‘I…no! There was a bear…’
‘You and Aunt Helena both think you can act as my procurers!’
‘Be quiet and listen for a moment. There was a bear!’ She pointed at the bushes which seemed pitifully devoid of evidence. ‘I’m sorry,’ Anna said. ‘I was almost eaten by that beast and in the chaos of it I completely forgot about you. You’ve every right to be angry, but I swear it was not done deliberately.’
Her niece did not look in the least pacified. Sphrantzes turned away smiling. He strolled beyond the screen of foliage, curious to see if there was a set of tracks to prove her story. There were none in the hard summer ground, only pieces of a broken honeycomb lying scattered in a trail to the bush like a golden powder fuse.
VII.
Constantinople, April 1462
Across the sloping roofs and busy passageways, the voice of the muezzin came drifting like a spectre, calling to the faithful with a beauty and clarity that cut through the midday air just as light cut through darkness. Nine years, almost to the day, since their takeover, not even the Christian delegates and merchants of the foreign quarters could deny that the Turks had instilled new life into the previously flaccid imperial capital.
The old church bells had clanged unchallenged for centuries but the new religious summons had to compete with the steady cadence of hammers, the jingle of rope hoists and jagged bray of saws. Prodigious building work was steadily transforming the crumbling ruins and empty districts into rows of good new housing and soaring minarets.
Hekim Yakub felt there could be no greater testament to the current mania for construction than the state of the palace through which he was now passing. Where else could a palace be dubbed old five years from its completion and already feel like a set-aside wife?
Beyond the crowds performing the wudu outside Hagia Sophia, on the broad promontory of this ancient city’s most ancient district, the bright skeleton of the new palace was already beginning to rise. It would not be so very long before the porters came through here like locusts, carefully packing up the Italian paintings and French tapestries, the sumptuous calligrapher’s table of walnut with its patterns of tortoiseshell and ivory, the coffers plated in mother-of-pearl and the many coloured Venetian glass. They would roll up the rugs and box up the pillows; they would put out the lamps and take down the censers; they would gather the harem silks and kaftans, the abandoned toy top of the prince; they would shoulder it all out of the gates and down towards the fresh breeze of the Bosporus where the gates of Yeni Saray would devour it all.
Passing from the outer courtyard, Yakub began to move along the arcade that fringed the palace’s inner garden and led to the inner door of the Sultan’s apartments. The pain in Sultan Mehmed’s toes had flared up once more and so the chief physician had been summoned.
In the shade of the garden’s central kiosk, a pair of palace women sat watching a child playing with a set of toy soldiers at their feet. The boy was Şehzade Mustafa, the middle of Mehmed’s three sons. At twelve-years-old, he should have already been sent from court to learn the art of governorship in one of the empire’s far flung provinces, but Mustafa was by far his father’s favourite child – the Sultan could not bear to be parted from him.
‘You had better wait, Hekim Yakub,’ the Valide Hatun’s commanding voice called from the kiosk. ‘Our Sultan has not yet awoken.’
It was the hour of Öğle, the sun was high above. Hekim Yakub stopped in his tracks and stepped out onto the apron of grass to approach the kiosk, then halted well short of the two burly eunuchs who guarded its step. The Valide Hatun pursed her lips and tilted her head very slightly towards Şehzade Mustafa. Yakub read her meaning. Some things a boy should not learn about his father.
The Sultan’s late nights of excess were certainly a contributing factor in the dropping of morbid material from the blood in and around his joints. The words of Hippocrates in his Aphorisms sprang fresh from the page of his memory. ‘Gout seldom attacks eunuchs or boys before coition with a woman, or women except those in whom the menses have become suppressed. Some obtain lifelong security by refraining from wine, mead and venery.’ Eunuchs, women and children - the kiosk contained all the banes of the Sultan’s condition and no doubt the bedchamber contained all of its aids.
As if to confirm this, the doors behind Hekim Yakub were flung open and a pale haired young man came, blinking, out into the sunshine.
