The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale

by Reggie Oliver

  “Indeed,” said the wretched man, wiping his little red eyes, “I deeply regret the distress this has caused among the faithful. But my heart told me it was red. With the genius of my astonishing imagination I pictured the prophet in my mind’s eye. And behold! He had a beard as red as blood on the white skin of a Circassian maiden! Should I not have been true to this God-given vision?”

  “You lie, dog!” cried Haroun giving him a kick that sent him flying back to his executioners. Presently I saw him pushed, howling and struggling, into the sack and with him the three animals, each of these protesting almost as much as Salomon at their confinement. With a heave and a swing three great Janissaries hurled the sack into the sea. For a few horrifying moments the thing writhed and struggled on the surface before it began mercifully to sink.

  “I do not know which to pity most,” said Haroun, “the dog, the cock or the serpent.”

  Presently we were approached by a tall, elderly man who, Haroun told us, was the Chaoush Bashi, the Grand Master of Ceremonies. We were to form part of the triumphal procession of Sokolly and mounts had been provided for us, well-trained, placid beasts, as are most Turkish horses. It was a glittering cavalcade that wound its way first through the wharves and shipbuilding yards, then through the covered bazaars and up the narrow streets which mount the first of Stamboul’s seven hills. The sight brought out the populace who are notably impassive and incurious as a whole. The old houses, which leaned across the narrow streets so that their projecting bays of latticework seemed to touch each other, were packed with onlookers.

  The unhurried, even genial way in which this affair was organized made us feel less awkward about being the token captives in a victory procession. Indeed, I doubt if one in ten of those who came to see recognized us as such.

  Having reached the open space in front of Santa Sofia — that great Christian temple, the glory of the Emperor Justinian, now turned traitor and become a mosque — we veered round to the right and in at the main entrance of the Seraglio, passing through a large archway under a gate tower which broke the massive line of the walls. We were now in the first court of the royal palace.

  This court, which was so huge that it served as a parade ground, marked the limit beyond which no horses were allowed to pass. So we dismounted, and the procession continued on foot.

  Sitting on a bench within the gateway to the next court was the Agha of the Janissaries together with twenty-eight of his colonels with their pointed brocade hats surmounted by huge white plumes, and a group of other officers in brilliant uniforms of green and gold.

  After a solemn, and, as it seemed to us, interminable exchange of greetings, we passed on into the inner court. Here we found ourselves in an even wider expanse than before, surrounded on all sides by cloisters and containing a grassy park dotted about with clumps of trees under which tame stags and other beasts were grazing. Upwards of a thousand Janissaries swarmed about the place engaged in a wide variety of idle and vicious amusements.

  As we were taking the track which leads across this park we were startled to hear a number of the Janissaries raise a terrific shout and dash tumultuously towards a corner of the court. Their heavy iron-shod shoes rattled on the stone paving of the cloisters so that they sounded like a troop of cavalry charging down a street. We feared for a moment that some outburst of fanaticism was about to be directed against us, for these men fear nothing, not even the Sultan himself, but their object was only a row of two-handled brass bowls which had just been brought into the court and set down on the stones of the cloisters.

  These bowls were full of rice and chicken broth which was the Janissaries’ dinner. The warriors fell on their bowls and began to gobble their food at a tremendous rate, and they ate so ravenously that they beslobbered their faces all over. While their tongues were silent they managed to make a deafening noise as they clattered the brass bowls together. In less time than it takes to light a candle they were finished.

  Being denied other joys of the flesh these Janissaries are addicted to the pleasures of the table, though their taste is for quantity rather than quality. When at war they treat the regimental stew pot as other soldiers would their standard. The cooks hold an important position in their ranks and the prestige of the kitchen may be gauged by the strange title that they give to company commanders, namely “chorbaji” or “soup-man”.

  The whole of our cortege had halted and were looking anxiously at the devouring mob. I asked Haroun why such an interest was being taken in what was presumably a daily occurrence.

