented casually.
“I doubt it,” Ali Monizindade objected. “Their minds have been turning more and more to the Atlantic.”
“Then perhaps we should seek them out in the ocean,” Anthony Hawkwood suggested.
It had been a dream of his father, he knew: Dragut had told him so. Indeed, it had been on just such an expedition into the Atlantic that his father had found and seized his mother. But since Harry Hawkwood’s death the Turks had seldom ventured through the Straits of Gibraltar.
“The Mediterranean is our sea,” Dragut had declared.
“And if this new King of Spain was to launch an expedition, he would have to encounter our friend Dragut first,” Ali Monizindade pointed out.
“Suppose he did send his galleons east towards us?” Pertau demanded.
“Bah. They would be a waste of time in these waters. They need strong winds to manoeuvre. We do not campaign in the storm season. In the settled season our galleys would move round them and shoot them to pieces without their being able to aim a shot in reply.”
“What of these ships they call galleasses?” Hawkwood asked. “They have both sails and oars, and are massive floating fortresses.”
“Have you ever seen one of these vessels, Hawk Pasha?”
Anthony nodded. “At a distance. But Dragut decided not to close with her on that occasion, and we rowed away.”
“Did she not follow?”
“We were too fast for her.”
Ali Monizindade gave a shout of laughter, and slapped his thigh. “There you have the answer. A ship like the galleass is neither galley nor galleon, neither fish nor fowl. She may well be a floating fortress…but we do not have to engage a fortress unless we wish to. No, no, Hawk Pasha. As you well know, superiority at sea depends upon manoeuvrability. Here in the Mediterranean it is the galley which conveys that superiority, and we possess the largest fleet of galleys in the world.” He winked. “As well as the best commanders.”
“And suppose Philip of Spain builds a fleet of galleys greater than ours?” Uluch Ali inquired.
Ali Monizindade stroked his beard. “Are you suggesting that Philip is a greater sovereign than our Padishah?”
“By no means,” Uluch Ali protested. “Yet is he a mighty monarch.”
“If he builds galleys, why, so will we,” Monizindade told him.
“We may possess the greatest galley fleet in the world,” Hawkwood broke in, warming to the argument. “But suppose that the fleets of Spain, of the Pope, of Genoa, and of Venice were all to combine. Would they not outnumber us?”
Ali Monizindade gave another shout of laughter. “I doubt it. And in any event, suppose, Hawk Pasha that the sun and the moon were to collide, would not such an occurrence bring disaster to the earth? Spain and the Papacy combine? Did they ever combine against Khair-ed-din and your father? Or against Dragut and yourself? They hate each other too much for that. As for Genoa and Venice, they are far older enemies than Ottoman and infidel. What you suggest is an impossibility of human nature.” Then he grew serious. “I may regret this as much as you. It is my dearest wish to lead the Padishah’s fleet into battle against the Christians. That will never happen. But yet we will have to campaign before too long, my friends. And I will tell you against whom: our own kith and kin.”
The vice-admirals tugged at their beards. They too had heard the rumours that Suleiman and his younger son, Prince Bayazid, had quarrelled, and that Bayazid had taken himself off to the mountains of Anatolia. He had not yet raised the standard of revolt, but it could not be doubted that the Sultan was displeased.
“Are not both the princes sons of the Russian woman?” Uluch Ali asked.
“Indeed,” Ali Monizindade agreed. “More to the point, is not Bayazid a far better man than Selim?” He laid his finger on his lips. “I have spoken treason. Do not misunderstand me. Until the Padishah tells me otherwise, Selim is my future master, and I will serve him to the last breath in my body — even if he is called ‘the Sot’. But I can regret that the better man must know the bowstring.” He laid his hand on Anthony’s shoulder — a gesture of great friendship, and indeed intimacy, from a Muslim. “A man can only do his duty and keep his thoughts to himself. Remember this.”
***
It was a sobering thought, to find himself so suddenly in the very centre of the political intrigue that ever smouldered in the heart of the Ottoman world. Anthony had heard something of it, even in Algiers. His mother Felicity had always told him whatever she knew — and Dragut had told him anything the admiral had felt he should know. His own father had fallen a victim to such intrigue, as had his great-grandfather. That William Hawkwood, the founder of the fortunes of the family, had survived was a tribute to his special qualities.
