SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  He would therefore encourage Ibrahim in his ambition. If he emerged triumphant, he would be there at his side. If he failed he would seek his reward from the witch, the ziadi Hürrem.

  ***

  It was a long march through the lonely steppes of Anatolia. The army trailed a cloud of dust that spiralled a hundred feet into the air. The jackals fled in their wake.

  The Sultan's horde; an endless column winding into the wilderness east and west, mile after mile, the akinji scouting ahead, camel trains and heavy guns creaking over rutted roads far behind, the column stretching from horizon to flat horizon. A summer passed as they made their way east, finally arriving at the feet of the great mountains of Asia and the cool still waters of Lake Van.

  Finally they glimpsed the blue-tiled domes of Tabriz, glittering in the sun. Ibrahim hurried on after the Shah, but the Persian would not fight, would not risk his cavalry against artillery and instead chose to slip away into the mountains of Sultania.

  By the time Ibrahim realized his pursuit was useless, the first chill of autumn was in the air.

  ***

  Ibrahim's standard of six horsetails - only the Sultan had more - was jammed into the hard earth. The tent whipped in the wind. Razor-backed mountains rose against a mottled sky.

  When Rüstem entered the Grand Vizier's tent, copper braziers had already been lit against the chill. And this was yet summer. What must winter be like in this place?

  Ibrahim brooded on a throne of ivory and ebony wood. Rüstem touched his forehead to the carpet in salute.

  'Rüstem? Should you not be guarding the camel train and the silks?' He noted the hard edge to the Vizier's voice. He was in a dangerous mood. The frustrations of the past weeks had begun to tell, as the quick, decisive victory he had counted on did not come.

  'I thought I might be of service to you, my Lord.'

  'To help count the money?'

  'In the matter of the Shah, my Lord.'

  Ibrahim flushed with anger. 'The Shah!' Rüstem had never seen the Vizier lose his icy calm. He wants this victory too badly, he thought, and that will disturb his judgment. 'The Shah is no better than a jackal! He runs away from us then doubles back to sniff at our spoor and snap at our heels.'

  'Our scouts have still not located his army?'

  'These are his mountains. He knows every valley, every ridge.'

  'Perhaps there is a way to flush him out.'

  Ibrahim seemed desperate. 'How?'

  'If you offer him a treaty …'

  'Never ! I have vowed to crush him!'

  'You are not treating with a European nobleman, my Lord. The Shah is just a jackal, as you have said. There would be no dishonour in using an offer to treat simply as a means to draw him close enough to strike.'

  Ibrahim brooded on this. Then: 'What do you suggest?'

  'If we can get a message to him …'

  'How can we do that?'

  'I am sure the Sufavids are watching us, even as we speak. Any lone messenger travelling east will be intercepted. They will find us - we do not have to find them.'

  'They will cut off his ears and nose and send them back in a leather pouch!'

  'They might. But then again - perhaps the Shah does not wish to spend every summer skulking in the mountains. He cannot make war on us forever.'

  Ibrahim got up and paced the tent. Outside, the sky had turned lead grey. Rain clouds swept towards them with the swiftness of charging cavalry.

  Rüstem watched Ibrahim think it through. He held his breath. This was the moment; if Ibrahim took the bait, his fortune was assured. Ibrahim would raise him up or he would lift himself up on the Grand Vizier's corpse. Either way, he would not be a clerk for ever.

  'Let me take the message to him.'

  Ibrahim gaped at him. 'You, Rüstem?'

  'I will coax the jackal from his lair.'

  'When does a defterdar become an ambassador?'

  'When he has ambition.'

  Ibrahim nodded his understanding. 'What is your plan?'

  'A sealed message from you, my Lord, offering him Tabriz and Azerbaijan in return for the holy city of Baghdad. We respect his borders to the east.'

  'He will never believe we would strike such a bargain.'

  'I can persuade him, if I have him face to face. And you have a duplicate of Suleiman's tugra, his personal seal. It is affixed to the offer, he must believe it is genuine.'

  'Supposing he listens to you. What then?'

