‘I will ask the Kizlar and tell you directly, Highness,’ said the Imperial Chamberlain apologetically.
‘And the soothsayer, where is he?’
‘In his chambers in the second courtyard.’
‘I will see them both.’
‘In which order, Highness?’
The question was a pertinent one. Before he poured oil onto his own head and set fire to it, he would hear the predictions of the dervish, despite the fact that paying two more silver pieces into the pocket of the old fraud was starting to bother him. Still, better to be generous, or he might regret it later.
He thought of the parable of the rich man and the servant. A rich man had a lowly servant who watched over his kitchens. The servant inspected the food that came in, counted the urns, reprimanded the cook and tasted the dishes. The rich man, who was by nature miserly, did not pay his servant well. Every month, reluctantly, he handed over one silver piece and permitted an allowance of one loaf of bread per day, a jug of whey and a handful of nuts.
One day the servant came to him and complained that he was not generous enough, that a man, however lowly, who was partial to cheese should be permitted to take it. The rich man was affronted. ‘Rub your bread over the pot of cheese,’ he suggested. ‘That will be enough.’ So every day the servant rubbed his bread over the pot of cheese and drank the whey.
One day, a piece of mutton the rich man had been reserving for a feast disappeared. He had the servant brought in and questioned him, but the servant could offer no explanation for the missing meat. ‘What am I supposed to dine on now?’ cried the rich man.
‘Do not concern yourself, Master,’ said the servant. ‘I will remedy it.’
Relieved, the rich man sat down to eat. Two pots arrived, one empty, one full. The pot that had once contained the meat was empty. The pot that contained the cheese was full. He called the servant and complained. ‘What is this? Must I now eat cheese instead of meat?’
The servant produced a platter of bread. ‘If the Master does not desire to eat the cheese, I thought that perhaps he may be satisfied rubbing his bread over the pot of meat, Sir?’
Parsimony didn’t pay.
Murad took two silver pieces from the platter the Imperial Chamberlain held out and placed them firmly before the dervish. He suggested coffee, and had it brought in. After marvelling at the aroma, the dervish finished it in one mouthful and stared into the glass, examining the residue.
‘The last time we spoke,’ Murad said, ‘you left me with an incomplete prophecy. Now I am ready to hear the rest.’
The dervish inclined his head. ‘I will do all I can to give Your Highness satisfaction, but I need more time than you have given me. That being said, since our last conversation I admit that I have had a few revelations of my own, which I would be honoured to share with you.
‘When we spoke about the scrolls of the Greeks, Your Highness will recall how we said that each scroll was the fruit of a different mind. The value of the scroll therefore must depend on the mind of the person that compiled it in the first place. Let us take, for example, the scroll of the astronomical tables of al-Khwarizmi, which I believe I mentioned to you on the occasion of our last conversation?’
‘You did.’
‘The question is, what was in the mind of the great al-Khwarizmi himself, when he devised the scroll, and what can it tell us?’
‘What indeed,’ murmured Murad. He had studied geometry, but he had never really understood it. To him, a square was square and a circle was round. The harmony of the spheres was interesting, but when he did not have harmony on the ground, what was the relevance?
‘I will give you my vision of the scroll, Highness, but you must understand that what I am giving you is only one small part of a much broader picture. Each scroll, you will remember, has a past, a present and a future. I can only glimpse one section of the path at a time. The picture is not complete, but it seems to me that the lines and figures of the astronomical tables can only have one purpose, and that is to join all the paths of the world into a single picture.’
‘What do you mean, a single picture?’ He leaned forward. ‘Are you talking about the paths of a river, like the Nile of Alexandria?’
‘Not just the path of one river, Highness, but the path of every river and every sea it empties into.’ The dervish raised his finger. ‘More significantly still, the shape of every piece of land that lies in between these seas.’
Murad shook his head. How could a man see everything there was to know? And even if he did, what could he do with it?
‘You are wondering what the purpose would be of such knowledge?’
Murad jolted back a little. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Then permit, if you will, a humble soothsayer to make his own poor suggestion. If such knowledge could be put to use, the city of Constantinople would be but one single gem in a vast crown of cities.’
The idea was a tantalising one, thought Murad, but what about Mehmet? A shiver traversed his back. A vast crown on Mehmet’s head would make him even harder to manage than he already was.
He shook his head. ‘I do not see it. The paths of all the world in one hand would only bring disorder.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the dervish, scrutinising him again. ‘But when I read your chart, certain scrolls came into sight, in particular because you have assailed the city in times gone by, and…’
And failed, finished Murad in his head.
‘…and judged it to be impossible.’
Murad grunted. ‘It is not impossible. Not any more.’ He thought of Mehmet’s outsized cannon, and wondered why it was that the young thought bigger than the old.
‘Perhaps, but the scrolls appear in your chart as the moon at your fingertips. Therefore, while the taking of the scrolls is still within your reach, it is nevertheless uncertain. To find out why, I would have to also examine those charts that affect your own.’
