Siege

by Jack Hight

  He opened the letter again and looked to the second part of the message. It seemed that Notaras had also had a change of heart regarding Gennadius. He insisted that the monk was not a proper choice for the patriarchy. However, even though Notaras might have turned against Gennadius, Constantine would not dismiss him so readily. If he could win Gennadius's support for union by offering him the patriarchy, then it would be a small price to pay. With both Gennadius and Notaras in support, Constantine was sure that he would have little trouble with the remaining bishops and nobles.

  The tolling of bells told Constantine that it was eight o'clock. Gennadius would be here soon. Constantine had summoned him to the palace that very night to offer him the patriarchy. He folded the letter one last time, slipped it into a pocket, and then took his place on the throne. 'Please, Lord God,' he prayed quietly. 'Grant me one last miracle today.' Gennadius arrived at the palace in a festive mood. He was sure he knew what the summons meant: finally after years of waiting, he would be Patriarch of the Orthodox Church, with no one over him but God. He hurried to the audience chamber and found Constantine seated upon the throne. Gennadius approached and bowed low. 'Welcome, Gennadius,' Constantine said.

  'I am honoured that you would call a humble monk such as myself into your august presence,' Gennadius replied.

  'I have called you here to discuss the situation of our Church,' Constantine told him. 'As you know, Patriarch Mammas is in Rome. Our Church is without a head. This situation cannot last.' Constantine paused, as if searching for a way forward. 'The Union has been a source of bitter disagreement between us, Gennadius, but we are not enemies. I have brought you here to ask for your help.'

  'I will do all that I can.'

  'Good. The Synaxis looks to you as its leader,' Constantine said. 'If anybody can unite them behind my rule, it is you.' Gennadius bowed his head graciously, thinking it best not to reply. 'Would you be willing to lead the Church, Gennadius?'

  'I am but a monk. But I feel it is my duty to undertake whatever task God calls me to in the service of our Church.'

  'Good. Then I offer you the patriarchy, provided that you use your influence to persuade the bishops to support union with Rome.'

  The words 'if the Lord wills it, then let it be so' froze on Gennadius lips as he realized what Constantine was saying. If he accepted Constantine's terms, then he would be nothing more than a puppet of the emperor and a stooge of the pope, like Mammas. 'But My Lord, the bishops will never support union,' Gennadius replied. 'Nor will the nobility.'

  'You are wrong, Gennadius. Megadux Notaras has decided to support union. Even he realizes that it is our only hope.'

  Gennadius shook his head. So, Notaras had betrayed him. No doubt this was the doing of the meddling Princess Sofia. He would have to deal with her. 'Notaras is a soldier, not a man of God,' Gennadius said at last. 'The Synaxis will not be so easily swayed. There can be no compromise when souls are at stake.'

  'They might accept union if you were the one to declare it,' Constantine insisted. 'I know that union means acknowledging the primacy of the pope, but it is better than being forced to bow before the sultan.'

  'Is it?' Gennadius replied. 'I am not so sure.'

  Constantine's face hardened. 'You dare speak treason to my face, monk?'

  'Of course not, Emperor,' Gennadius said and bowed low. 'God willing, I shall bow before neither the pope nor the sultan. But I must always bow before the will of God. I have already renounced a bishopric to better serve Him as a monk. It is His will that I serve Him humbly. I must refuse the patriarchy.' The words were bitter, but he would rather be a monk than a hollow patriarch without power.

  'Very well,' Constantine said and sighed. 'I understand your opposition to union, but I meant what I said. We are not enemies, Gennadius. Remember that. You may leave.'

  Gennadius bowed and departed. Constantine was a fool. Gennadius would bring him down and union with him, but he could not do it alone. As he rode back to Saint Pantocrator, Gennadius began composing a letter in his head, a letter to the grand vizier of the Ottoman court, Halil Pasha.

  Chapter 11

  FEBRUARY AND MARCH 1451: EDIRNE

  Mehmed rode through the gate into Edirne, his back straight and his head held high. A crowd had turned out to watch him and his household enter the city, but the atmosphere was far from festive. Murad, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, was dying, and his poor health was no secret. The faces of the people were grim and unsmiling. There were no cheers for Mehmed.

