The gaunt doctor’s eye remained on the hand as he completed the bandaging. ‘Pilav? You will have to do better than that Radu Pasha.’
The Zağarcibasi’s offer had been made with a knowing smile. Ordinary camp fare might satisfy Radu’s simple palate but he would know Hekim Yakub’s tastes ran richer. The chief imperial physician, a palace fixture for more than a decade, was renowned for his appreciation of refinement. To find him dressed in a bloodied surgeon’s smock stitching up battlefield patients was rare. More often he attended to the health of royal patients while sporting a beautiful velvet doublet or a fashionable, Persian-sewn kaftan. Despite the length of this campaign, he remained meticulously beardless and kept his thin hair trimmed to a neat crown above his ears.
They called him Hekim Yakub - Doctor Yakub - but his real name was Jacopo and the town of his birth had been Gaeta in Italy. He had studied medicine at Sapienza in Rome and might have made a fine career of it there but for the fact that he was a Jew. Driven east by persecution, Jacopo had found to his fortune that the Turkish Sultan - who was fond of many Italian fashions - had not adopted their taste for antisemitism.
‘There,’ said Yakub, patting the young soldier on the shoulder. ‘You’ll take more care next time, eh?’ The janissary nodded and, with a glance towards his superior officer, fled the tent. ‘I have fresh mutton if you are sick of eating pilav,’ Yakub said to Radu.
‘I thought you might.’
Removing his apron, Hekim Yakub washed his hands in a bowl of water and turned towards one of the other surgeons in the medical pavilion. ‘Yusuf, I’m going out. Tidy things up here for me please.’
Yakub followed Radu outside and, as he had done many times before on this campaign, marvelled at the sight of the camp undulating over the ground as far as the eye could see. Stakes had been driven into the fertile earth to form a perimeter wall within which the tents were ranked like streets. At the junctions where one janissary battalion met another the standards of both orta fluttered proudly, marking out regimental districts like colourful mileposts. It was more than a jumble of tents; it was a movable canvas city and Yakub, with his fastidiousness nature, could appreciate why Radu and his fellow commanders were rightly proud of its organisation.
The sun’s molten disc was almost touching the hills to the west and its low rays coruscated from the tips of brass tent poles, warming the flanks of canvas on one side of the lane and throwing the other into deep shadow. It was the time when the men of each orta gathered within their communal barrack tent to be led in prayer by their imam. The grassy lanes of the camp were sparse of activity and from beyond the fabric walls on each side came the rise and fall of murmuring voices intoning the five isolated syllables like the resonant buzz of a field of beehives.
Just as the pattern of camp life had a comfortable repetition to it, so too did the mosaic layout of the ortas. One large pavilion was surrounded by the smaller sleeping tents of the men, each decorated with the insignia of that particular orta: the crossed bombasts of the 16th, the alert mastiff of the 71st, the dancing elephant of the 79th. Every orta knew its place within the camp jigsaw, so that whether the land beyond was Anatolia, Thrace or the Balkans, the land within the stockade perimeter was never alien.
Yet it must still feel strange to look over the top of these familiar canopies and see the half-remembered mountain peaks of childhood clawing at the horizon. It could so easily have been Italian hills beyond the camp that summer, and Yakub rather than Radu making a peculiar homecoming. Instead a chain of events had seen the Grand Vizier’s plans to invade Italy diverted across the Danube. And how had that come about? Well, that was a tale the whys and wherefores of which were known only by Yakub and one other soul. It was certainly a story which Radu would never be privy to.
The physician glanced once more at the handsome man walking quietly beside him. He could tell that over the past few days Radu’s soulful mind had almost drowned itself in deep contemplation. These tent streets had been home for more than ten years and taken him on campaigns across the Karaman plains, to the walls of Constantinople, over the mountains of Greece and deep into the forests of Serbia. Now they were delivering him on a final journey. Home. Back to Wallachia, to oust his brother Vlad.