Anthony realised his own qualities must be no less. Do one’s duty, and keep one’s thoughts to oneself. Even if it entailed serving a drunkard. Because there could be no doubt that Prince Selim drank. Most of the Ottomans did. But, as wine was forbidden by the Koran, their drinking was confined to their private apartments, and practised in moderatio
n. The Prince apparently could not get enough wine for his satisfaction. He often drank openly, and he frequently appeared in public the worse for alcohol.
That such a man would one day be Sultan was a worrying thought, yet it would happen unless Suleiman came to his senses in time.
That Bayazid, a man in whom many could see the martial virtues of his grandfather Selim, should perish because he was unable to tolerate the inadequacies of his elder brother was a tragedy.
But only duty counted. Where the Padishah pointed, Anthony knew he must go. Dragut had always insisted on that point.
Anthony Hawkwood loved the sea and the ships, he loved the feeling of power beneath his fleet, and above his head…but at this moment, at least, he loved the thought of returning to Galata and the Hawk Palace even more. To the arms of his Venetian bride. He had never suspected that a woman could be so compelling, so demanding, and so satisfying all at once.
Almost, he could understand the hold that Roxelana had exerted over the Sultan. And Roxelana had surely lacked Barbara’s beauty.
His heart pounded as he strode up the steps to the front portico, to be greeted by his bowing servants. Hawk Pasha, home from three months at sea.
He smiled at them, and then at his mother, waiting at the foot of the inner staircase, Ayesha as always at her side.
“Hawk Pasha!” She saluted him. “Welcome home.”
He embraced her, and then Ayesha, but his eyes were roaming the stairs behind them.
“Barbara is well?”
“Never better. She awaits you in your apartment.”
Felicity’s eyes, which much of the time suggested a pool of shallow disinterest in life, could occasionally take on unfathomable depths. They were deeper than Hawkwood had ever before seen them.
But her secret, whatever it was, could wait. Anthony took the stairs three at a time. The Venetian maids bowed and simpered and scurried away before him. He opened the bedroom door, and gazed at his wife.
Barbara had been standing by the window, looking down the hill at the harbour. Undoubtedly she had overlooked his approach. But she turned at the sound of his footsteps, and now gave a shallow curtsy.
“My lord!”
He raised her up. “It is the duty of a wife to greet her husband before all others,” he said, gently reminding her of her situation.
“I know, my lord, and I pray for your forgiveness. I but wished to see you alone.”
“To tell me a secret, no doubt.”
He kissed her nose and her eyes, then her mouth, taking her into his arms. She was quite irresistible.
Her breath rushed against his.
“A secret, my lord. Yes, I have a secret.”
He held her away from him, began unlacing her bodice. Three months had been too long.
“Tell me this secret.”
Barbara inhaled, deeply. “I am to have a child.”
His hands fell away. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. So is your mother.”
He held her shoulders, guided her to the divan, sat there beside her. The half-unlaced bodice flopped open to reveal her marvellous white breasts. She finished the unlacing herself.
“Can I bed you?” he asked.
She laughed. “Of course you may, if you wish to. It will harm neither me nor the babe.”
“Oh, my darling girl!”
They rolled together on the cushions, shedding their clothing as it became necessary.
“Three months!” he shouted. “Three months.”
Then, his passion spent, he lay still, and gazed at the richly decorated ceiling.
“A new Hawk,” he said.
“Supposing he is a boy,” Barbara murmured lazily from the crook of his shoulder. And then sat up. “Supposing he is a boy, what will you name him?”
“Why, I think John would be best. It is time we had another John in our family.”
“Giovanni,” she said. “Why, yes, I like that. And I am greatly relieved.”
“Why?”
“I had supposed you would wish to give him a Turkish name.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well…” She looked away from him. “Will he not be brought up as a Turk?”
Anthony held her arm and pulled her back down to him. “My mother has been speaking with you.”
“Should we not speak with each other — since she is my mother now as well?”
“Indeed you should. But there are certain subjects which interest my mother more than others. Yes, our son will be brought up as a Turk, to serve the Padishah. He will be the sixth Hawk Pasha here. Will you not be proud of him?”
Barbara hesitated for some seconds, then she sat up again, and turned her knees to face him. He could tell her heart was pounding from the colour in her cheeks, and she was having trouble with her breathing.
“I would be prouder were he to serve a Christian monarch,” she said. And then she caught her breath entirely, at her temerity.
Anthony grinned at her, and reached up to ruffle her magnificent hair. “Do not be afraid of me, Barbara. Never be afraid of me. I respect your opinions, and will always do so. But you must allow me to know what is best for our family. Our son will serve the greatest monarch on earth, as do I. No man can aspire higher than that.”
