“Then go and fetch your stick,” she said, “for it needs to be said. They will make you commit worse crimes than that. And what will you do when the Sultan commands you to take your fleet against Venice?”
“That will never happen. Suleiman does not make war against his allies. It is up to Venice never to make war upon us.”
“Anthony, my lord…” she held his hands. “Can you swear to me that you will never war on my people?” She was clearly truly concerned.
“Except in justifiable defence of the Ottoman realm, I will willingly swear to that,” he told her.
“You would defy the Sultan?”
He smiled, and kissed her. “I will not have to. Suleiman would never require such a thing of me. He is not merely a great king, but a great man. I may regret what had to be done to Prince Bayazid, but the Sultan was right — the death of the Prince saved the empire from civil war. And that was an act of greatness.”
He kissed her again. “Yes, I swear to you, I will never take part in a war of aggression against Venice.”
She seemed content with that.
***
Yet, as the man who had executed Prince Bayazid, his reward was not only the increased favour of Suleiman himself, but the friendship of Selim.
There was much to dislike in that young man. In his indolence, his voluptuousness — he kept a harem of young boys as well as his concubines — and above all his weakness for alcohol, he was a sorry descendant of Mahomet the Conqueror, Selim the Grim, and indeed Suleiman himself. Indeed, there were not lacking those who whispered that perhaps Roxelana had not been above cuckolding the Sultan, whatever the risk she ran of an unspeakable death.
Hawkwood could not agree with them. He knew no subject who had ever laid eyes on the famous Russian concubine, but all the rumours pointed to a woman who pursued her ambitions with singular determination, and her ambitions had been to manipulate the Sultan so that her own offspring would come to dominate the empire. She would never have risked adultery.
But there were other sure signs that Selim was most certainly an Ottoman. He was highly intelligent and highly educated; when sober he could be a delightful companion. He also, from time to time, revealed that streak of ruthless cruelty which had made this family the most feared in history.
And, as Mahomet Sokullu never tired of reminding Anthony, the Prince was their future master.
Selim’s close friend, Joseph Nasi, was even more interesting, and to Anthony seemed far more dangerous for the future, either personal or public. Now in his early forties, Nasi came from a wealthy Spanish family, and had learned the intricacies of banking and international commerce and finance in Antwerp while working for his cousins, the Mendes.
At that time he had been a Marrano — that is, a Spanish Christianised Jew — and had been baptised under the name of Juan Miguez. His determination to alleviate the sufferings of the Spanish Jews, when Philip II began to persecute them, had led to his expulsion as well, whereupon he had reverted entirely to Jewry, married his cousin Reyna, and fled to Istanbul.
Here his ambition and his undoubted talent had quickly earned him Suleiman’s favour. The Sultan had long wished to find a replacement for the financial expertise of Ibrahim which he had so carelessly cast away, and here to hand was the man he sought. Suleiman had more sense than to attempt to make a non-Muslim Grand Vizier, but Nasi had been placed at Sokullu’s right hand, and been rewarded with those vast estates in the Tiberias region of Palestine where he was slowly accumulating a colony of Jewish refugees from various European persecutions.
In all of these achievements he was to be envied and admired, in fostering the continued prosperity of the Ottoman Empire. What was disturbing was his close friendship for Selim, which many saw as an act of politics rather than the result of any true regard. For Nasi’s own strictly temperate personal life was such as to make him naturally contemptuous of such a man as the Prince.
Hawkwood had no doubt at all that, like Sokullu, Nasi was looking ahead to Selim’s sultanate. That he would then use this friendship to forward his own plans seemed obvious even to Sokullu. What did not seem apparent to the Vizier, however, was that Nasi might already be planning to replace him. It was amazing how every Grand Vizier apparently considered himself essential, up to the moment the bowstring was wrapped round his neck. But that was Sokullu’s problem.
What made Nasi especially interesting to Hawkwood was his profound knowledge of the West, and in particular of Spain.