Yakub had to wonder what that felt like. He had no family of his own and could only imagine the peculiar, divided loyalties that some in the Ottoman court must feel. But gaining insight from others was not difficult; Radu’s position was far from unique. It was the Turkish way: to draw in renegades; to conscript into janissaries the children of the conquered; to welcome and make use of all, regardless of blood, so long as they would give their absolute loyal service to the Sultan.
‘Does our Sultan know his personal physician has been troubling those invaluable hands with the cuts and scrapes of the rank and file?’ asked Radu as they strolled towards Hekim Yakub’’s tent. The knowing glint in the Zağarcibasi’s eye was not of the sort Yakub cared for. Well I might be a snob too, thought Yakub, if I was reserved for the Sultan’s benefit, but since – thankfully – I’m not his beloved, it’s quantity over quality for me.
Truthfully, it had been a liberating few weeks for Hekim Yakub in some regards. He had begun to wonder how he could possibly go back to the odd fumble from a eunuch at the hammam, much less his ill-advised marriage, after a month on campaign with the army. Unlike Jewish physicians, it was forbidden for janissary to wed, indeed celibacy was supposedly uniform. But if you put four thousand men together, banned them from seeing women and sent them on an arduous military campaign, you were not going to keep all of them celibate. There was too much energy in the air around a war, too much danger, too much death. It built up the humors, made them boil inside, desperate for release. Unused to the sensation, Yakub had felt almost overcome by it. It was why his urge to drink was more acute here than in Constantinople. The urge to drink and every other urge.
Word soon got around the ortas about the beardless doctor. They would come to the medical tent complaining of a strain and Yakub would take them into the examination cubicle. The more the army’s advance was blighted by traps and snares, the more the nerves of men were riled and the busier Yakub became. One day there were three men queuing outside, each with a phantom pulled groin in need of attention. It was enough to put sores on any mouth.
‘Professional pride,’ said Yakub to Radu with a shrug. ‘Your surgeons are little better than barbers. I thought, since I’m stuck on this campaign, I might at least impart a little of my knowledge in their direction. I could die of boredom waiting for Sultan Mehmed to develop a cough.’
Radu steered them from the camp’s main thoroughfare towards the northern gate and the animal pens just inside it. ‘Do you mind a brief detour?’ he said. ‘I want to check my horses have been fed.’
The horses had certainly been fed. They had been rubbed down too by the attentive grooms of the 64th orta. Indeed, they were so pampered that any foot soldier who wondered this way must curse his fortune at not being born with four legs.
The horizon was still edged with dull copper as the sun dropped among the lower ranges and the camp’s tent avenues became shot through with spokes of sunset. Somewhere across the sea of canopies, a clarion was being tuned. The note came high and clear over the bass chatter from the tents around them, wrapped in the redolent smells from dozens of kazan, each caldron simmering with the evening’s offering.
‘I shall miss this,’ said Radu. He swept an arm towards the men, their evening prayers concluded, streaming from their orta pavilions in identical capinat coats, tall white hats and red leather boots. Uniformity and routine, it was mother’s milk to a janissary heart.
Yakub patted Radu on the arm. ‘Your brother brought disorder to this land. You will have a chance to bring...Is something wrong? You’ve turned quite pale.’
‘Did you see that?’ said Radu. ‘There, at the junction. Did you see those men?’
Yakub looked to where Radu had pointed, but the corner of the broa
d avenue was empty. ‘Which men?’
‘Ya Allah!’ said Radu, rubbing his brow. ‘For a moment I saw three men standing there. Janissary, but one of them had my brother’s face. I’m going mad!’
‘Exhaustion most likely,’ said Yakub. ‘The eyes can play tricks. I invoked your brother and your mind conjured his likeness into your head.’
‘You must be right,’ said Radu as they continued walking. ‘I wonder how far away he can be.’
Yakub glanced towards the mountain peaks. He’s dead. This time, surely, he’s already dead.
Radu said, ‘A vast army camped on the prime farmland of Wallachia, in sight of his capital’s walls. What will Vlad’s next move be?’
‘Everyone seems to have a different theory,’ said Yakub. ‘But you’ve the best insight, surely. What’s your own guess?’
‘I can’t say how he will react. I doubt even Vlad will know for certain until the moment he does it. If one were to choose a single word to describe my brother, it would be unpredictable.’