  'We bring him and his escort to the plain under flag of truce and we massacre them like the dogs they are.'

  The rainstorm was overhead now and broke like a volley of cannon fire, thundering onto the hard ground and slapping violently on the roof of the tent. The flares in the brazier flared in a gust of wind. 'He will never believe it.'

  'Let me try. Perhaps he has heard of the alliance the Pope wants to bring against us. I will convince him we are more concerned for our borders to the west and wish to be rid of him.'

  Rüstem knew that Ibrahim had promised the Sultan the Shah's head; and after Vienna he could not afford another failure, not with the ziadi Hürrem whispering against him. He needed this victory.

  'All right, Rüstem. If you can bring him to me, your reward will be beyond your wildest dreams.'

  Rüstem bowed. And you only know the half of it! he thought.

  Chapter 9

  Shah Tamasp regarded the miserable creature in front of him. The man had been brought to the camp blindfold and in chains by two of his scouts. He lay face down in the dirt at the entrance to his pavilion, two scimitars pressed into the flesh of his neck, while the Shah read the contents of the missive he had brought with him.

  The Shah showed the letter to his mullah, who passed it to one of his generals. They shook their heads. What trickery had the Suleiman's Vizier devised now? The Shah snatched it back and read the letter a third time. He was a young man, thin as a whip with cruel eyes. When he spoke his voice was high and sibilant as a girl's. 'What is your name, messenger?'

  The wretch raised his face a few inches from the ground. 'Rüstem, my Lord.' There was a trickle of blood on his lips.

  'What is your rank in Suleiman's army?'

  'Defterdar, my Lord.'

  'A treasury clerk? When do the Osmanlis send their money counters as couriers?'

  'The Grand Vizier trusts me.'

  The Shah frowned. Well, this was odd. 'So Ibrahim is persuaded to sue for peace. Is this what his Sultan wants, also?'

  'Ibrahim has the confidence of the Lord of the Two Worlds. He has his tugra.'

  'Yes, I see that.'

  'He has given him leave to make treaties in his name.'

  'Defterdar Rüstem, can you tell me why your so-called Lord of the Two Worlds does not lead his army against us himself, as his father did?'

  'He has tired of war, my Lord. He wishes for peace.'

  So it was true, then. Suleiman was weak. The offer was reasonable. Too reasonable? But if it were real, he could present his mullahs with a great political victory. They could not hold Baghdad in the face of the Osmanli armies. When Ibrahim grew tired of chasing him through the mountains, he could take Tabriz and the Holy City and return to Stamboul. And then they would have to do this all again next year.

  Yes, perhaps this clerk is telling the truth. Rome worries them more than Baghdad.

  And yet.

  'Such a treaty might be possible, messenger Rüstem. But we must meet at a place of my choosing, with only bodyguards in attendance.'

  'You doubt Ibrahim's honour?'

  The Shah smiled. 'Of course. He's a Turke.'

  'Greek,' Rüstem corrected him.

  'Well there you are then.'

  He nodded at the two guards, who dragged him roughly to his feet. 'If he agrees to my conditions, tell him I accept his offer. Go in peace, Defterdar Rüstem.'

  The guards dragged him away. The Shah watched them put him on his horse, still chained and blindfolded. They led him through the rows of tents toward
the south. He wondered again about Suleiman. An Osmanli who wanted peace? A lie or the first sign of weakness? Well, as God wills.

  The wind was cool today, but winter was still a long way off. The Osmanli army would not be going home just yet. He would have to wait and see.

  ***

  'If you follow the spur, it will lead you to the valley where your friends are camped,' the Persian said and ripped the blindfold from Rüstem's face. The other rider unlocked his chains.

  Rüstem blinked in the sunlight. One of his guards, a bearded ruffian in a battered conical helmet, tugged at his beard. 'Next time we meet, perhaps the Shah will let me wet my word on your liver.'

  Rüstem ignored the insult and took the reins of his horse. He had no time for Persians, his was a greater game. The gamble had paid off. A simple thing now to conclude this business.

  Poor Ibrahim. He was far too fond of the grand gesture to be a truly great Vizier. Greatness required calculation and planning. Someone with the ability to see opportunity in danger.