Murad took this in and thought about it. Mehmet’s chart would clearly be the most significant, but he did not particularly like the idea of revealing to Mehmet that he had consulted a soothsayer. It would instil doubt and possibly even ridicule, he thought uncomfortably. Still within reach was not bad, but it was not good either. He thought of other charts that crossed his path. Mara Brankovic must surely be one of them. He did not like the idea of exposing himself to the dervish’s inscrutable eye, but his gut still blazed like a fire and he wished he could put it out once and for all. He decided to use discretion.
‘Which other charts cross my path?’
The dervish hesitated, as though he did not want to reveal this. ‘Every life is influenced by the people that cross it. But there is one in particular whose influence on your chart is a strange one.’
‘Strange? In what way strange?’
‘Strange in that the course of influence goes far beyond your own chart. And as it travels through, it is like a…’ The dervish frowned, searching for the word.
He sympathised. ‘Go on.’
‘…like a shadow that is cast without the sun.’
As he said the words, the dervish seemed worried. He thinks he has gone too far, thought Murad. Mara, a sunless shadow. Bitterly he mulled it over. ‘And when do you expect to complete your prediction?’
The dervish pocketed the silver pieces and prepared to stand. The Sultan rose promptly.
‘Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week. Perhaps next month,’ the dervish replied. ‘I am sorry, Highness, but divination is complicated. It is like fire and water. Reach for it too quickly, and it will burn your hand. Better to go with the flow.’
When he had dismissed the dervish he called in the Kizlar and told him that on no account must Mara Brankovic be allowed to hear from anyone but himself about the fate of her blinded brothers.
‘It is too late, Highness,’ said the Kizlar, his voice shaking. ‘You know wh
at it’s like, the seraglio. Madam Mara found out yesterday.’
He pursed his lips. ‘What was her reaction?’
The Kizlar shrugged. ‘She shut herself in the back rooms.’
‘When will she come out, do you think?’
The Kizlar shrugged. ‘You know what they are like, Highness. Anyone would think that the boys were dead.’
‘Yes,’ he said and stared at the wall. He thought of the parable of the servant and the pot of cheese and had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting with his bread.
‘What is the travelling distance from the Kosovo fields to Belgrade?’ he said, suddenly.
‘I have no idea, Highness.’
‘Perhaps the Grand Vizier will know,’ he muttered, although he did not want to ask him. The exchange of Mara Brankovic against the independence of Belgrade had become a hollow gift. He was almost tempted to gather up an army and assault the citadel himself, but he knew he would not do it. He would not wage a war for land he could not use. Constantinople was one thing; Belgrade was another altogether. On the other side of the Danube River lay a world that the Turk, adaptable as he was, could not understand. It would be folly to think otherwise. Western Christendom was not like its Eastern counterpart. It was a godless place. The Church of Western Christendom thought the Turks barbaric. But they had forgotten the Franks, who had sacked the city of Constantinople for its riches and its women; they had forgotten the Germanic tribes of the olden days, whose pagan ravaging had terrified Old Rome. Nothing much had altered. The Romans continued to fear the Germans, and the Franks continued to prey upon their neighbours. At least a Turk read his Holy Book first and drew his sword second; Western Christendom did it the other way around.
No, Belgrade was a fort too far. He remembered that the dervish had said something about distances and paths: the world in one picture or some such unfeasible thing. It was an interesting notion, but he suspected it was a dangerous one. The world was not one picture and never should be. Whatever the dervish was putting in his pipe was obviously too potent.
Chapter 45
From the palace mosque the Timekeeper was chanting the azan, the call to prayer. Athazaz carefully returned the shreds of wolfsbane, the herb of protection against the spirits of the dead, to the amulet he had taken from the hostage Vlad Dracula, and listened. He did not want to keep the amulet any longer than was necessary, and the bearer needed it more than he did. It did not have the power of prayer, but he suspected that prayer would be something Vlad Dracula found, if not difficult, at the very least exasperating. It must be hard to hear God when so many other voices were interrupting you. Father, brother, demon and Turk – each had his demands, and any man, however good or bad, had only one set of ears.
It was only natural that people should look for God in words, but it was limiting. They would do better to rely on the wisdom of a Sufi than on the books of prophets they did not understand, but the passion of faith frightened them. Ever since Abraham, father of Isaac, had taken up his sword to sacrifice his own son at God’s command, people had suffered from the power of passion. The voice that soared from the palace minaret contained that passion; it implored the faithful to kneel to it; it warned them that without it, they were nothing more than the oxen in the field or the heretical infidel the other side of the river. It forgot, as people tended to, that the infidel the other side of the river also had sons, and the infidel suffered from the same poor memory. This collective forgetfulness became the foundation of what Athazaz liked to call the curse of Abraham, and the amulet of the hostage prince was only one small part of it.
He turned his attention back to the ephemeris on the strip of parchment before him and ran his finger down the list of the numerals of al-Khwarizmi, copied long ago from the House of Wisdom, before its books were flung into the Tigris by the Mongol warriors. He made his calculations as the first light of day shone through the porticoes, and sat in the light to reflect, pressing his knees to the floor and his fingers together. It was not for him to dispute the findings of the astronomical numbers of the zij, incredible though they might seem, but what did they really mean?