  “They are looking to see if our soldiers are finding the food acceptable,” he said. “Usually a lack of appetite is the presage of discontent in the ranks, even of bloodshed and rebellion. And when their cooks overturn the food cauldrons that is the sign for them to rampage.”

  The next court we entered was the court of the divan, the divan being the council of the Sultan’s ministers, the head of which is the Grand Vizier; and passing across this we entered the divan chamber which is a large square room roofed by a dome painted with flowers. Three large windows give light to it and in one wall is a little gilt grille with silk curtains behind which the Sultan may sit to listen to the debate. Copies of the Koran, the Bible and the Talmud lie on an exquisitely carved table of gilded ivory ready for use in swearing in witnesses who are called to give evidence at a meeting.

  From there we passed through a maze of courtyards and corridors, past gardens full of exquisite scents and flowers such as I had never seen, past huge aviaries full of twittering, brightly coloured birds, by cool fountains where I would have longed to loiter. Finally we entered a suite of rooms richer than we had seen before.

  They were not lavishly furnished, some had nothing in them but a few cushions, but the walls were ablaze with the richest of Persian carpets and the most sumptuous of hangings. The floors were all highly polished and inlaid with marble and semiprecious stones. The ceilings, most of which were domed, were either similarly decorated or painted with a variety of scenes, some of them most lascivious, while one was composed entirely of coloured glass held together by an iron framework. The sun shone fiercely through it. Standing in that room was like being at the fiery heart of a rich jewel.

  Then we came from this room and into the outer audience chamber of the Sultan himself. The procession, which had been lively and chattering all the way, suddenly fell silent.

  So, preceded by the Grand Vizier and other pashas of the Divan, we were ushered into the audience chamber. Just as we passed the Guard of White Eunuchs which stood at the door, these men — if they can be described as such — fell upon us and, gripping each of us under either arm, pushed rather than led us into the Sultan’s presence.

  Thus propelled we entered a room, spacious but not vast, hung about with Persian carpets. In one corner stood the famous throne of the Sultan with its panels of beaten gold and rich pearl inlay. This throne was shadowed by a splendid canopy encrusted with rubies and sapphires and supporting a mesh of stringed pearls fringed with emeralds, while an overlay of fine gold wire set with glowing carbuncles adorned its arms.

  Upon this truly majestic seat reposed a small, squat, yellow-faced man with a wispy black beard and watery eyes. His dress was ablaze with precious stones of every description, while on his head he wore the imperial headdress consisting of a small turban surmounted by a three-branched diamond tiara with an aigrette feather in the centre. There was something disturbing in seeing such a foul-looking specimen of humanity so splendidly attired. He was a living symbol of all that is unjust in life.

  Sokolly took up his place behind the Sultan where he stood with eyes lowered as if unable to endure the dazzling radiance of his monarch. We were brought to a halt three paces short of the throne and made to prostrate ourselves. His Highness looked at us indolently, then turned to his Vizier and said: “Where are the gifts?”

  “They are in the fountain court, Highness. There were too many to bring here.”

  Sultan Murad rose from hi
s throne and, indicating that we were to follow him, began to waddle towards the door. It was a curious stuttering gait, as if he launched his bloated body forward in bursts. I later found that this speed of movement was rare in him, but three things only roused him from the dreaming lethargy in which he spent most of his worthless life, and one of these was the prospect of more treasure.

  The rest of us scampered in his wake, and he seemed to gather a greater retinue of hangers on as he progressed. Then at the entrance of the fountain court he stopped as he saw, assembled in it, a great variety of gifts sent to the Sultan from Xantho. The three of us gasped at our sovereign’s munificence, though we might have been more astonished had it not been so rigorously dictated by necessity.

  There were great bolts of the finest embroidered cloth, gilded plate and candlesticks of gold, two silver dragons holding golden cups in their paws, three mastiffs in red coats, three spaniels, one bloodhound, two greyhounds and two lapdogs in coats of silk. On a pedestal of ebony stood a silver clock in the shape of a castle with jewels for windows. At that moment the hour struck and, in a jangle of bells, the tortoiseshell doors of the castle opened and a silver knight on a horse of gold emerged to raise his sword in salute before retreating again.

