Ignoring the question, Valide Mara Hatun said, ‘It hurts, doesn’t it – coming home. I remember my first time. So many thoughts and feelings, one’s head spins so much it could drop off completely. Joy. Plenty of that, assuming of course that your early years - before they took you away - were happy ones. Was your childhood happy, Radu Pasha? Mine was. And so, along with all that joy and nostalgia, there’s another feeling, isn’t there. A pain, a bitter anger. Why? Why did they send me away? And you know very well why they did. Politics. They sold you, Radu Pasha, just as they sold me, to save their own hides.’
Three years had passed since Serbia had fallen and eighty-three since the battle, Kosovo, which had broken its strength. In those intervening decades the Serbs had existed in purgatory, Christian vassals to the Muslim Sultan, buying off complete absorption with treaties and tributes. Once, some quarter-century prior, the tribute had been the young daughter of Durad Brankovic, the Serbian Despot. A child bride added to the harem of the previous Sultan. That had been before Yakub’s time - before anyone’s time at court save for Sultan Mehmed. Mara Brankovic had borne no sons for her husband but she had raised one.
The palace eunuchs saw everything and their collective secrets were like the court’s institutional memory. So, although Hekim Yakub had been the Sultan’s physician for merely twelve years, he was well informed about earlier times. He knew of the attention Mara Hatun had shown her husband’s younger, less favoured child. More attention, the eunuchs claimed, than even Mehmed’s own, indifferent, mother.
And she was reaping the benefit of that attention now. The court title of Valide Hatun – the most senior among the imperial harem women – belonged by rights to the Sultan’s mother. For it to be bestowed upon another was unprecedented, as was the power and influence outside the harem which Mara Brankovic enjoyed.
‘I hope you have not troubled yourself with coming all this way just to remind me of family history, Valide Mara Hatun,’ said Radu. He was doing a good job of keeping his tone firm but respectful, Yakub judged. ‘It is strange to return, certainly, but all my familial bonds were severed long ago. And I harbour no bitterness over the past, since, in serving our Sultan, I have a better life than any Vlach could.’
The Valide Hatun’s mouth broke into a sly smile. ‘You’re no fool, Radu. Don’t treat me like one with such hollow platitudes. I had hoped we might talk frankly.’
‘Are we not? Certainly, we must always speak so, Valide Mara Hatun.’
‘You saw the colours of my sails. You know very well familial bonds are never truly severed for people like you and I. A kul slave might leave the bosom of his peasant family and rise through the janissary ranks with such thoughts, but you were never simply a kul, Radu. You are here – we are all here – because of that fact.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘It is your link to the Draculesti that defines this war.’
‘If you are apportioning blame on me for this campaign, Valide Mara Hatun, then I must respectfully disagree.’
‘Oh, Radu Pasha, the campaign is all about you! Why pretend otherwise? The Sultan is floating almost his entire army across the Danube to make Wallachia his gift to you. It is an act of magnificent over-generosity.’
‘As I recall, there was plenty of provocation from the Vlachs,’ said Radu. ‘I assume that you have not forgotten Giurgiu.’
‘Of course not. And I hope you have not forgotten what I predicted to you on that day at Giurgiu. To date things have fallen just as I said they would. Mehmed is being rash. It behoves those of us who care most for our Sultan to save him from his own mistakes. You do care for him, don’t you Radu Pasha? I think that, perhaps uniquely, you care deeply for them both.’
It was dangerous to suggest such fallibility of the Sultan and Yakub saw Radu visibly stiffen at her words. Perhaps he feared the Valide Hatun sought to trap him into speaking treason with a doctor standing as her witness.
‘Even if one desired, it is too late to stop the campaign now,’ Radu said carefully. ‘Frankly, I think our Sultan would not have swayed from this course no matter who begged him to.’
‘I know that well enough,’ said the Valide Hatun. ‘With certain people it goes better to keep them ignorant of helping hands. I predicted the coming of this unwise campaign to you last winter. I have not sat idly sewing these past months.’
‘You do nothing but sew,’ said Radu. ‘Just never with a needle.’
His mistress seemed to enjoy that remark, Yakub noted. She was proud of her many contrivances, proud also to have her cunning recognized beyond the women’s quarters of the court. Perhaps becoming too proud.