The boy looked up at the sound and grinned. ‘Radu Pasha!’ he cried and jumped to his feet. Then, brandishing one of the toy soldiers aloft, added, ‘Come and see what the Florentine goldsmiths sent me!’
Dressed in nothing but his gömlek shirt and loose şalvar trousers, Radu sauntered towards the kiosk. The eunuchs did not display the same inclination to stop him that they had earlier shown Yakub. As he passed the doctor, Radu stopped and placed a hand on the physician’s slim wrist. ‘He is bathing now,’ Radu said quietly. ‘You should wait a little while more.’ Then he moved on, into the kiosk, to make an appropriate fuss of the little metal figures crowding its floor.
‘I’m refighting the battle of Kosovo,’ Şehzade Mustafa was saying as Yakub hazarded the glare of the eunuchs and gingerly followed in Radu’s footsteps.
Radu knelt and picked up the nearest horseman. ‘Which one?’
Yakub noted the skill of the Italian craftsmen but it was clear they had little knowledge of what Anatolian cavalry looked like. It didn’t matter to the boy of course. In his mind some of these miniature Frankish knights were splendid sipahi, just as the boards of the kiosk floor were the perfect recreation of a wooded Balkan battlefield.
The boy looked confused. ‘It was father’s first battle,’ he said pointing to a knight on the right flank. ‘Was there another?’
‘Yes,’ said Radu with a glance towards the Valide Hatun. ‘Sixty years prior, but that one was fought against the Serbs.’
‘Did we win that too?’ said the green-eyed boy.
‘We did,’ said Radu. ‘Although there was a twist at the end. Keep a close watch on the rear, my prince.’
From her seat beside Valide Mara Hatun, the boy’s mother, Gülşah Hatun, said, ‘He should be keeping a close watch on the time. The men will soon be finished at the mosque and Mullah Hrusev does not abide tardiness in his students.’
‘I remember that lesson well enough,’ said Radu. He theatrically rubbed his backside and winked once more at the boy.
‘There’s plenty of time,’ Mustafa protested. ‘There’s certainly time for one of your stories Radu.’
‘Is there?’
‘Definitely.’ Mustafa swept his toys aside. Radu cast an eye towards Gülşah Hatun. The consort nodded. Yakub cast a last glance back at the imperial door, then slid onto the empty bench across the kiosk from the women.
‘Alright,’ said Radu, taking a seat, cross-legged, on the floor beside the prince. He still held the toy horseman and continued to turn it wistfully between his fingers. ‘There is one that was on my mind just now. It’s about a black knight like this one.’
‘Tell it!’ squealed Mustafa.
‘Alright. Let me think now. Ah yes, it goes something like this: once upon a time there was an Emperor who, despite his claims, was neither holy nor Roman. He was a troubled man because many of his subjects were heretics. So this Emperor founded a knightly order to punish these unbelievers. He called them the Order of the Dragon.
‘Now, among the dragon knights there was a black knight, and the Emperor came to value him above all the others. This black knight had a wife and three sons, and he loved them all dearly. The Emperor entrusted the most southerly of his domains to the black knight’s stewardship, a place known as the land beyond the forest. It was rich and beautiful, full of simple peasant villages and bustling merchant towns.
‘The black knight and his family lived in one such town, in a large house of high gables and thick walls on the edge of a market square. From the windows the knight’s three sons could look out at the many sturdy to
wers that ringed the walls of the town. They could race one another through the crooked cobbled streets and watch the wagons full of wares rumbling out under the portcullis off to northern harvest fairs. On feast days there were puppet theatres and minnesingers, acrobats and jugglers and the whole town would join hands to dance the hora in circles about the wide market square. In May the boys would jostle for a place near the front to see the shepherds perform the festival of the measurement of the milk.’
‘What is that Radu?’ asked Mustafa.
‘Why, that was the most important day of the year! That was the day the shepherds would bring their flocks down from the hills to be blessed by the priest. Then each family’s sheep was milked before the townspeople. The relative quantity of milk it gave determined how much of the cheese produced by the flock over the summer would make up that family’s share.’
‘That’s a lot of pressure for one sheep,’ said Yakub with a smile.