  The dogs were much agitated by these bells and began to bark and strain at the leash of their handlers and chase their own tails. Murad took no notice of this, but sidled up to the clock and poked at the tortoise shell doors with his finger. Then he nodded and turned towards us. Through Haroun he asked whether any of us liked poetry. Vlad and Razendoringer replied that they did while I replied that I practised it in a humble way myself. Murad nodded curtly and replied that we should all learn the Turkish language quickly in order to hear and appreciate his own poetry.

  Then he turned and was on his way to the Harem where none of us could follow him.

  This, I discovered was the one appealing feature of an otherwise thoroughly debauched character: he had both a passion and a certain talent for poetry.

  It had been a most eventful morning and presently we were shown to the rooms in the palace where we were to be confined. Haroun was to visit us daily to continue our education in the Turkish language, and there were countless slaves to wait on us. Indeed, it was the most pleasant prison I have ever been in.

  During the next few days our every want was catered for, except the need to know what was to happen to us. Haroun was a most agreeable companion, but on the subject of our fate he had nothing to say. This maddened Vlad in particular as his mind was constantly returning to the kingdom of which he was now the sole heir. The soothing luxury of our existence was no doubt calculated to make us lose all sense of time, but on all of us it had the opposite effect.

  Expeditions outside our apartments were rare indeed, so that they stand out with great vividness. I remember in particular one day when Haroun was showing us the gardens of the Seraglio which are without doubt the most beautiful of their kind in the world, full of rare birds, cool fountains, sweet odours and colours to dazzle the eye.

  While we were walking together among the bowers of jasmine and rose, so full of heady scents that we were nearly drunk from the perfume, we heard suddenly the tinkle of feminine laughter. Haroun looked around him in great agitation. Then he whispered to us: “Down! Down on your faces, and, in the name of everything sacred, don’t look up!” We did as we were told and heard the laughter come nearer. I swivelled my eyes upward and saw six vast Nubian eunuchs pass by, their great black feet slapping the ground, curved scimitars swinging at their sides, and in the middle of them a delicate-ankled maiden in gossamer pantaloons.

  “That was Baffo,” said Haroun, when they had gone, “currently The Sultan’s favourite wife. Fair as the moon, so I am told. But any man who is not a eunuch or the Sultan himself that beholds her face to face has his head cut off instantly.”

  He told us that Baffo was of Italian extraction, originally a slave, having been taken off a merchantman by pirates and sold in Stamboul. She claimed to be the daughter of a nobleman; but whatever her origins her charms must have been considerable to stand out among the thousand or so rivals that the Sultan had in his care. For the Sultan, little runt that he was, was perhaps the most lustful man I have ever known; though perhaps this may only mean that he had the most opportunity to indulge his lust.

  The Sultana Baffo’s great rival for the affections of this disgusting man was the Sultana Valide, a beautiful fair-skinned Circassian. She had been given to the Sultan by Sokolly and the two worked their influence jointly upon the pliable monarch. In private however, Baffo had the upper hand over Valide with Murad. Haroun told us that she was plotting the downfall of both Sokolly and Valide, for the one could not be destroyed without the other. As for the Sultan, he was too much occupied in the pursuit of pleasure to be very aware of these rivalries.

  The possibilities of neutrality were diminishing every day, said our interpreter. You were either Baffo’s or Valide’s. Haroun, after a valiant attempt to curry favour with both parties, had chosen Valide, though, since he occupied the post of Sokolly’s chief interpreter, he could hardly do otherwise. “If Sokolly falls, we all fall,” he said one day, and without doubt Vlad, Razendoringer and I were included in this “all.”

  One day a summons came to us quite unexpectedly to dine with the Sultan. This greatly pleased Haroun and encouraged us to think that a greater measure of freedom and favour would be extended to us.