‘The matter is in hand,’ said Valide Mara Hatun. ‘This ship and I are on our way to Smederevo to see to that. All being well, the campaign will conclude to Mehmed’s satisfaction without the need for anyone to take the field against Vlad. But for my plan to work, I shall need your cooperation.’
‘Mine?’
‘It is a question of timing, Radu Pasha. I would like you to ensure the army’s advance into Wallachia is not over hasty. Nothing dramatic, just a cautious, careful approach across the flood plain towards Targoviste and the mountains.’
‘I should say that will not be hard,’ said Radu. ‘The Vlachs appear to have ceded the lowland. No doubt they have destroyed river crossings and set traps as they fell back. Our engineers can be kept busy ensuring the supply lines are clear and they shall need protecting while they do so.’
A warm smile of friendship lit up the Valide Hatun’s beautiful face. A year past forty, she had the Slavic fortune to age slowly and the resources of the imperial harem to call upon. Yakub had seen many times how Mara Brankovic could charm a man with the power of her large, expressive eyes. That allure, matched with her court status: chaste, unobtainable and fleetingly observed, made their devotion like that of cultists to a virginal goddess. Isis made flesh.
Today’s appearance, with the all-covering ferace replaced by an immodestly cut Frankish gown, would have sent some of the weak-hearted older viziers to Yakub’s treatment table. Yet in the case of Radu Pasha, Yakub saw little prospect for another initiate. He remained stoic and unflustered as she put a hand upon his knee, leaned far enough forward that he could detect the scent of frankincense on her bare skin and said softly, ‘I need a couple of weeks, no more. I shall lend you the assistance of the good doctor here.’ Then, with a sigh from the fabric of her gown, Valide Mara Hatun rose to her feet. Her message delivered, Radu was being briskly dismissed.
That was the first Hekim Yakub knew of his assignment but such was the way of things with Mara Brankovic as patron. Whatever assistance he might offer, his real brief would certainly be to act as the eyes of the Valide Hatun on the campaign. He had anticipated as much but he had expected to work from the safety of the Sultan’s entourage. This might require him to spend his time rather closer to the perilous vanguard. He thought of that morning’s errand, out beyond the front line to retrieve Radu Pasha for this meeting. It hardly boded well.
Across the room, Radu Pasha remained seated, a look of consternation written across his brow. His gaze, turned up at the Valide Hatun, appeared to fall short of her face. Then Radu’s grey eyes flicked pointedly to Hekim Yakub. He knelt, took her offered hand and kissed it. ‘How kind of you, Valide Mara Hatun.’
Valide Mara Hatun turned and gestured in the direction of both physician and doorway. ‘Hekim Yakub will let you know if the pace is too steep or too slack. He knows how to get a message to me, should you require it, and I know how to get a message to him in return. God willing, Radu Pasha, when next I see you the crown of Wallachia will be upon your head and a genuine smile upon your lips.’
‘Inshallah,’ said Radu and now, as the Valide Hatun escorted her guest to the door, Yakub saw what had briefly ensnared the other man’s attention just then. The act of leaning forward, combined with her neckline had caused the small silver crucifix, which the Valide Hatun wore on a chain, to slip from beneath her gown and lie, sparkling, over her heart.
5.<
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Istria, May 1462
For good reason, the boat which the Ambassador had hired to cross the gulf of Venice was no beauty. Round in the ribs and flat bottomed, it was an unremarkable trabaccolo, with ample room in its hold where a company of soldiers might remain hidden from prying eyes. A pair of lug sails hung over the open deck and on the blunt bow – inevitably - two eyes were cut and painted; for in Venice they asked- without eyes how could a vessel see where she was going?
At Pirano she would swap the passengers in her hold for a cargo of wood faggots and perhaps a cask of wine stashed where the customs barge might miss it. The crew of ten shared a communal cabin in the bow, while the master’s stern cabin had been gallantly ceded to the ladies.
