SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  'You will do my bidding in this.'

  'And yet,' Rüstem persisted, 'where is the offence? He rode against Selim, not against you. Would you want this great Empire to be entrusted to a weakling? Did Selim gain the victory at Konia? No, by the ninety nine holy names, he did not! It was the wind of the dervishes and the cannon of Mohammed Sokolli. Selim is not worthy. It makes no sense to me.'

  What djinn possessed me to speak like this? Rüstem thought. You know he will not change his mind, once it is set. There is only person who could ever manage that, and she is dead. So why provoke him? A whole lifetime you have kept your thoughts to yourself and now you are gabbling like a fishwife.

  For one moment he thought Suleiman was even about to raise his finger to summon the bostanji. But instead he said softly: 'I have decided that Bayezid is not shahzade. Selim is my firstborn. Enough.'

  Rüstem bowed his head. There is more to this, he thought, but after a lifetime of dealing in secrets I shall never know this one. He struggled to his feet and limped out of the chamber.

  In his mind he turned the pages of his personal inventory: eight hundred and fifteen farms, seventeen hundred slaves, eight thousand turbans, six hundred illuminated copies of the Qu'ran, two million ducats …

  He was the richest man in the Empire, save the Sultan. He had proved himself a master of the game. The final book keeping of his life was confirmation of his mastery of life. Yet with death now beckoning with one skeletal finger, he struggled with the lingering suspicion that there was something that he had missed.

  ***

  The great drum in the courtyard of the Yeniçeris had not sounded for many years. It beat now, its echoes reverberating from the walls of the palace, hastening the last minute preparations. Suleiman mounted his horse by the fountain in the Third Court, wincing at the pain in his knees. Late that morning he led the army out.

  They crossed the Bosphorus at Üsküdar, and by that afternoon the column wound through the Cyprus groves at Çamlica, forcing the heavy laden wheat carts off the dusty road. Runners jogged at Suleiman's stirrup; the plumes of his solak guardsmen bobbed behind him.

  He tried to shut his mind to the rigours of the journey that lay ahead of him. At least twenty five days of hard riding to reach the fortress at Amasya; then a long campaign in the heat and dust, hunting down his own son like a wild boar. This is the civil war I did everything to avoid.

  I am too old for endless days in this saddle, each step of the horse jars these old bones. I have made so many laws, he thought; but in the end the Yeniçeris, the cavalry and the cannon were the only laws the Osmanlis really understood.

  But he would not allow the line to be broken; if Bayezid would not bend to his will then he would be made to submit.

  Chapter 61

  Armenia

  From Erzerum the Anatolian plateau rose into soaring snow-capped peaks and plunging valleys. Ranged along the mountain road were the shuffling remnants of the great army that he had assembled on the plains of Konia. Just a few thousand were left, most of them wounded, their horses lame and saddle sore. Most of the Kurds and Turkomans had melted away, back to their villages, to tend their sheep and angoras.

  As Bayezid and his ragged climbed higher they were swallowed by gray clouds. The road snaked along a gorge, scree crumbling beneath the horse's hooves. The rock walls here had been polished by centuries of horses and donkeys who had hugged the cliffs to keep from falling into the chasm on the other side of the path.

  The wind tore at robes, threatened at times to dislodge him from the saddle. The high passes were deserted save for the occasional lumbering brown bear. They passed a tarn, black and crusted with ice.

  They were deep inside Armenia now. Lake Wan was a steel-grey mirror far behind them. A falcon wheeled over their heads, its cry piercing the rush of the wind.

  The past few months were a jumble of skirmishes, all fought on the run. Bayezid had said goodbye to his wives at Konia, brought just his four young sons with him. They were guarded day and night by his personal guards. They were his treasure now, the prize around which he would gather a new army. While he and they still lived Suleiman could never rest, Selim could never rest.

  They had to find some way to survive, to regroup. He would not throw himself on his father's mercy because he expected none. Look at what happened to Mustapha.