  The people's dark mood mirrored Mehmed's own grim thoughts. Only two weeks ago, Sitt Hatun had given him a son, Selim, and Mehmed knew that any child of his could be a rival in the hands of a cunning mother. But that was not the true reason that he disliked Selim. The child raised painful memories of his other son, Bayezid, and of Gulbehar. Even though the kumru kalp lay against Mehmed's heart, a reminder of Gulbehar's infidelity, Mehmed still longed for her. The thought of her in his father's arms was a nagging pain that not even Murad's impending death could remove.

  Mehmed reached the Eski Serai palace and dismounted in the courtyard. Halil waited on the palace steps along with a crowd of important ministers, eunuchs and viziers. The entire group bowed low as Mehmed approached. 'Greetings, Your Highness. Allah be praised for your safe journey,' Halil said. Mehmed motioned for him and the other men to rise, and Halil straightened and stepped closer. 'I have a great deal of news for you, but first, the sultan is eager to see you.'

  'I will wait on my father shortly,' Mehmed said. 'I have other business to attend to first.' Mehmed turned to Sitt Hatun, who was just emerging from her covered litter. 'Wife, you will come with me. Bring your child.'

  Mehmed led them to Gulbehar's apartments in the harem and pushed the doors open without knocking. A jariye servant girl was standing in the entrance room, watering plants. She dropped her watering tin at the sight of Mehmed glowering at the threshold. 'Where is she?' Mehmed roared. The jariye bowed low and backed away.

  'I… I will bring her to you, My Lord,' she stuttered and disappeared into the servant's passage. A moment later, Gulbehar appeared with her son Bayezid, who was now two and a half years old. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Sitt Hatun holding the infant Selim, and then she bowed gracefully before Mehmed. Bayezid also bowed. Mehmed could not help but notice that the boy had Murad's golden eyes. His jaw tightened as he felt a fresh surge of anger well up in him.

  'And whose child is this?' he demanded. 'Is he my son, or my brother?'

  Gulbehar flushed crimson. 'I do not understand, My Lord. He is your son. Bayezid, go to your father.'

  The boy took a step forward and then froze, frightened by Mehmed's menacing scowl. 'My son? My son!' Mehmed said, his voice rising. He stepped forward and slapped Gulbehar hard. 'Are you sure it is not my father's bastard?' Bayezid was crying now, and Gulbehar pulled him to her, holding him tightly as if for protection. 'Answer me, woman!' Mehmed demanded.

  Gulbehar lowered her head. 'I had no choice,' she whispered. 'He is the sultan.'

  'I am your sultan!' Mehmed roared. He raised his hand to slap her again, but then restrained himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but hard. 'You will leave here and go to your apartments. You are not to leave them. I will post a guard outside, since it is clear that you cannot be trusted.'

  'But My Lord, these are my apartments,' Gulbehar protested.

  'They were. They are Sitt Hatun's now. You will take her old quarters.'

  'But what of my court? Those apartments are too small for them.'

  'You have no court,' Mehmed replied. 'You will have your maidservants and a few jariye to look after your household. That is more than you deserve.' He turned to go, but Gulbehar stopped him, pleading one last time.

  'What of your son, Bayezid?' she asked, tears in her eyes. 'Surely he deserves better.'

  'As you see, I have another son now.' Mehmed turned and left, leaving Sitt Hatun alone with Gulbehar. Her gloating would be a more insufferable punishment for Gu
lbehar than any he could devise. Mehmed was still angry when he reached his father's chambers, but more at himself now than at Gulbehar. He should not have lost control of himself; it was unbecoming of a prince. It was even worse in a sultan. He would have to rule his emotions more closely now that the throne was practically his. While the Master of the Sultan's Chambers announced Mehmed's presence to his father, Mehmed took the time to compose himself.

  Murad did not move when Mehmed entered. The sultan had aged greatly in the almost two years since Mehmed had last seen him. His thin, wasted body looked tiny amidst the pillows that propped him up. Despite the wintry weather and the noticeable chill in the palace, his robes were soaked with a fevered sweat, and two slave girls fanned him vigorously. His hair, flecked with grey before, was now almost totally white. The biggest change, however, was in the sultan's face. Murad's strong, tanned face had become thin and wasted, with dark hollows under his eyes. The scar on his cheek stood out bright red against the sickly pallor of his skin. His father was a pitiable sight, but Mehmed was in no mood for pity. He knew that Murad deserved his fate, and he felt no remorse, only an emptiness.