‘Did it snow in this place Radu?’ asked Mustafa. ‘If there were mountains then there must have been snow.’
‘Oh, certainly there was snow, my prince. The town itself sat in the forested crook of a great mountain range, so there was plenty of snow and when winter came the black knight taught his sons how to hunt eagles with slingshots and bows, how to trap hares and ambush the fleet-footed chamois. In the evenings the black knight would often stare at those mountains to the south because his homeland lay beyond them, a little kingdom where a usurper ruled.’
‘Is this a happy story Radu Pasha?’ asked Gülşah Hatun. ‘We like happy stories, don’t we, my little prince?’
‘I like stories with fighting. Is there fighting soon Radu? I like this story and the town sounds fun with the snow and the jugglers, but I would like just a bit of fighting please.’
‘Then with a little patience you shall not be disappointed, my prince,’ said Radu, avoiding Gülşah Hatun’s pointed gaze. ‘One day, the Emperor gave his favourite dragon knight the men required to ride through the mountain pass and claim the throne of his homeland. So now the three boys had a whole palace for their playground, but fortune did not smile on the family for long. The following year the old Emperor died, and the new Emperor did not love the black knight as the previous one had. Instead, he favoured a white knight. It was a bad time, my prince. Famine, plague and violent peasant revolts shook the region. With the old Emperor dead and the white knight unfriendly, the black knight decided the best hope for his fragile realm’s security lay in an alliance elsewhere. You see, further to the south lay another empire, ruled by a fearsome warrior.’
‘I think we had better stop there,’ said Gülşah Hatun quickly. ‘I think it is time for the prince’s lessons with Mullah Hrusev.’
Radu pretended not to hear. ‘This southern Emperor did not fully trust the black knight, so he stipulated that, as the price of alliance, the black knight should send all his sons to the southern court as hostages.’
‘All three? Surely the black knight did not send them,’ said Mustafa.
‘Not his favourite,’ said Radu. ‘The black knight was clever enough to feed a rumour south that his eldest son was dead before he sent away his other sons.’
‘How old were the boys?’ said Mustafa.
‘They were not unlike you in age - eleven and seven years old.’
‘Radu, please, what is the point?’ begged Gülşah Hatun.
‘Be quiet, mother!’ the young prince snapped. ‘Go on Radu, what happened next?’
‘Well, the boys were held in the tower of the crooked eye, high on a mountain top, to the very south of that southern empire. War was brewing between the two empires and the black knight’s realm was caught between them. The black knight warned the white knight not to go to war. He told him that the Emperor of the south went hunting with more men than the northern Emperor had in his entire army. He explained that he could not take up arms against the south while his sons were hostages there, but the northerners did not listen to him.’
‘Tell me about the war,’ said Şehzade Mustafa excitedly.
Radu glanced at the toy soldiers strewn about their feet. ‘It was brief, my prince. It went just as the black knight foretold. The white knight fled the battlefield and, in his arrogance, blamed the black knight for not taking up arms. In revenge, he schemed to have the black knight murdered. A group of rebels attacked the palace, led by the black knight’s cousin. The black knight tried to flee south but was caught in the marshes and beheaded. His eldest son, his chosen heir, was also murdered and the traitorous cousin became the white knight’s puppet ruler of that unhappy land.’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Şehzade Mustafa. ‘When he locked up the boys, I thought the southern Emperor was the villain of this story but clearly it’s the white knight. What happens next is rather obvious, Radu Pasha.’
‘Is it, my wise prince?’ said Radu with an exaggerated lift of his brow. ‘Then please continue the story and tell us all how it ends.’
‘It’s just another fairy tale,’ said Mustafa with a shrug.
‘Yes, of course it is,’ said Radu, looking at Gülşah Hatun.
‘In all such tales there is a moment when everything seems lost, but there is still hope,’ Mustafa said. ‘The two hostage boys at the southern court. Their confinement has saved their lives.’
‘Indeed. God is great,’ said Radu.