  ***

  The shepherd's hut had been built in the lee of the ridge. A trick of the eye made it appear as if it were floating among the mountains. Bayezid turned to his lieutenant. 'We will camp here tonight. I shall make my headquarters in the hut there.'

  'Yes, My Lord,' the man said and hurried away to relay the order.

  The hut had been abandoned for the imminent winter. There were four stone walls with no shutters on the windows and no door. The floor was bare earth and the smell of animals was strong. A long way from the palace at Topkapi, he thought.

  A rainbow arced across the valley, chasing a shower of rain through a rent in the clouds. The light had turned a sulphurous green, and a chill wind stirred the grass. Thunder echoed around the passes. What was he going to do? There was nowhere to run and his followers no longer had the numbers or the will to fight. He had to find a way to survive.

  ***

  Frozen rain poured in through the roof even after the storm had passed. The wind had wrecked many of the tents during the night. This morning a chill mist drifted down from the mountains, horses stamped against the dawn chill. Men stumbled through the camp wrapped in blankets silent as wraiths.

  A jackal coughed somewhere close by.

  Bayezid ate his breakfast without appetite, just campaign provisions; yoghurt laced with raw onions and salt, diluted with cold water and eaten with a little dry pita. Suddenly Bayezid heard shouts from the camp and he jumped to his feet, spilling his bowl, thinking that Suleiman's akinji raiders had found them. A rider, dressed in Persian light armour, had appeared suddenly on the ridge above them. Bayezid's battered army rose to their feet and glared up at him.

  As he entered the camp he was disarmed by Bayezid's personal guard and led through the scowling ranks of Turks to Bayezid's tent. He received him sitting cross legged on the rich silk carpet that had been spread on the floor of the shepherd's hut.

  The rider executed a formal sala'am. 'I bring a message from the Shah Tamasp,' he said.

  Bayezid nodded and the lieutenant took the letter from the courier and brought it over. He read it quickly, then a second time, so that Bayezid had time to reflect on the astonishing offer that it contained. 'The Shah offers us sanctuary?'

  'Suleiman has never been a friend to Persia,' the courier said. 'When Sultan Bayezid ascends the throne, he hopes to find an ally at the Sublime Porte at last.'

  The wind gave an eerie moan as it gusted through the open windows of the yali. Ascend the throne! Bayezid thought. For now ascending the next ridge is as much as I can hope for. This offer is anathema, of course; yet it would give us a chance to draw breath without my father's cavalry sniping at our heels. We are cold and dispirited and defeated, there are more wounded with us than able men. What choice do I have?

  'You will wait while I consider my reply,' he said, but as the man was led away he already knew what his answer would be.

  ***

  Suleiman looked up at the mountains. A heavy band of cloud clung to the peaks and high passes, weeping rain.

  'He has gone,' Sokolli said. 'He has crossed the border into Persia.'

  'To the Shah?'

  'He offered him sanctuary. My spies say Bayezid has taken a hundred of his men with him. The rest have gone back to their villages, They will not trouble us again.'

  Bayezid, you fool. While you remained in the Empire you had a chance. Did you not know my army was on the verge of revolt? Whole regiments of Yeniçeris were refusing to march against you, patrols go out to search for you and return with their horses still fresh. I know they have searched no further than the nearest tree to sleep under. Only the akinji still
fight, but they never care whose blood they spill.

  If you had defied me one more month winter would have closed in and I would have been forced back to Stamboul. I would never have persuaded one of these men to come back and fight you again in the Spring. They loved you, they loved how you charged at their guns at Konia, loved how you fought on even when I brought my whole army against you. They love you every bit as much as they detest Selim.

  The one thing they could not forgive is for an Osmanli to accept the mercy of a Persian. When you crossed the border you left behind everything they thought you were.

  You fool. Even the Yeniçeris will curse you now.

  Chapter 62

  Amasya, 1561

  She did not perform her sala'am as she entered the room. But then she is an old woman now, he thought, not as concerned about the consequence of offending me. Strange that I loved her so much once; now it is like meeting a stranger.

