SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  He clapped his hands and a page threaded his way through the girls with a cup of wine. Selim drained it in one draft and returned to his pleasures.

  He mounted yet another girl, gripping her braids as if they were the reins of a horse. 'Damn you, Bayezid! See, I shall impregnate a whole herd of women and my sons shall swarm over the throne like ants over a corpse!'

  He released the girl and scuttled after yet another; but by now the wine had slowed him and he slumped forward on his face. He tried to struggle back to his knees. The girls cowered away along the walls but Abbas cracked the whip above their heads to force them back into the centre of the room.

  Selim grunted and made after the nearest one. He caught her leg but she wriggled free and he toppled over onto his back, his belly heaving. He had already lost his erection to the wine, Abbas noted.

  He made a final attempt to rise but his head fell back onto the carpets. He laughed again. 'Damn you, Bayezid!' Within seconds he was snoring.

  Abbas clapped his hands and the girls fled from the room. Four pages lifted the sleeping shahzade from the floor and carried him to his bedchamber. The prince of the Osmanlis, first son of the Magnificent, pretender to the throne of the greatest empire on earth, turned over and vomited copiously on the silk sheets.

  Chapter 58

  Konia

  The dervishes had been fasting and praying for a month. Now, drunk with opium and faces ghost-white from talcum, they filed into the courtyard. The musicians sat in a circle, cross-legged on the hard stone. The flutes began to play, the soft wailing drifting upwards as a sliver of moon rose behind the dome of the türbesi. Torchlight threw long shadows on the walls of the monastery.

  The drummers joined in, quickening the rhythm as the dancers began to spin, long skirts fanning out around their legs. They started their chant, saying prayers for the great ones.

  The dancers inclined their heads to their right shoulders, their heavy garments giving off a low whistling moan, like the wind in the mountains.

  Bayezid felt his own heartbeat speeding up in time with the music; still they whirled, until even the dancer's faces began to blur. But not one of them staggered, none of them fell.

  The music ended without warning. The dancers fell prostrate to the floor, heads rolling on their shoulders, flecks of foam on their lips. They were in the trance.

  He stepped into the circle and approached one of the dancers, a tall monk with a white beard and a brown face as wrinkled and hard as a walnut. They said he was one hundred and eleven years old. 'Holy Man, can you see?' he said.

  His eyes were open but his pupils were cold and glazed, like a dead fish. 'I can see,' the old man answered.

  'Tell me what you see for the sons of Suleiman.'

  'If the one who is not the son of Suleiman becomes king, I see only misery and corruption and stink.'

  Bayezid crouched lower, trying to make out his words more clearly. The one who was not his son? 'What of Bayezid?'

  'I do not see him.'

  'Who do you see then?'

  'A great wind that blows a curtain over everything. God's wind.'

  'What else?'

  'There is nothing else. I see only the wind.'

  Bayezid stood up, frowning with disgust. All these monks only ever spoke in riddles. You could never get any sense out of any of them. He stamped away. Holy men? Holy wasters of time!

  Topkapi Saraya

  Suleiman stared at the gediçli kneeling at the foot of his throne. Her tight curls were grizzled with gray but her eyes had lost none of their malevolence. For thirty five years she had been Hürrem's slave, and hardly worthy of his attention. Now he had summoned her here by express command. Muomi alone, he realized, could possess the remedy for his grief.

  'You were the Lady Hürrem's handmaiden since she was first gözde. Yes?'

  'Yes, My Lord.'

  'You knew her intimately?'

  'I did.'

  'I wish then, to speak of intimate matters. There is no reason to fear,' he added, ' as long as you answer me truthfully, for I am your Sultan, and your allegiance is to me, not Hürrem. She rests now and is beyond mortal retribution.'

  'Yes, My Lord.'

  ''I want you to think back, to your first years of service. Do you remember a man called Ibrahim who was my vizier for many years?'

  'I remember, my Lord.'

  Suleiman leaned even closer so that now he was perched on the very edge of the throne. 'Was it possible … that the lady Hürrem ever received him in the Eski Saraya?'