  Mehmed knelt beside his father. 'Leave us,' he ordered the slave girls. 'I wish to speak with my father alone.' He thought that his father might be asleep, or even already dead, but then Murad's eyes opened, the same bright, intelligent eyes that Mehmed remembered. They, at least, had not changed.

  'So, you have come to see me die,' Murad croaked, his voice so weak that Mehmed had to lean close to hear him.

  'I have come to speak with you, Father.'

  'You had best talk quickly then.' Murad managed a short, wheezing laugh. 'I am not long for this world. The throne will be yours again soon, Mehmed. I pray that you use it better this time.'

  'I am no longer a child, Father,' Mehmed snapped. 'I will rule wisely, and I will succeed where you have failed. I will make Constantinople the capital of our empire.'

  Murad shook his head. 'You are still young, my son. Do not seek to be great so soon. Constantinople has stood for more than a thousand years. Let it wait a few more. You must learn to rule in peace before you can rule in war.'

  'I have learned enough, Father. The Greeks are weak. They have no allies. When I strike, they will fall.'

  'You have always been too eager. Why will you not do as I say, boy?' Murad said in a louder voice, his eyes flashing. For a second, Mehmed thought that his father might reach out and slap him. But instead Murad collapsed back against his cushions, consumed by a fit of coughing. 'Ah well, you are not the sultan yet,' Murad said when he had recovered. 'Perhaps I will disappoint you and cheat death.'

  'No, you will not recover, Father.'

  'And why is that?'

  Mehmed pulled the kumru kalp out from under his caftan, and Murad's eyes locked upon the jewel. Mehmed leaned closer to his father. 'I know what you have done,' Mehmed whispered. 'And I have taken my revenge. You have been poisoned. The drug acts slowly, but it is fatal.'

  Murad's eyes opened wide, and Mehmed was pleased to think that he had been able to surprise his father, at least this once. 'It is you,' Murad said, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I have been killed by my own son.'

  'No, Father. You poisoned yourself the day you took Gulbehar to bed.' Murad's eyes were even wider now, practically bulging out of his head, but he did not speak. 'Did you think that you could lie with Gulbehar without my knowledge?' Mehmed demanded. 'With my own favourite?'

  Still, Murad did not reply, and Mehmed realized that it was not surprise, but an attack of apoplexy that had distorted his father's features. Murad's jaws were clenched now and his lips trembling. Spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth, and the veins at his temples were bulging. His body began to convulse, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Mehmed drew back from his father's contorted body and waited until Murad had ceased his shaking and lay still. Then, Mehmed rose and called loudly: 'A doctor! Bring the sultan's doctor, quickly!' The doctor put his head to Murad's chest and then looked to Mehmed. When he spoke, he only confirmed what Mehmed knew to be true.

  'He is dead,' he told Mehmed. 'You are the sultan now, My Lord.' Two weeks later, Mehmed was girded for the second time in his life with the great sword in the mosque of Eyub and proclaimed Mehmed Khan II, Seventh Sovereign of the House of Osman, Khan of Khans, Grand Sultan of Anatolia and Rumelia, Emperor of the Two Cities of Adrianople and Brusa, Lord of the Two Lands and the Two Seas. Afterwards, he rode to the palace for his first official audience as sultan. Before making his entrance, he paused and watched his subjects through a curtain. Emirs, beys and pashas from every corner of the empire stood in the grand hall of the palace, waiting to pay homage to him and to take his measure. To Mehmed's right, Murad's ministers stood wringing their hands; to his left, Murad and Mehmed's wives stood veiled and quiet. A dozen janissaries surrounded the imperial divan, separating it from the mass of people. Mehmed took one last look and then stepped through the curtain and into the hall. At once, the assembled men and women fell silent. The only noise was the whisper of silk as the crowd filling the hall bowed low before their new sultan.

  Mehmed's heart beat violently, but he kept his head held high and his pace measured as he walked to the imperial divan, knowing that hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching his every step. He wore a white turban and robes of rose-red silk decorated with intricate patterns in gold. His black beard had been cut short, and he looked in every respect the sultan as he reclined upon the divan, propping himself up on his left elbow. Mehmed knew that many in the audience had not seen him since the last time he took the throne, seven years ago as a beardless child of twelve. He would show them all that he was no longer a child. He would show them that he knew how to rule as a sultan must.