“I think King Philip will wish to make war upon the Ottomans,” he would contend. “But it will not happen until he has eliminated all religious dissension within his own domains: I am thinking of Holland in the main. Now, England sits on the sea-route from Spain to Holland, so much will depend on the attitude of the Queen of England. She is a determined Protestant, and has rejected all of Philip’s overtures, thus far. But, of course, should Philip choose to destroy England, it will be a simple matter. The English have no army, and no navy.” He glanced at Hawkwood. “Does that concern you?”
“I am a Turk, not an Englishman,” Anthony reminded him.
“You have more English than Turkish blood in your veins,” Nasi argued. “In fact, there is no Turkish blood in your veins at all, merely English, French, Italian and Greek.”
“A man is what he is,” Anthony insisted, “not what his ancestors were.”
He believed what he said, because he could conceive of no other existence for himself which would allow him so much prosperity, and so much happiness.
Following Bayazid’s execution, there were several years of peace within the Ottoman realm. The fleet regularly exercised in the Aegean and Ionian Seas, sometimes observed but never challenged by Papal or Genoese galleys. The admirals were able to spend much of their time at home, and for all her uncertainty at the role into which he had let himself be constrained, Barbara loved him too much to nag. William Hawkwood was born in 1562, and young Henry in 1563.
“Now you must practise contraception,” Anthony advised her.
“Do you not wish for more sons?”
“Three is enough.”
“Well, then…a daughter? I should like to have a daughter.”
“And I should not like to have you grow old before your time. You are twenty-one years old. I wish you to remain as you are for ever.”
She smiled, and kissed him. “And your wish is my command, my lord. I shall see what can be done. Ayesha will know.”
*
In these peaceful years, Anthony also found time to pursue another task. For, tucked away in an obscure inlet in the Golden Horn, timbers rotting and mast long decayed, he found the remains of a very unusual little ship which the locals told him had once belonged to his father.
Indeed, he had found the ship in which Harry Hawkwood had made his famous raid into the Atlantic…and captured his mother, Felicity.
Anthony delightedly set his shipwrights to work, virtually dissecting the hull to find out everything about her design. Then he had a new ship built. Full-decked, single-masted, with a huge boom to control her lateen sail, she would carry a crew of six men besides himself, but he added a refinement Harry Hawkwood had never considered — a cabin aft, for it was his ambition to have Barbara share his pleasure with him.
He called the yacht the Hawk.
His wife was somewhat reluctant to take up sailing at first, but soon she began to enjoy it. So they ventured farther and farther into Marmara, often spending up to a week away from the city at a time. Anthony came to look upon these days the happiest of his life.
But he remained a vice-admiral of the Turkish fleet, and in the spring of 1564 Suleiman determined to crown his reign by making a third attempt on Vienna.
*
The campaign was elaborately planned. In May 1565 a fleet of transports sailed from Constantinople to join the western Mediterranean fleet now commanded by Piale Pasha — for Dragut had retired to spend his declining years in Algiers. Piale and Mustafa Pasha — who would co
mmand the troops — sailed for Malta, once again, to attempt to dislodge the Knights of St John.
Suleiman had convinced himself that the Western powers would have to send every ship and every man they possessed, to the relief of the Knights. Surprisingly, this did not happen. The Knights — under their remarkable general, Grand Master Jean de la Valette — were left to themselves, and quickly revealed themselves, as always, ready to fight to the death.
But yet was Christendom distracted. And at last Spain went to the aid of the hard-pressed Knights, sending a combined fleet and army commanded by Garcia de Toledo. In September the Turks would raise the siege, having lost more than twenty thousand of their men. But that same spring, while the siege still raged, Suleiman put the second half of his plan into operation.
The armies were marshalled, and the fleet. Anthony was given command of the flotilla which would ascend the Danube, repeating the manoeuvre William Hawkwood had carried out nearly forty years before.
The river ships were necessarily smaller than the sea-going galleys, and they had to be assembled in the estuary of the great river, which necessitated coasting them up the Black Sea. This took a great deal of time, nor was Anthony able to return to Istanbul for the winter, as there remained a great deal of refitting to do.