  Someone like himself.

  The two Persians galloped away and he was left alone on the high steppe. He allowed himself a small smile. Then he rode back down the spur towards the camp. He rode like a clerk, but he had the heart of a bandit.

  Chapter 10

  Ibrahim's face betrayed both amusement and wonder. One finger tapped a tattoo on the arm of his throne. The silk tent flapped in the wind as it buffeted and sighed.

  'So you found the Shah?'

  'Yes, My Lord.'

  'You astonish me, Rüstem. I thought never to see you alive again. They kept you blindfold, no doubt.'

  'Indeed.'

  'They treated you well?'

  'Passably.'

  His robe was torn and filthy. There was blood and matted dirt in his beard. Had he suffered? The pale grey eyes betrayed nothing.

  'Your lip is cut.'

  'It is nothing.'

  Ibrahim roared with laughter. 'And I thought we might never see you again! What a loss you would have been to the world of poetry and good conversation!'

  'I think not, my Lord,' Rüstem said, seriously.

  Ibrahim shook his head. He sometimes entertained a fantasy in which he scooped off the top of Rüstem's skull with his sword, like an egg. When he peered inside there was no brain, just an abacus. 'So what does the Shah say to our offer of treaty?'

  'He has refused it, my Lord.'

  Ibrahim's face darkened, but the smile stayed doggedly in place. 'He does not trust us, Rüstem?'

  'It was the authority of the letter he mistrusted.'

  'The authority …?'

  'He said he could not treat with you.'

  The smile vanished. 'Why not?'

  'He said you were only a soldier, and that he could only accept such an offer as genuine if it were signed by the Sultan, not the Sultan's clerk.'

  Ibrahim stood up. He clenched his fists to stop the trembling in his hands. Then he grabbed Rüstem and threw him across the tent. Rüstem lay on his side, looking neither frightened or really all that surprised.

  Ibrahim drew the killiç from the jewelled sheath at his waist and raised it, double-handed, above his head, then brought it down, with all his strength, on the back of the throne, sending splinters of ivory and wood spinning across the tent. 'The Sultan's clerk? Is it the Sultan's clerk who sits every day in the Divan and administers the Empire? Is it the Sultan's clerk who leads his armies into battle for him while he pleasures himself in his Harem? The Sultan? I AM THE SULTAN!'

  'He spoke in ignorance, my Lord.'

  'Does he think the Sultans sends clerks into battle? Does he, Rüstem?'

  'I only repeat his words. He said he could not treat with any but the Sultan of the Osmanlis..'

  'How long must I endure this? The Sultan has entrusted to me his kingdoms, his armies, his power, everything! The making of war or the granting of peace are in my hand. Does the Shah know who it was called for the army to come here? It was I - not the Sultan! I take the burden and yet he calls me the Sultan's clerk!'

  'But my Lord -'

  Ibrahim held the killiç in front of Rüstem's eyes, turning it slowly so that the light pooled and shivered on the blade. 'When we take him, we take him alive.'

  'First we must lure him out. If we convey to the Lord of Life a message …'

  'No! I swore I would bring him back his head! Should I now rush to him with entreaties for his aid?'

  '… Then perhaps there is another way?'

  'Another way?'

  'All the Empire knows how greatly the Sultan has honoured and trusted you. Perhaps you should impress this upon the Shah. You must show him that you have the authority to make such a treaty.'

  'How?'

  'You must extend the offer again. Only this time you must sign it as the Sultan.'

  Ibrahim stared at him. Did this lunatic realize what he was saying? 'That is impossible.'

  'What else may we do, my Lord? Except chase him around the mountains until winter comes.'

  'I may do many things, Rüstem, but I cannot assume the title of Sultan.'

  'Who will know once it is done? You may bury the document with the Shah.'

  He has a point, Ibrahim thought. Unthinkable!

  And yet …

  Why not? I am Sultan in everything but name. He has trusted me with his Divan and his armies; if he did not wish me to invoke his power, why would he give me so much?

  'I cannot do it,' he said.