  Muomi raised her head and met his eyes. God help me in my sorrow, he thought. This woman is terrifying. She has Satan in her eyes.

  'She received him once, my Lord.'

  He could not breathe.

  'How?' he asked her finally.

  'A bribe to the Kislar Aghasi, the captain of the Girls, before Abbas. The Lady Hürrem swore me to secrecy. She said I would die if I ever whispered a word of it.'

  She is lying, Suleiman thought.

  She is lying.

  She must be.

  A lie, a lie, a lie.

  'NO!' he screamed at her. He leaped from the throne and slapped her across the face. Muomi fell back, astonished that this frail old man still had the strength to hit so hard. She put a hand to her lips and it came away bloody.

  'Bostanji!' Suleiman screamed and signalled to the deaf-mute who stood in attendance. The man stepped forward and drew the yataghan from his belt. With one movement he scythed Muomi's head from her shoulders. A fine pattern of blood sprayed over Suleiman's boots.

  It was a lie.

  It had to be.

  Chapter 59

  Konia

  Wind.

  It whipped at the pennons on the levelled lances and tore at the robes of the waiting horsemen. Bayezid sat immobile on his Arab stallion, his face partially hidden behind the nasal of the conical silver helmet. When he drew his damascened sword, thousands of his cavalry ranged behind him imitated his movement so the sounds of steel rasping on sharpened blades could be heard even over the howling of the wind.

  Bayezid spurred his horse forward into a walk. The line of horsemen behind him followed.

  Even at this distance he could see the mouths of the cannon on the other side of the plain. They would not fire on him, he was sure of it.

  'Vvvvvt!' Bayezid whispered to his horse and it broke from its march into a canter.

  Dust rose from the hoofs, a purple tail that spiralled from the plain like a trailing banner. Bayezid heard the ululation behind him as they gathered speed. The ground flashed past in a blur. Nothing could stand against this wall of lancers and the muscles of the Arab warhorses.

  He brought his sword over his head and held it in front of his body, pointing towards the cannon. He ordered the charge.

  He was sure Sokolli could not persuade his troopers to fire on their favourite son.

  ***

  Selim heard the drumming of the hoofs and felt the vibrations through the thick carpets strewn on the floor of his pavilion. He gripped the arms of his throne as if a chasm had opened up in the ground around him.

  He clapped his hands and Abbas hurried to his side with the jug of wine. 'Where is Sokolli?' Selim said.

  'He is with the Yeniçeris, my Lord.'

  Selim took the glass but his hands were shaking so badly he spilled most of it into his beard and down the front of his golden robe. Abbas refilled it. The last servant who had been too slow to refill the shahzade's goblet had lost both his hands at the wrist.

  'Sokolli should be here with me,' Selim said.

  'With respect, it is better that he is with the gunners. Someone must direct them.'

  Selim badly needed to void his bowels. He drained his glass and rushed out of the tent.

  ***

  The horses had sensed the coming storm. They shook their tasselled heads and stamped their hoofs. Murad rode to the crest of the ridge and scanned the sky to the south. The horizon had disappeared. He watched the dust storm
sweep across the Mevlevi monastery almost as if the dervishes had summoned it there.

  'God's wind,' Murad muttered. 'It is headed straight for our cavalry. In a few minutes they will be blind.'

  He drew his killiç from his belt. It was time. There were two dozen riders waiting with him in the gully. He wheeled his horse to face them. 'Now!' he barked.

  ***

  Muhammad Sokolli had expected trouble.

  He had brought with him from Stamboul a hand-picked squadron of Yeniçeris and solak guardsmen. They were veterans of the campaigns in Persia with Suleiman; a handful of them had even served as young men at Mohacs. They were loyal only to the Sultan.

  He had taken the precaution of deploying them in a line behind the artillery. As he watched Bayezid's horde make the charge he thanked God for his foresight.