Throughout the following spring and summer, that of 1566, the flotilla laboriously made its way up the river. The Danube was by now entirely controlled by the Turks, yet there were vast stretches which were far removed from any sign of civilisation, and inhabited by ferocious mountain men who were not above attacking foraging parties.
Hawkwood was very happy, in July, to come into the shelter of Belgrade, where the army had wintered.
Here was Suleiman himself, but Anthony was shocked when he was ushered into the presence of the Sultan. Now in his seventy-second year, the most famous of the Ottomans was clearly too old for campaigning. Not even the liberal applications of rouge could hide the sunken pallor of his cheeks, and his breath came in great gasps.
“Oh, Padishah,’ Hawkwood said, “should you not be in the warmth of the Seraglio rather than in these damp and dismal climes? Your people need you even more than they desire a victory against the Austrians.”
Suleiman smiled, a slow loosening of the facial muscles. “They will have to do without the former soon enough, Hawk Pasha. Would you have a Sultan who did not lead his armies into war?”
Anthony could not stop himself giving a quick glance left and right. Mahomet Sokullu waited, just out of earshot. But there was no sign of Prince Selim.
Suleiman knew what he was thinking. “The Prince commands in Istanbul,” he said, “until my return.”
“A wise move, O Padishah,” Anthony said.
“Your father was never a sycophant,” Suleiman admonished, mildly. “It will be your task, Hawk Pasha, to advise my son wisely, when I am gone. But it is my task,” he said, with sudden fierceness, “to chastise these stubborn Hungarians who persist in revolting against my rule. This is our first intention, Hawk Pasha. The city of Szigetvar. I will raze it to the ground as a warning to the rest.”
It was before the walls of Szigetvar, on the night of 5 September 1566, that Suleiman the Magnificent died.
19
The Treachery
The news brought to the fleet — waiting to resume its advance up the Danube — conveyed nothing of what had happened. The messenger merely delivered a command from Grand Vizier Sokullu for Admiral Hawk Pasha to attend the Sultan’s headquarters with the greatest possible haste.
Anthony knew immediately what had happened, but disclosed nothing of his fears to his aides. Accompanied only by his servant Kalil, he mounted for the ride to the beleaguered fortress.
Here he found the city a tumble of ruination, in which there must very recently have been a major catastrophe — smoke still hung above the shattered houses, and there was scarcely any sign of life. The whole area was, indeed, permeated with the stench of death. Yet the Turkish army was still encamped about the walls. Many of them binding their wounds, the Janissaries stared at Hawkwood as he galloped up, but there was no sense of concern or urgency in the Ottoman ranks.
Then I am mistaken, Anthony thought with considerable relief — throughout the ride from the river his mind had been filled with tumbling thought at how the Empire would take the news of the Sultan’s death.
Something had happened, however. Suleiman’s tent was surrounded by guards, every man of whom, as Hawkwood recognised, belonged to Sokullu’s personal retinue. The Sultan’s own men were nowhere to be seen.
My God, he thought, the fool has tried a coup d’état!
He was subjected to a stern scrutiny before being admitted to the gold and crimson tent — and there he found the Vizier waiting for him.
“Mahomet!” he cried. “What have you done?”
“Whatever was needed,” Sokullu assured him. “Come.”
Before Hawkwood could expostulate further, he was led into the inner chamber of the tent, where there waited only two deaf-mute eunuchs…and the Sultan.
Suleiman sat cross-legged on his prayer mat, his back wedged against the cushions. His right hand rested on his knee, his left dangled between his thighs. He stared at Hawkwood with a peculiar intentness.
Anthony immediately bowed. “Padishah,” he said, “I came at once.”
There was no response, and Anthony slowly raised his head, to discover Sokullu now standing beside the Sultan and smiling at him.
“If I can fool you, Hawk Pasha, I can fool the world,” he said.