  'My Lord.'

  'It has been a long time,' he said.

  'As you say.'

  He sat down beside her on the divan. 'Are you well?'

  'As well as one can expect at this great age. And you, my Lord?'

  'My legs swell and I ache all over.'

  Gülbehar fingered the tespi in her lap. 'So what has brought you here then, so far from the comforts of the Porte?'

  Time is cruel, Suleiman thought. Look what it has done to you, what it has done to both of us. It has robbed you of your beauty and me of my dreams. In the end we had no more control of our destinies than the leaves on the trees. 'I wish to be reconciled,' he said.

  'I cannot believe that after all you did, what you did to my son, what you did to me, that you still expect my friendship and good favour. I am frankly astonished.'

  'I am still your lord and you are one of my kullar. You still have a duty to me.'

  'Am I then obliged to forgive you? Because, if that is what you are saying, then I must admit my failing. Once I would have done anything you bid me, my Lord, out of love, not duty. Now I do not care. I despise you.'

  'I could order your execution at this very moment if I chose! Age does not excuse your insults.'

  'Then do it. I am tired of your threats.'

  Suleiman rose to his feet. There was a blue and white porcelain vase in the corner of the room, the height of a man. Suleiman drew his killiç and smashed it with one blow. He stood among the shards and screamed: 'I am your Lord!'

  'You are my son's murderer!'

  'I gave him life and he turned against me! What did he expect?'

  'He was innocent. You are a butcher like your father!'

  Suleiman placed the edge of the blade at her neck. She did not flinch, looked him straight in the eyes and waited. The pearl tespi clicked through her fingers.

  Just like your father.

  Be done with it, a voice said. You are the Sultan. How dare she speak against you, the Lord of Life, the King of Kings, the Possessor of Men's Necks? Women's necks too! Do it. Do it.

  He lowered the sword.

  'Enough' he said. He sent the sword clattering across the floor and stormed out of the room. Gülbehar returned to her prayers, the pearls clicking between her fingers while a gediçli brushed away the shards of broken porcelain.

  Nothing can hurt me now.

  Shiraz, Persia

  There was a nimbus around the moon. Below it, the Zagros mountains glinted in the moonlight, stark and alien and ice white. As if I had been exiled to the moon itself, he thought. He shivered in his fur pelisse.

  He heard the ring of hooves in the courtyard below. A rider jumped from his horse, leaving a page holding the reins, steam rising from his horse's heaving flanks. He shouted the password to the guard and ran inside. Perhaps this was the news he had been waiting for.

  He remembered what Gülbehar had said to him: 'It made no sense to kill my son. But he did it anyway.'

  How many times had he gone over it in his head? What else could he have done? Mustapha did nothing and Suleiman executed him; he had acted like a true ghazi and Suleiman had thrown his entire army against him. How was it possible to understand such a man?

  A log cracked and broke in the grate in a shower of sparks. There were footsteps on the stone flags outside and the door was thrown open.

  The Shah entered, smiling like a jackal. I don't want to trust you, he thought, but once again I have no choice. 'I have good news for the young shahzade of the Osmanlis,' he said.

  'Your chaush has returned from Stamboul?' There had been many messengers riding to and fro in the last few months. Had his father finally relented?

  'Yes, the chaush has returned. A time and a place has been agreed. He wants to meet with you!'

  'Where?'

  'Tabriz. He is coming there in secret. Everything is arranged.'

  'And Selim?'

  'Selim knows nothing about it. Perhaps your father has had a change of heart. The Shadow of God Upon the Earth has remembered he is mortal like the rest of us.'

  'May I see the letter?'

  The Shah hesitated. 'There was no letter. The message was entrusted to my man's memory.'

  You're lying, Bayezid thought. 'That is unlike my father.'

  The Shah did not reply.

  'Did he commit to your chaush's memory any intent of his purpose?'

  'Only that he wishes a reconciliation with his son - he believes him now to be a true ghazi.'