  There were two banners of cloud drifting towards them; the cavalry from the front, the desert storm behind. He wondered which would arrive first.

  'When I give the order you will fire!' he screamed over the rushing of the wind.

  The Yeniçeris looked at each other then at the advancing cavalry. Finally one of them found the courage to speak up: 'We cannot fire on the shahzade!'

  The horses came on.

  'That is not the shahzade,' Sokolli shouted at the man. 'Selim is the shahzade, as decreed by your Sultan. Prepare to fire!'

  Not a single trooper bent to the pyramid of musket balls beside their cannon pieces. 'Long live Bayezid!' someone shouted.

  Sokolli could see Bayezid now, in his green robes - a clever choice, Sokolli thought, the colour of Islam. The ground shook under their feet.

  Sokolli drew his sword and turned to the soldiers waiting in line behind him. 'Prepare to fire,' he shouted. They rested their harquebuses on the forked sticks in their left hands and aimed at the gunners in front of them.

  Sokolli turned back to the artillery troopers. 'Fire or I will give them the order to shoot all of you.'

  Still they hesitated.

  'Aim ..' Sokolli said. Is their nerve going to hold, he wondered. Will they force me to fire? We will all die, if they do.

  The cavalry were close now.

  Suddenly one of the men picked up a cannon ball and heaved it into the mouth of his cannon. One by one the others did the same.

  'Light the fuses,' Sokolli said.

  They lowered the trajectories, aiming at the onrushing horde.

  ***

  Bayezid saw an orange blossoming of flame along the line of artillery, heard the howl of shot in the air. The earth erupted all around him. It was if God had taken an invisible scythe and raked it over their ranks. Suddenly he was riding alone.

  They were gone! Almost every man riding with him in the first wave had disappeared. He saw a horse, wide-eyed with terror, trying to rise to its feet, dripping blood from its severed foreleg. Its rider lay in several dusty heaps beside it.

  He turned in the saddle. The plain was littered with more little mounds, horses and men, some writhing, some lying quite still where they had fallen. The second wave came on. The ground erupted again and for a moment they, too, were lost behind a wall of flame and dirt.

  Just a handful rode on through the cloud.

  A third wave, a fourth.

  They had to keep coming. He turned back to urge them on.

  Now he heard the hiss of arrows in flight, the clang of musket balls and crossbow bolts hitting armour. The ground erupted again, and more horses were scythed away from their riders.

  Bayezid raised his sword and stood in the stirrups so they could all see him. 'Death to Selim!'

  Another wave came, then another. His ragged army of bandits and horsemen did not waver. While the new Mustapha sat in the saddle, they were ready to die.

  They would do it, he thought. Despite Sokolli's cannon, they would prevail.

  ***

  By the time Murad reached Selim's camp the storm had already rolled in, obscuring the horsetail standard outside the shahzade's tent. Where was he? They galloped in circles, hacking down the few guards who tried to stand in their way.

  God's wind had obliterated everything.

  Murad could not make out anything more than a few yards in front of him. 'Where is he?' he screamed.

  He could hear the rest of his raiding party but all sight of them was lost behind the stinging barrage of sand. He raised his arm to protect his face, did not see the man who ran from one of the tents and slashed the hamstrings of his Arab. The beast bucked and screamed and crashed onto its side.

  The fall trapped him underneath his horse, jarring his killiç from his fist and winding him. He looked around desperately for his attacker. He glimpsed the blue jacket and gray cap of a Yeniçeri. He fumbled for the spear in its sheath on the saddle and threw it.

  His practice at the çerit had served him well. The spear took the trooper through his chest. The man fell back, choking and kicking.

  The crippled Arab was scrabbling in the dust, trying to regain his feet. For a moment it lifted its weight and he was able to scramble clear. He crawled to the dying trooper and took his sword off him. His ankle was agony. He limped away, blinded by the storm.

  ***

  Murad heard a woman's screams. The dust cleared for just a moment and he saw veiled figures running from a silk pavilion, darting between the horses and the silhouettes of fighting men. Somehow they had found Selim's harem; Prince Barley Pudding could not be too far away. He limped towards them but then the dust closed around them again and everything was just shadow.