Anthony stared at the seated figure. “My God!” he muttered.
“What I have done was by the Padishah’s own command,” the Vizier continued “We are several hundred miles from Istanbul, and from Prince Selim. It is a long journey. Were it to be undertaken with the body of a dead Sultan, who can say what might transpire before our new master could assume power? And at least we have gained the victory, even if it has been a barren one.”
Hawkwood frowned at him. “What happened?”
“We had battered the walls of the city all but flat, and were preparing our final assault, when Count Zrinyi, who commanded the garrison, anticipated us. He led all his people, even his women, in an assault on our lines. It was the most remarkable thing I ever saw.”
“He got through?”
Sokullu’s smile was grim. “No, we killed them all. But the rascal had a surprise for us. My men promptly charged into the city, seeking loot and slaves. But Zrinyi had set a fuse to his powder magazine, and it exploded. Several hundred of my people were killed. Now, once we retreat, the Hungarians will shout a victory. But we will know better — and we will come again when we have settled matters at home.”
Anthony continued to stare at the dead man.
“When did this happen?”
“Three nights ago. Before Zrinyi’s suicide bid. The Padishah virtually died in his sleep. He woke briefly, and cried out, then died. His heart merely stopped. Well, he had lived a long time.”
“And you think you can return to Istanbul with a dead man at the head of his army?”
Sokullu shrugged. “Why not? I had the embalmers inside the tent within an hour.”
“And do you not suppose they will tell what has happened?”
Sokullu gave another grin. “Only to the devil, Hawk Pasha. Already they are on their way to his fiery portals.”
Anthony licked his lips. “Yet you have sought to confide in me, unnecessarily.”
“Oh, necessarily, Anthony. You have been as close to Suleiman as any man recently. If anyone could have told from a reasonable distance that he was dead, that man would be you. Besides, are we not partners? Have we not already considered that there is much to be accomplished, once Suleiman was dead?”
Anthony raised his head to gaze at him. “I will entertain no treason.”
“And I have just spoken it. Do you then condemn me?”
Anthony shook his head. “No, Mahomet. The temptation is very great. I m
ust assume that you have done right, and that for the good of the Empire it is best we seem to return to Istanbul with a living Padishah. But once we get there, we serve Prince Selim.”
Sokullu regarded him for several seconds, then gave another shrug.
“As we are partners in life, Anthony, I must bow to your wishes. Permit me, however, to pray to Allah that neither of us lives to regret your loyalty.”
*
It was always difficult to know, with Sokullu, just what he had in mind. Anthony supposed the Vizier was probably the most devious man he had ever known, particularly in contrast to the straightforwardness of his previous mentor, Dragut.
Dragut! he thought. The famous admiral should be informed immediately of what had happened — he might well be needed.
Sokullu played his part immaculately. “It is late in the year,” he told the pashas. “Soon the winter rains will be upon us, and this plain will become a sea of mud. Perhaps you do not remember the retreat from Vienna in 1532. My father was there, and Hawk Pasha’s grandfather commanded the army.”
“My grandfather died before I was born,” Anthony said. “But my father has told me of the horrors of that retreat.”
Which was a lie: he had never been old enough to discuss campaigning with his father. But the lie was in a good cause, and the pashas acquiesced in the Vizier’s command, especially when told that it had been issued by the Sultan himself.
“The Padishah has developed a fever,” he explained, “thus he cannot address you himself. And that is another reason for leaving this pestilential place.”
The Janissaries grumbled, nevertheless. It was not their way to leave a battlefield after gaining a victory, except to advance further. But their senior officers, too, could remember the difficulties of withdrawing from in front of Vienna.
Thus the homeward march began. It would necessarily take several months.
“I must command the flotilla,” Hawkwood said.
Sokullu shook his head. “Send them orders to withdraw to sea and make their way to Istanbul. It were best for you to remain here, on dry land. One of us must ride ahead of the army and tell the Sultan what has happened — in great secrecy, of course. That had best be me, I suppose.”
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