  He motioned for the crowd to rise and then turned first to his father's ministers. 'You may take your usual places,' he told them, motioning for them to be seated. Their collective sigh of relief was almost audible as they sat on a row of cushions, each cushion indicating their respective place as minister within the sultan's divan. They need not have worried. They had served his father well, and Mehmed had need of their experience. He would allow them to prove their loyalty. And, if any proved unfaithful, then Mehmed's spies would inform him, and the traitors would be beheaded. Mehmed doubted that more than one minister would conspire against him. A beheading was a most instructive example.

  Next, Mehmed named the viziers of the empire, calling them before the throne one by one. As they were called, each man stepped forward in turn and bowed low. 'Halil Pasha, Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire,' Mehmed began, confirming Halil in his place. Mehmed still resented Halil's role in calling Murad back to the throne years ago, but there was no doubting the grand vizier's usefulness. To moderate Halil's influence, Mehmed named two of his rivals, Saruja Pasha and Zaganos Pasha, as assistant viziers. Finally, he confirmed as Chief Eunuch and Assistant Vizier Shehab ed-Din, his one remaining confidant from his earlier brief rule.

  Mehmed turned now to the women of the harem and beckoned them to step forward. Sitt Hatun came first, offering her condolences for his father's death and congratulating him on his ascendance to the throne. Gulbehar followed, and Mehmed had to concentrate to keep the impassive face of a sultan when greeting her. After his own wives, came the widows of Murad: first his newest wife, the childless Christian Mara of Serbia, whom Mehmed ordered sent back to her father; and then Hadije, Murad's favourite and the mother of his youngest son. She was young, younger even than Mehmed, and she cried as she spoke, her voice trembling and broken. Mehmed wondered if the tears were for her deceased husband, or if she already knew the fate of her son. For even as he accepted Hadije's condolences and compliments, Mehmed's servants were in the harem, drowning her young son Ahmet in his bath. Mehmed bore the boy no hatred, but he was a possible rival for the throne, and as such, had to die.

  Finally, Mehmed turned to the mass of nobles in the hall. 'Emirs, beys, pashas — lords of the empire, you have
my thanks for your presence here today,' he began. 'You served my father well, and I too will have need of your service soon enough. For I swear to you now on the holy Koran that as your sultan, I will not rest until the city of Constantinople falls before me. There will be riches and glory for all who fight beside me. Together, we will grind to dust those who have defied us for far too long. Together, we shall conquer for ourselves a new capital for a new, golden age!'

  Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd. A few voices, then dozens, and finally all the hundreds present joined together to shout again and again: 'Hail Mehmed, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire!' Sitt Hatun sat in the harem garden, enjoying the sunshine on an unseasonably warm late winter day. Anna was with her and between them lay Sitt Hatun's one-month-old son, Selim. Sitt Hatun cooed at the child, who giggled back. She could still hardly believe that less than a year earlier she had left Edirne as an outcast, fleeing for her life. Now she was an ikbal — mother to a male heir. No matter that Sitt Hatun did not know if Selim's father was Mehmed or Halil. Selim was hers, and one day he would be sultan.

  Loud shouting echoed down from Gulbehar's apartments above the garden, and Sitt Hatun smiled. Gulbehar was not dealing with her fall from favour well, and her distress was another source of contentment for Sitt Hatun. Just now, Gulbehar was screaming furiously, and Sitt Hatun could make out a few words here and there: 'Incompetence! Spoiled brat!' and then a climactic, 'Get out, all of you!' There was a series of slamming doors, and then silence.

  A moment later, one of Gulbehar's odalisques appeared in the garden, carrying a bawling Bayezid. The odalisque looked Russian: a pale girl, no older than fourteen, with dark auburn hair. She went to a row of evergreen bushes not far from Sitt Hatun and sat behind them. After a moment, Bayezid's crying stopped and was replaced by the muffled sobbing of the Russian girl. Sitt Hatun felt for the girl, and for Bayezid, who bore the brunt of Gulbehar's disappointment. Perhaps by befriending them, Sitt Hatun reflected, she could help both them and herself. It would be useful to have allies in Gulbehar's household.