  'In that case let us hurry on and take back Baghdad but he will take it back as soon as we are gone. But you promised the Sultan his head and this is the only way to lure him out.'

  Ibrahim closed his eyes. Rüstem was right. How could he return to Suleiman without this victory? The Austrians had humiliated them at Güns; now the Shah taunted him from the mountains. And until their Asian border was secure again they could not take their armies against the Roman Emperor in Europe. His destiny was in the Green Apple, not here in this wilderness. It was Rome that would carve his name alongside Alexander's in history. If he must take a hammer to swat this mosquito, then so be it.

  He told Rüstem to get up and fetch a quill and parchment.

  To the Shah Tamasp of Persia, greetings and health, may prosperity and glory signal your days. From sundry verbal communications we have cognizance of your desire for peace, and by the grace of the Most High, whose power be forever exalted! we ourselves have no desire to make war on our brothers in Islam. We therefore make it known that should you give up the holy city of Baghdad and all territories you have conquered by force of arms, we shall cede to you Tabriz, and the lands known as Azerbaijan, should you pay tribute each year of one thousand gold ducats. Night and day our horse is saddled to ride and meet with you to conclude our peace.

  Written in the year of the Hejira, 941.

  Ibrahim. Seraskier Sultan.

  Chapter 11

  Seraskier Sultan!

  Rüstem reined in his horse on the ridge overlooking the Osmanli camp. The smoke from the morning campfires drifted upwards, throwing gauze over the distant panorama of the mountains. From here he could see the scarlet tent of the Grand Vizier, his standard with the six horsetails limp in the still of the morning.

  Seraskier Sultan!

  Rüstem turned and rode away towards the north. He spurred his horse beyond the first ridge, then wheeled around and galloped west. When he did not return Ibrahim would assume the Shah's men had murdered him. By the time he gave him up for lost he would be in Stamboul.

  Seraskier Sultan!

  Topkapi Saraya

  Suleiman crumpled the letter in his fist, his face ugly with grief.

  The pashas and muftis and generals who surrounded him all fell silent. They tried to look miserable, but they didn't fool anyone. He knew what they were all thinking. The vain boastful Greek had finally written his own death warrant!

  Rüstem Pasha stood in the centre of the Divan, waiting his turn to speak. There was no scent of perfume on him now.
He stank of horse. He claimed to have ridden for three weeks from the borderlands of Azerbaijan to bring his news.

  I would rather your horse had fallen and broken your neck, Suleiman thought.

  'You wrote this at his command?' he said finally.

  'Yes, great lord. He bid me take it to the Shah Tamasp. He affixed your seal.'

  Suleiman knew he was trapped. Ibrahim, I could have forgiven you anything, but not this! If Rüstem had come to me privately with this, I could perhaps have found some way to excuse you. But now he has made it public and presented me with your treachery in front of everyone. There is nothing I can do for you.

  What have you done?

  'Why did you not do as he commanded and take this to the Shah?'

  'My Lord, I know my duty. I could not allow such treachery to take place. I am your loyal servant.'

  You pathetic little worm! Suleiman thought. How dare you speak to me of treachery! Ibrahim has served me faithfully for more than a quarter of a century, he is my boyhood friend, he was my Seraskier, now my Vizier. How do you know this was really treachery? How can you be so certain?

  'The Sultan owes you a great debt, Defterdar Rüstem,' he forced himself to say. He stared at the crumpled parchment in his fist. 'How does the campaign progress?'

  'Since Tabriz, Ibrahim Pasha trails the Shah through the mountains but our only glimpse of him has been the dung of his horses. The Agas urge Ibrahim to Baghdad but he ignores their counsel. He says he is the only one capable of achieving victory. He says it has always been so.'

  A sigh passed around the chamber. How dare Rüstem say such things! Suleiman wondered. He repeats these calumnies in front of everyone as if they were figures from a balance sheet.

  'What of the morale of my army?'

  'They all ask for your presence to lead them. Without you they believe they cannot achieve victory. Even the Yeniçeris believe Ibrahim will only lead them further into the mountains, to disaster.'