Down in the hold, the Black Sheep were making camp. Up in the salt-laden air on deck, the boat master was talking the ears off George Sphrantzes. He was a Pellestrinotto by birth. Hardly a man employed in the coastal trade hailed from Venice. They all came from Burano, Pellestrina or Chioggia. The sun and salt had creased his skin to rough sandpaper and new company had quickened his tongue. He was past seventy, had fought in the wars with Milan, been wounded, smuggled for a time and finally settled down to a trade of carrying wood. He had married three times: a Pellestrinotta, a Veneziana and a Buranella; he was considering a fourth - a Chiozzotta - but had been advised that she was likely to make an end of him.
They were about to raise a measure of grappa to the ladies of Chioggia when a commotion broke out in the hold. The master sprang across the deck with great speed for his age and Sphrantzes, a decade his junior, followed rather more sedately.
‘Diavoli! They’ve caught a stowaway!’ said the master as Sphrantzes reached the hold’s hatch and looked down. Sprawled across the strakes in the belly of the boat, a pitiful figure lay pinned beneath the violent weight of three fighting men.
‘Let him up before you kill him!’ Sphrantzes called down. ‘By God he’s no stowaway. That poor cripple belongs to kyria Notaras.’
Sphrantzes loitered up on the stern deck while they fetched Anna from the cabin and a shaken Nikolaos was helped up the ladder to the main deck. The master took pity when he saw the tears in the young man’s eyes and pressed into his quivering hands the cup of undrunk grappa from the interrupted toast. Anna and the young Kantakouzene girl appeared from the aftercastle. Sphrantzes wondered how she would react.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ she said.
Nikolaos was sat on the main deck, his bad leg stretched out. ‘I have known rougher treatment, Basilissa.’
‘Whatever possessed you to hide away like that?’
‘I couldn’t let you go alone, Basilissa.’ He kept his eyes on the wooden boards of the deck. What did she expect, thought Sphrantzes. Even with a leg like that, he’s young. Every boy that age has wild dreams of seeing the world.
‘I’m not alone,’ she said.
‘They’re strangers!’ Nikolaos replied impertinently. ‘You shouldn’t rely on strangers for protection, Basilissa.’
All this time Eudokia Kantakouzene had remained beside her aunt at the ship’s rail, her gaze fixed morosely back to where the horizon threatened to devour the Lido. ‘Should we rely on you?’ she sneered, glaring briefly down at Nikolaos before returning to her glum study of the receding lagoon.
‘That’s enough, Eudokia. Perhaps you could go back and prepare the cabin for the night.’
‘I’m not a servant! Send Nikolaos.’
The lame youth attempted to rise from the deck.
‘Stay there Nikolaos,’ his mistress snapped. The niece kept her face pointed resolutely towards Venice. ‘Eudokia, you may not be my servant, but you will do as I say. Now, go and prepare our cabin. I wish to have a word with Nikolaos. Alone.’
Standing above them at the quarter deck rail, Sphrantzes craned his neck forward. He had a nose for impropriety, and he did not want to miss a word.
‘I’m sorry, Basilissa,’ said Nikolaos as Eudokia stormed away. ‘I won’t be a burden, I swear it.’
‘I know you won’t. I’m glad you’re here. I’m just not sure how glad I am to be here myself.’
Nikolaos hauled himself upright and limped across to stand beside her. He steadied himself with a hand on the rail. ‘What do you mean by that, Basilissa?’
‘Maybe kyr Sphrantzes was right,’ Anna Notaras said. Sphrantzes almost let a cry of triumph burst from his chest. ‘This embassy is not for a novice like me. I’ve no real notion of what I have agreed to. I’ve been rash and given it as little thought as you did. We were in Burano two days ago and here we are now.’ She sighed. ‘I blame the Dogaressa.’
‘Basilissa?’
‘Burano. I failed, didn’t I, Nikolaos. I misjudged Dogaressa Dandolo. I thought she and I would set up a Greek lace school and help people in a small way, but she made a fool of me. Then seemingly so did the senate. I couldn’t accept that second failure so swiftly on the heels of the first. So here I am - here we are - grasping at the last hope for that dream without giving much thought to our chances.’
‘I have faith in you, Basilissa,’ said Nikolaos. ‘More importantly, so does Cardinal Bessarion. And Venice must do too, or they’d have asked someone else to speak with this prince. I believe one day there’ll be a Greek commune - a kingdom even - with a lace school and all.’