“Then you care nothing for the hereafter?”
“It is our lives on earth that matter, my darling. There is a God. But the Muslims believe in Him equally with ourselves. He judges us by our deeds, not by our beliefs.”
“That is heathen thinking,” she protested. “It is faith that matters, not deeds.”
He drew her down to be kissed. “Let us agree to differ,” he said. “At least, then, you may be as heathen as you choose in my arms, without fear of condemnation.”
Her body was stiff
“I had not suspected you to be a blasphemer.”
“Barbara,” he said quietly, “I will not discuss this matter further with you. We would lose our tempers. Do you wish that?”
She gazed at him for several seconds, then lay back beside him. “No,” she said. “I do not wish that to happen.”
But she had fired the opening shots in what she was determined would be her private war. That was sufficient for today.
*
To dine privately with the Sultan was the greatest honour that could befall an Ottoman subject.
Often they were a threesome, as the Sultan enjoyed entertaining his favourite poet, Baki — the nickname given to Mahmud Abdulbaki. Ten years older than Hawkwood, Baki was the son of a muezzin and had been trained for the church, but only the year before Anthony’s return to Istanbul he had written a qasidah or ode, and submitted it to Suleiman. The ageing Sultan had been so delighted he had immediately given the young man a place at court — and in his intimate circle, it was his delight to surround himself with youth of talent and vigour.
But this night Suleiman and Anthony were alone.
“Your father and I often dined like this,” Suleiman mused. “Many years ago. When we were young men.” He was silent for a while as he brooded on what might have been — and what had been. Then he raised his head. “We would discuss great affairs. As I would discuss great affairs with you, Hawk Pasha.”
Anthony swallowed a sweetmeat, and braced himself, for he knew not what. Previously throughout the meal the talk had been about light nothings, court gossip, campaigns by sea and land.
“But first,” Suleiman said, “I am to congratulate you?”
“You have heard of my fortune, O Padishah?”
It never ceased to amaze Anthony how, although what went on in a man’s harem was supposed to be private to him alone, it was invariably known to the entire city — if it was worth knowing. The eunuchs saw to that.
Suleiman gave one of his grim smiles. “I endeavour to hear everything of importance in my realm, Hawk Pasha. You are to have a son to perpetuate your name and your fame.”
Anthony bowed his head. “If it is a boy, O Padishah.”
“If it is not, why then, you will seek another. And if your wife fails you, why, you will seek another there, too. Does the Venetian still please you?”
“In every way, O Padishah.”
“Then are you blessed. I envy you. And yet…you are about to father a son. Have you any concept of the difficulties that may lie ahead?”
“I have heard that some fathers quarrel with their sons, O Padishah,” Anthony said cautiously.
“Ha,” Suleiman commented, “I have had many sons. Most of them by concubines too lowly to be considered. Only three were by the women I called my wives. One proved false.” Another brood. “Or he was proved false by others. I know now that he was innocent of any plots against me, but I cannot recall him. So now I have but two. And they are preparing to fight one another — in the expectation that I am about to die.”
Anthony had no idea what to say as the Sultan paused again. Certainly Suleiman looked far older than the sixty-four years of his age.
“This cannot be,” Suleiman said. “It would be a catastrophe even now. Were I to die and the empire to split into civil war, it would mean the end of the Ottomans. This I must prevent…this I will prevent.” He looked at Anthony. “The Prince Selim is my eldest surviving son. He is my heir. Will you serve him as loyally as you serve me?”
“I will, O Padishah,” Anthony answered without hesitation — because he had known that at some stage such a question had to be asked. How he wished he could persuade the Sultan otherwise, but he dared not.
“Yes,” Suleiman said. “I had no doubt of it. But this means that my younger son must be destroyed. Far better that I do it now, quickly and cleanly, than leave it for Selim after my death. It is a father’s duty to preserve his eldest son. It is a Sultan’s duty to preserve his people from the horrors of civil war. I am telling you these things, Hawk Pasha, because, like your father and your illustrious ancestors, you are loyal to the Sultanate and to nothing else. This I treasure. Ali Monizindade Pasha is a friend of Prince Bayazid’s. I do not doubt his loyalty, yet I would prefer not to have to put that to the test. You understand that I am speaking in the closest confidence.”
“I understand, O Padishah,” Anthony said.
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