‘In the past I might have chosen another: underestimated,’ said Yakub. ‘But whatever your brother attempts, it will be hopeless. Our Sultan is leaving nothing to chance a second time. Losing Hamza Bey and his men has made Mehmed take matters very seriously indeed.’ Yakub wafted both hands towards the great spread of tents housing a force that included Radu’s four thousand janissary cavalry, twenty-two thousand sipahi, another forty thousand irregular azap infantry and a full contingent of artillery. It was a host fit to take on the black army of Hungary, or re-fight the crusaders of Varna or Nicopolis. It was a war-hammer being employed to crack the modest nut of Wallachia.
They had reached Hekim Yakub’s personal tent. He ushered his guest inside and gave his slave instructions for their meal to be prepared. Then, picking up a dark bottle, Yakub said, ‘Can I tempt you to defy the imam and join me in a cup?’
Radu shook his head.
‘Not even in celebration? Most likely you will sit on Wallachia’s throne tomorrow. Alas, today you must make do with my humble cushions.’
Radu crossed his legs and sat down. ‘If I am honest, I find little to celebrate.’
‘Oh? Why would you feel like that?’ Yakub poured himself a measure.
‘This is my home, Hekim Yakub. This camp.’ Radu pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to show the blood red tattoo on his bicep. It was the symbol of the greyhound keepers, the orta Radu belonged to. ‘Those who wear this mark on their arm are my true brothers. In a week or two, once this is over and I am installed as voivode of the Vlachs, you and they and this whole camp will whirl away in a dust cloud, leaving me behind. I shall miss this life, Hekim Yakub. I’ve never yearned to rule Wallachia.’
‘Come now, even the peasant, even the low Jewish barber-surgeon dreams of wearing a crown from time to time.’ Yakub poured water into another mug and passed it to his guest.
Radu’s long pale hair shook. ‘Not I. Never. My dream was always for the sands to fly up through the hourglass, for the sun to rise in the west and set in the east, for time to turn back on itself, until I stood at the window of a house with high gables on the edge of a cobbled square, watching with two brothers as the goats were herded to the measuring of the milk. Long ago I reconciled myself to the impossibility of that dream. I made peace and accepted this janissary life, but now that too is to be taken away.’
The physician knocked back his drink as the servant reappeared with two plates of steaming meat. ‘You were seven when you left Wallachia. And your brother, what was he, nine years old?’
‘Eleven,’ said Radu. ‘Have you ever been to Eğrigöz, Hekim Yakub? I can think of few places more different to my homeland. I’d known nothing but forests and cool mountains and then suddenly I was dragged away to Eğrigöz. Hot, dry and dusty. The old Sultan had us locked up in a tower cell for a year to force my father from Hunyadi’s side.’
‘Ah yes, the famous Hungarian white knight,’ said Yakub, dabbing a handkerchief at the corner of his mouth. ‘May he rot in his grave.’
Radu wasn’t listening. ‘I think that year left a mark on my brother. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but Vlad did. He must have spent everyday waiting for the execution party to arrive. Instead, when father bent the knee to Sultan Murad, we were moved from the barren wastes of Eğrigöz to the beautiful valley of Amasya. I’m just not sure all of Vlad went with us.’
‘Amasya. Now that is somewhere that I have visited,’ said Yakub. ‘A paradise. Their orchards have the sweetest apples.’
‘They taste all the sweeter after a year in the wilderness,’ Radu mumbled through a mouthful of mutton. ‘We could not understand the politics behind it, but our lives had suddenly changed. We were now honoured guests at the palace school, afforded the best training with the elite janissary cadets.’
‘Is that where you first met Fatih?’ said Yakub, using the moniker Sultan Mehmed had employed with such delight since his conquest of the Byzantine capital. ‘At that time, he must have still been in Amasya too.’
Radu nodded. ‘The paths of our fate crossed there but briefly. Within the year, Mehmed’s brother died.’
Yakub gave a laugh. ‘Of course. Alaeddin Ali’s murder. Someday I’ll give you my theory on who was behind that.’ His grin fell away as he saw the seriousness of Radu’s face. ‘I’m sorry. I forget myself. It is not a subject to speak rashly about.’