  The banquet took place in a great circular room with a domed ceiling. The tables were set round in a horseshoe with the Sultan’s table slightly raised above the others at its apex. Slaves could enter through doors into the horseshoe and there serve all the guests. And indeed the variety of dishes set out before us was astonishing: parrots baked in pastry shells, monkey brains in aspic, dormice in honey, peacocks’ tongues, lamb’s eyes in a sweet cherry sauce and — a particular speciality — the braised pizzle of a whale which had recently found itself stranded in the Bosphorus. All these and countless other more ordinary dishes washed down with cooling sherbets and sweet wines from Cyprus, France and Italy. For though the drinking of intoxicants is officially banned in this Moslem empire, it is frequently indulged in private.

  The Sultan was a quick, impatient eater who gobbled his food so that the dishes were cleared away before some of the guests there had fully savoured them. For their master was anxious to get on with the evening’s entertainment which was to be dancing and poetry to be concluded by a special item which was kept a secret from us.

  There were a number of very pleasant and lascivious dances. One of the dancers was a young girl, slighter and less voluptuous than the others but all the more charming for that. She smiled at the guests with what seemed like genuine delight as she removed swathe after swathe of silk and muslin to reveal at last a body so shy and delicate that her modesty was never lost. I seemed to recognize the face, but could not place it. She in turn seemed to know me, for she smiled directly at me; but more pointedly she laid one of her silken veils at Vlad’s feet. Then I understood: she was one of the wagonload of Sokolly’s harem whom Vlad had spared when we attacked their convoy. It was no more than a few months ago, but it seemed like years.

  Her name, I discovered, was Inanna and she was to play a part in our story.

  Then there was the reciting of poetry. This chiefly meant the reciting of Sultan Murad’s poetry, of which, as far as I could judge, he was a more than competent practitioner, even though his verse was most conventionally occupied in the Ottoman manner with nightingales and perfumed rose gardens and maidens languishing for love beneath the moon. At one point he turned to me quite unexpectedly and, referring to my scholarly reputation, asked for my opinion of his verse.

  I was able to compliment him gracefully by quoting a number of his own lines to him, having studied for just such an occasion, then added a hopeful quatrain of my own in his language to the effect that his mercy was like the scent of jasmine blossom which was wafted through the world, bring
ing tranquility to all who sensed it. My verse was far from perfect even though Haroun had helped me to polish it, but the Sultan seemed satisfied.

  Quite suddenly he wearied of poetry and called for another diversion. The Master of Ceremonies, barely concealing his pride and satisfaction, then declared that there was for him that night a man who had travelled a thousand miles to be with them, a man who was one of the most famous sorcerers in Baghdad, that city of sorcerers.

  Into the centre of the horseshoe of tables walked a tall man with a wise, well-featured face and hair swept back like a mane from his brow. He made no obeisance to the Sultan. His clothes were plain, and, though clean, showed signs of much wear. The nose was a perfect hook, like the beak of a bird of prey, but one might have called him a handsome man, were it not for his eyes which, when they looked, seemed to look into one, neglecting the surface and reaching for the deepest recesses of one’s mind.

  He did not look at the Sultan longer than the others and showed no sign of recognising him as his lord and master.

  “This man pays no homage,” said the Sultan, intrigued rather than offended. “Evidently he is a true Dervish. Well, let his tricks be good ones or he dies.”

  This was our first sight of the famous sorcerer Zushad who was to bring us nearer to the very pit of hell than I dare to think.

  XXV

  Zushad placed himself at the feet of the great Sultan and said: “Behold, O Commander of the Faithful, O mighty king, the wonders of the world of spirits, stranger and more splendid by far even than the treasures of the Sultan.”

  Murad was obviously intrigued, but he spoke sternly. “Be warned, stranger, lest your tongue outstrip your deeds.”

  Zushad made no reply, but immediately took from his cloak what looked like a crystal sphere about a foot in diameter, though no-one would have thought he had been concealing anything about his emaciated form. There was something curious about this globe. It seemed at first quite clear, but closer scrutiny showed that some movement lurked in its depths.