Of course he had suspected from the first moment he had seen Vladislaus Dracula in the second courtyard, that he was the living form of the shadow that hung over Murad’s chart, but since he had not been, for many years now, the kind to jump to a conclusion before he had all the details he needed, he had said nothing of it to Murad. The palace page had been useful. He had gathered his information from the servants of the Rumani nobles. Now that he had both the place and the hour of birth of the middle son of the House of Dracul, he could put the picture together. Mountains, dead of night, depth of winter. Shadow time, when the door to the other world gaped open. Planets gravitated through the space of his mind until they settled there, where the zij had put them, and the picture was complete. He mastered trepidation and returned to the chart.
Saturn was in the tenth house. The middle Draculesti son was born to lead; he wanted to rule. But the planet was weak; the leadership was flawed. It was worse than flawed. He looked for mind. How did he use it? His finger fell on the moon, on Mercury and he looked for the ascendant. Mars was in its house. He would taste victory, but the planet had turned its back on him. What victory would he taste? He closed his eyes and pictured it. It was a twisting shape, a writhing pattern: a picture of pain.
He looked at the twelfth house, the house of truth and lies. Lost in the labyrinth was Venus, but Venus was not alone. There was something else there that had no wish to reveal itself. He returned to the sun on the floor, sat in its rays, and wondered. Soon the moon would be in shadow. Change was on its way. The shadow would fall on the tenth house of the sorcerer, the house of aspiration and ambition. Such an influence was bound to make its mark. He had travelled the palace corridors the previous day in search of the missing piece of the larger picture he was making, but it continued to elude him. Where was Mehmet Celebi, the Sultan’s son and heir?
He pushed himself up from seated to standing and arranged his turban quickly with one hand. He took a pinch of sulphur, which he dropped on the charcoal of his burner, and waited while the fumes crept over his face. Feeling slightly safer, he went out into the corridors of the palace, along which he roamed for many moments until he crossed the path of a man he did not know. A vizier of the court, judging by his robes and that look on his face, and a man who was either in a hurry or in a condition of anxiety. Athazaz stopped him.
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘First, to give a humble greeting. Second, to ask information.’
‘Never mind about the first then,’ the Vizier replied, itching to move on. ‘And I doubt I have time for the second.’
‘I am searching for the Sultan’s son, the regent of the sultanate. I was hoping you would direct me.’
The Vizier looked at him, curiosity aroused. ‘You are the soothsayer, aren’t you? Why are you looking for Mehmet? Has he requested your presence?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Athazaz. ‘But then do we ever truly know what we need? I doubt it. And particularly when it comes to the wisdom of our choices, which a seer directs at his peril.’
The Vizier stared. ‘Don’t I know you?’ He halted. ‘I say I do. The caravanserai on the Via Egnatia!’ he exclaimed.
Athazaz bowed. ‘If I have forgotten our encounter, you will have to forgive me. The caravanserai landholder has a habit of forcing his opium vapours upon me, and it can happen that I forget not only others, but my own self into the bargain.’
‘Yes, well, Mehmet Celebi is a busy man. If he hasn’t asked for a soothsayer, I doubt that he will see one.’ A look of irrepressible curiosity came over the Vizier’s face. ‘If you wish, I shall accompany you to Mehmet Celebi’s quarters and you may talk to his gatekeeper.’
He accepted, and the invisible current of fear on which the Vizier rode swept them off again along the corridor.
‘Tell me, dervish, did you have good or bad news for the Sultan? Good, I trust?’
‘News may be both good and bad, My Lord. It depends on the mood of the person who is hearing it.’
‘Well, I very much doubt that you will find it easy to change the mood of Mehmet Celebi.’
‘Ah,’ he said, smiling. ‘A challenge. Then the soothsayer must rise to it. Tell me, what kind of mood would you like?’
They reached a well-guarded entrance far from the second courtyard.
The Vizier turned to him. ‘If you make it a mood of compliance, I will get you in.’
He touched his forehead with his fingertips and bowed. ‘At your service.’
From the chambers of the Sultan’s son, the sound of untamed revelry spilled out in waves as the door was opened and the curtain was pushed back. Athazaz peered inside and saw that the company was young. The regent was also young, but at the same time somehow old. He looked at the face. It was not a bad face, but it was a face that did not know what it wanted, or had not yet found it. The eyes rested on a thing, searched it and moved on. He thought of the passage of the son through the chart of the father, and decided that the father would not be any wiser than his son about what the owner of the face wanted. The Sultan had not asked him to construct a chart for Mehmet. Not yet. And he doubted that he would. Since their last encounter, the dervish had understood that Murad did not so much want a prophecy, as a confirmation. Mehmet must be a conqueror, and he would be. That said, as he watched the face of the regent from an angle, discreetly, he could not but wonder how much of a conqueror. When the son crossed the chart of the father, did he carry the scrolls of the prophecies in his hands? And if he did, what would he do with them?
‘I heard that my father has been seeing a soothsayer, but I did not expect him to be so poor.’ Mehmet laughed. ‘Where did he find you, dervish? In a mountain cave?’
‘Alas, no, Honourable Prince. Near the grounds of his residence of Manisa.’
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 25