‘It is not,’ said Radu. ‘We need only say that Ali’s regrettable death opened the blessed path for our Sultan to inherit the throne. He was sent to Erdine palace to be closer to his father’
‘But not before the blood feud with Vlad had been seeded? Does it go back that far?’
‘No. I don’t think it goes back to the Amasya palace school. True, they are close in age and boys can be competitive; heirs to thrones the more so. No, this hatred between them is something more than a festering childhood rivalry.’
Hekim Yakub rubbed his smooth chin. ‘Then what did cause this special hatred to ignite?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘They say it came from your brother’s side, and quite unexpectedly. When did you see him last?’
Radu put down his plate. Yakub, his brows lifting as if with all innocence, watched the other man’s eyes narrow into a frown. Radu said, ‘Some people, Hekim Yakub, suggest you are more than just a physician. Some people say you are Mara Brankovic’s most trusted spy.’
‘Some people are very unkind. More mutton for your plate perhaps, Radu Pasha? And are you absolutely set against sharing this wine?’
3.
The Republic of Venice, May 1462
George Sphrantzes ran the rim of his skaranikon between his thumbs and scanned the far side of the piazzetta once more for signs of the delegation. It was a beautiful hat, embroidered in red and gold, with a small portrait of Emperor Constantine – whose gift it had been – engraved on a plaque at the front. Bessarion, waiting beside him, had a fine cardinal’s galero on his head but it paled by comparison to the towering beehive of the skaranikon. Not wanting to appear too proud, Sphrantzes had removed it while the two men waited for the Notaras woman to arrive with the rest of her party, but now he found his hands could not stop fussing with the material.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ said Bessarion, sensing his impatience.
But it was not impatience which had set his toes dancing in their boots and he scolded himself for the fact. Regardless of the family name, he kept telling himself, she was only a woman.
Bessarion pointed across the stone apron of Piazzetta San Marco. ‘Here they come now.’ Sphrantzes fumbled the skaranikon up onto his head, squared his shoulders and watched the small gaggle of figures bustle towards them. A couple wore the felt pileus caps of servants and one was turbaned by a phakeolis, but there were no other skaranikons, nor even a skiadion, to be found on their heads. He had not been outdone. That was incontestable. Well, what had he expected? He took off the skaranikon. In fact, the meagreness of style among the g
roup was a little perturbing.
Sparsest of all was the woman at their head. Her over-gown was ashen. No chains of gold adorned it. No ornamental tablion were sewn into it. There was no false crown on her head, cascading with pearls. He felt suddenly foolish to have expected it. Instead, a heavy linen veil covered her hair and encircled a pale, unpainted face.
‘Basilissa Anna!’ Bessarion stepped forward. They embraced and she offered both cheeks to his kiss, but all the while her stare never left Sphrantzes. He knew that look. She had her father’s eyes.
Basilissa! It offended his ears to hear the imperial title lavished upon this usurper, this unworthy woman, this spawn of the traitor Loukas Notaras.
‘May I present…’ Bessarion began to say but her cold voice cut him off. ‘Kyr Sphrantzes.’ There was only the faintest bob of her head.
‘Kyria Notaras.’
The wind whispered its gossip in the portico at his back.
‘Shall we?’ Bessarion said, hastily filling the void. ‘Let us not keep the senators waiting.’
Inside the ducal palace, they were shown to a four-doored antechamber and left to await the council’s summons. It was a symmetrical room, with a pair of doors to each side and benches running between. The cardinal settled on one padded bench with Anna sat beside him. Sphrantzes took a seat on his own across from them. The rest of the delegation gathered by the window, save for the young cripple, whom Sphrantzes now realised was the lady’s manservant. He remained standing at the end of her bench.
Bessarion clenched Anna’s hand between his palms and nodded his reassurance. She had looked pale as she crossed the square but now Sphrantzes thought she looked almost sickly. Her eyes were turned up at the ornate ceiling. ‘This time they are going to listen.’
Porphyry and Blood Page 4