‘But would they really see it in those terms?’ The Valide Hatun had been silent up until then. Listening intently to Radu’s story, Yakub had almost forgotten she was sat beside Gülşah Hatun.
‘Valide Mara Hatun?’ said Radu as if he too had not noticed her beneath the pill box hat and veil.
‘I only wonder, Radu Pasha, if boys in such circumstances would give credit to God for their indirect deliverance, or even to the southern Emperor who brought it about. Could such young minds comprehend these things through their anger? Or might they end up hating everything, even God.’
‘They might,’ Radu conceded. ‘Every one of us is different. A flower’s shed petals never float to earth the same.’
‘It’s just a story, Babaanne, don’t ruin it by thinking too hard,’ said Mustafa.
‘Of course, child,’ the Valide Hatun said with a smile.
‘They are going to grow up and return and avenge their father and brother. Together they are going to kill the white knight in battle. Is that not correct Radu Pasha?’
Gülşah Hatun put a motherly hand on her son’s shoulder and fixed Radu with a stare he could not ignore. ‘Close enough, my little prince,’ said Radu. ‘Now you must run along, or Mullah Hrusev will tan your backside to leather. Perhaps we shall finish this story another day.’
Reluctantly, Mustafa lifted himself up from the kiosk floor and padded away over the grass. Hekim Yakub was just making to follow and see if the Sultan was ready for his doctor when Gülşah Hatun, who had watched her son go, turned her long-lashed regard back onto Radu and said, ‘I wonder what could make you think to tell him the story of your father today.’
Still sat among the toy soldiers on the boards of the kiosk, Radu hugged an arm about one knee. ‘Mehmed. Last night he told me where the summer campaign is to fall.’
‘Oh?’ Gülşah Hatun sat up abruptly. This was news. This was gossip. This was the currency of choice among the hatuns of the harem. And not just the hatuns. Hekim Yakub, one foot on the lower step of the kiosk halted beside the eunuchs. ‘Italy?’
‘Home.’ Radu toyed with a knight in his hand. ‘We shall march against Wallachia.’
Yakub’s eyes met those of Valide Mara Hatun.
‘And make you ruler there?’ Gülşah Hatun’s brow lifted in surprise. ‘My! What a token of his affection! A throne! When I must make do with gemstones. You are loved indeed!’
Radu shook his head. ‘Loved? You’ve been reading too much Rumi. Mehmed doesn’t love. Possession, an intense desire to possess - that’s what drives our Sultan. Beautiful women, handsome beloveds, ancient cities, foreign thrones
; I don’t think he values any of it once the conquest is over. It is the things which defy him that fire his heart the strongest.’
‘Yes,’ said Gülşah Hatun. ‘I have heard the story of your first refusal of him. Is that the secret of your success?’
Radu shrugged. ‘Who but Mehmed could ever say? But I wager it is less affection for me that caused him to set his mind on Wallachia. My submission was summer rain compared to the winter tempest my brother’s defiance stirs in him.’
‘Vlad,’ Gülşah Hatun whispered as if the very mention of the name inside the harem carried danger.
7.
Gradec, May 1462
The Black Sheep Company were in good spirits. Gradec was not far away. Every mind seemed to anticipate the approaching comfort of a boat to carry them down the swift Sava River into the even broader waterway of the Danube. Their column was following a well-used track, mutely watched on both sides by hornbeam and oak sentinels.
As the road began to dip into a wooded dell, Anna’s horse overtook Paolo Barbo, who had stopped to check the stays on the baggage mule. The quartermaster made a show of turning his head away from her and studying a fallen tree on the bank beside him. To that point, Anna had managed to avoid the need to speak to Barbo throughout the journey and he appeared to have no desire to bring up their past either.
She thought of the last time she had seen him. She often thought about that time. It had not been her intention for him to catch her making love with John in the old palace ruins, but it had proven an effective way to end the unwanted betrothal. Regrettably, in his fury, Barbo had murdered a man who had been a mentor to John and fled the city just before the siege began. She felt her chest tighten at the thought of John and looked up towards heaven. The tree canopy was full of the chatter of birds.
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