  Unlike my father not to put his words under his tugra. There is something wrong here. But what can I do?

  'When?' Bayezid asked him.

  'We leave tonight,' the Shah said.

  Konia

  Selim is just thirty four years old, Abbas reminded himself. But he already looks like an old man. His face is so bloated from drink that his eyes look like two small currants sunk into a custard. His body is gross no matter how fine the gowns that he wears.

  Prince Barley Pudding indeed.

  He was slumped on the divan picking at a large tray of halwa on the silver table beside him. He selected three of the pastries and popped them in his mouth.

  'You have news, Kislar Aghasi?'

  'I do, my Lord.' He wondered how he would react when he heard. Even Abbas wondered what to make of it.

  'From my father?'

  'He has left Amasya and rides east.'

  The negotiations had dragged on for more than a year. It seemed the shahzade was worth much less to Suleiman than the Shah Tamasp had hoped. It had been whispered that the starting price had been Mesopotamia.

  'He looks sick, I hope?' Selim laughed and sprayed half-chewed pastry over Abbas' robe.

  'The Lord of Life cannot spend as long in the saddle as he once did.'

  'Does he have his army with him?'

  'No, my Lord. My spies say he has a squadron each of solaks and Spahis and an oda of Yeniçeris.'

  Selim clapped his hands. A page appeared holding a pitcher of wine and a jewelled cup. Selim held the cup out to be filled. He swallowed it in one draft. There was halwa and wine in his beard.

  The page refilled the cup and withdrew.

  'For what purpose do you think?'

  'They say he will meet Bayezid at Tabriz. There are whispers of reconciliation.'

  Selim jumped to his feet and the wine spilled across the carpets. He uttered a shrill wail and began to shake. Not again, Abbas thought. This is like minding a small child.

  No one moved, not the pages, nor the guards, nor the pashas. Finally Selim fell back onto the divan. He had bunched the corner of his robe in his fist. His eyes were out of focus. 'I have been betrayed,' he said. 'Wine! Where is my wine? You!' He pointed to the bostanji standing in readiness by the door. Selim pointed to the page holding the silver ewer. He gave the signal and without hesitation the executioner did as he was bidden, lopping the poor boy's head neatly from his shoulders.

  Abbas silently withdrew, drawing no attention to himself. He had no interest in the aftermath of such a spectacle. He had lived too long under the tyranny of princes
.

  Chapter 63

  Tabriz

  Moonlight rippled on the tiled domes of the Blue Mosque and burned like phosphorus on the chill ribbon of the Aji Chai River. The sound of flutes and drums carried on the cold air; yellow light flickered from the shuttered windows of the citadel.

  In the great hall slave girls in gaudy silk and gossamer danced while the guests gorged from the silver plates on the carpets in front of them. The Shah sat in the centre of the room with his guest of honour, Bayezid.

  The Shah leaned towards him. 'Suleiman regrets what he has done to you,' he said. 'Perhaps you will allow me to mediate. It is not too late. I will help you now and when you are Sultan, Persia and the Osmanlis will be allies.'

  'What does he want from me?'

  'Just that you stay your hand until his death. Selim will take the throne of course but it will not matter. When you return the Yeniçeris will never support him over you.'

  Bayezid had no appetite for the food, or the promise of women later. The delegation was due in the morning. He must learn patience and cunning from now on. He had been too impulsive in the past. Time enough to see Selim's fat head on a pole.

  Bayezid was aware of a cold draught on his back, realized that someone had entered the hall behind him. Latecomers. He felt the short hairs at the back of his neck prickle with alarm. The Shah was seated opposite Bayezid, facing the door. He glanced up for a moment, then returned to eating.

  'Who are our guests?'

  'They are expected,' he said.

  Then Bayezid heard it; a familiar sound if one had lived in the palace, something between a bark and a cough, like a dog trying to swallow a piece of gristle. It was the noise men made when they had no tongue to speak. The sound of a mute.

  The Shah smiled, with genuine regret. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'Your father insisted.'