  He was standing in front of a purple tent. There it was the horsetail standard! But where were the guards? Perhaps they had been lured away by the battle in front of the women's' tent. He tore open the entrance curtain and went in, dragging his injured leg behind him.

  Bayezid, I will not let you down. You will be Sultan, I shall make sure of that.

  He came face to face with an enormous Moor. He wore a kaftan of bright blue flowered silk. There were pointed ship-ship on his feet and a ruby glinted in his left ear. Although he dressed like a fop, he was one of the ugliest man Murad had ever seen in his life. His face had been scarred and only one eye remained. He was also obscenely fat, even for a eunuch. He gaped at Murad then fell prostrate on the floor in front of him.

  'Please don't hurt me,' he said. 'I am just a harmless slave.'

  Murad snorted in disgust and burst through another silk curtain into the inner sanctum. Selim lay on his belly, arms and legs spreadeagled. Murad leaned his weight on his sword and rolled him over with his uninjured foot expecting to see him split open like an over ripe peach.

  He heard the rustle of silk as the eunuch followed him in. 'Is he dead?' Murad asked him.

  'No, he is not dead, my Lord, only drunk. He fainted as soon as he heard the first cannon.'

  'Then he is fortunate. He will not feel my sword tickle his ribs.'

  Murad raised his killiç for the death blow. Suddenly he felt as if every nerve, every muscle had been numbed. The sword slipped from his fingers and fell onto the carpet. He did not understand what was happening.

  He lay on his back, staring up at the eunuch. There was a jewel-handled dagger in the slave's hand and blood smeared down the blade. 'I am sorry,' Abbas said to him. 'But I cannot let you kill him. I wish that I could.'

  Everything went black.

  ***

  Bayezid turned his horse from the whipping blast of sand and rode back across the plain, his stallion picking its way through a litter of bleeding and moaning horses and men. How many have I lost today? he wondered.

  Sokolli's cannon were silent. There was only the howl of the wind and the cries of the dying now. A horse nuzzled a fallen rider; the Turkoman tried to crawl towards him, both legs shot away, leaving a trail of gore in the dust. Bayezid jumped down and administered the merciful blow, sending the man to Paradise.

  They were defeated. Their charge had been halted by a barrage of sand and grapeshot. It was God's wind. The monk was right, after all
.

  Chapter 60

  Topkapi Saraya

  Suleiman was propped on a divan in the Çinili Kiosk. The Judas trees were in blossom and the bay of Yenikapi was teeming with caïques, all piled high with eggplants cucumbers and melons they had ferried over from the Asian shore.

  'You look ill, Vizier.'

  'Nothing that death will not cure,' Rüstem said.

  Suleiman shook his head. 'I may be wrong but I suspect that even this late in your life you are developing a sense of humour, Rüstem Pasha.'

  'I do not think so, my Lord.'

  Suleiman shrugged. 'There is no answer to my letter?

  'No, my lord. Yet that means nothing, in itself. Selim may have intercepted his messenger.'

  'Or he did not send a messenger. Perhaps he still defies me.'

  'Why do we draw our swords against him, my Lord? Is it wise?'

  'Suddenly at this stage of your life you embrace a cause? I have trusted you all these years because you never let your heart stand in the way of reason. Indeed, I often wondered if you had a heart. Now you plead Bayezid's case? Are you in his employ now?'

  'My Lord, I meant no offence.'

  'I am not offended. Speak openly.'

  'I just do not understand our strategy,' he said while another part of him screamed: shut up! Why do you speak for Bayezid? He is no friend of yours! If he ever came to the throne his first act would be to exile you to Diyabakir! Be still!

  'What is it that you do not understand?'

  'The logic of it. Why destroy Bayezid? Mustapha went too far, he was a real threat to you. But if we crush Bayezid then the throne falls to Selim and Selim …' He spread his hands in a gesture of despair.