The sky in the west was slowly melting into a glaze of blue and pink and daffodil. No stars were yet shining. She smiled. ‘You might be the only one who does. That’s why I’m glad you came with us. It’ll get dark soon, Nikolaos. You’d best find yourself a berth down below. And I had better see what Eudokia has done to our cabin; likely filled my bed with fish heads.’
‘Good night, Basilissa,’ called Nikolaos as she moved away from the boat’s rail. He stayed there watching until she had disappeared completely from view and, looking down at him, Sphrantzes felt suddenly shameful to have listened in.
By sunrise the faint blue outline of the Istrian coast was suggesting itself in the distance. A gleam of watery sunshine glittered on the oily rollers, the wind was fresh and favourable and the boat dipped almost to the eyes as the master flogged it towards shore.
Beneath the lighter blue mirror of the heavens, the sea stretched endlessly south and the rocky foreshore extended its variable embrace. Behind that maquis streaked coast, a gradual staircase of hills climbed away and off the port bow the jagged horizon of distant mountains sprang up towards thin scuff marks of cloud. All was clear that morning, from Antelao round to Carniola: the peaks dusted in rosy snow against a pale blue sky.
Istria rippled before their boat in a procession of bays and headlands, each one capped by a town and a campanile, boldly looking out to sea. Most of these towns had sided with Genoa in the wars of the merchant republics and so incurred the wrath of Venice. For a hundred years since, the banner of the winged lion had flown over the Istrian coast, save for the Habsburg port of Trieste, which was now close enough to discern as a single stone rose blooming on the green coastline, its towers and basilicas stiff as stamens.
Closer lay the handsome Venetian town of Pirano, perched above the sea on a tongue of land so thin that it must someday be eaten away entirely by the waves. The master reefed in the sales and the boat nudged its way into Pirano’s little harbour.
Down by the water, women were binding faggots with withers of green ginestra, while their menfolk moved cargo to and from the boats. They were supervised, from the summit of his column, by a stony winged lion whose confident gaze sprang away, over the liquid grey surface of the water and along the sunlight’s broad, golden path which seemed to lead all the way back to Venice.
Before noon their party was on the road out of Pirano, riding over rolling downs covered with brushwood. The land they passed through was Greek in character and the older basilicas stood in testimony to those long centuries of Byzantine dominion, but like much of the world, Istria now knew a different master and the limestone stamp of St Mark’s lion leered from town gates and watchtowers,
clean as the day it was cut.
There would be six days in the saddle to Gradec where the Captain planned to find a boat on the river Sava. On the second day out of Pirano the whole kast country around them was breathing after a rainstorm. The flowers seemed to burst like bombasts of colour at the touch of their eyes: violas, myrtle, hellebore, all the chorus of summer. The air was laden with perfume, the lizards crackled in the undergrowth and hoary olive trees waved and shimmered in the mounting heat of the day. To George Sphrantzes it all pleasingly recalled the Morea.
‘This must bring back a few memories for you, George,’ said Ambassador Sagundino as the two old diplomats trotted side by side in the middle of the column of riders. ‘When I count up all the days in my life spent traveling somewhere to press Venice’s case, I think they must total more than the time actually spent in the republic.’
‘I’m not sure I have accumulated as many miles as you, but certainly there is a diplomatic pilgrimage or two that springs to mind.’
‘Florence and Ferrara? Every Greek I know seems to have been at those councils. Constantinople must have been left empty,’ said the Ambassador.
‘You were there too, if I am not mistaken.’
From politeness, Sphrantzes chose not to mention that at the time, Nikolaos Sekoundinos had not yet Italianised his name. Nor did he raise the matter of Sagundino’s double role at those talks: working as a translator for the Byzantines and spying for the Venetians. It was a quarter century past, ancient history. Instead Sphrantzes said, ‘May this journey be smoother than that one.’
It would be difficult for any journey to be as shambolic as that trek, thirty years before, when the court of Constantinople had shuffled off to Italy to beg for help against the Turks. The tone had been sent with an earthquake, just as their fleet gathered in the Horn for departure. By the time they landed at Venice, the aging patriarch was dying, and half the imperial delegation were no longer on speaking terms. It was the memory of the bad storms suffered on that voyage which brought something more recent into Sphrantzes’ mind. He said, ‘I was sorry to hear of your family.’
Porphyry and Blood Page 8