A tyrant in every bone, thought Halil Pasha. Nerve, that dangerous substance, began to fill his head. It was quite intoxicating. He gathered together his courage, and launched himself further into the hole he knew that he was making for himself.
‘Perhaps he is, but that does not mean we should forget what he has shown himself capable of. The blinding of the Brankovic brothers, for instance. What can such an act signify, if not barbarity?’
There it was, out in the open, the word that had been hanging on his lips since Varna. He waited for Murad’s anger, but it did not come. Instead, something else did. Murad seemed to shrivel in his seat, as if he were made of paper. Halil Pasha lowered his face.
‘Too late for that, Halil,’ Murad murmured.
‘If my father were here…’
‘But he is not; he is dead.’ Murad looked at him, his face grey and tragic. Halil Pasha returned in his mind to the tantalising memory of Vlad Dracula’s firm hand on Mehmet’s throat, and wondered how the world would be if the dervish’s prince of bats had been allowed to finish the job.
‘I cannot do it, Pasha,’ said Murad, his voice altered. ‘I can’t unseat him as regent, not now.’ The words came out in pieces, as though Murad had been hoarding them away, and did not want to part with them. ‘I thought he would…thought I could…’
Halil Pasha waited, his heart somewhere south of his chest.
‘I thought the Golden City would do it,’ finished Murad at last. ‘Constantinople.’
‘Unseat him?’
‘No. Make him better.’ Murad stared at his feet. ‘I thought it would change him, you see. All those centuries of thinking. Did you know that the library is the height of an Old Roman temple?’ He shook his head. ‘A temple of knowledge, Halil. Is that not astonishing?’ He began to mutter, his eyes fixed on the rug beneath his feet as though working out the pattern of the thread.
Halil Pasha turned his face away. ‘With your permission, I would like to call a physician. You are not well, my friend.’
Murad shook his head. ‘He is too strong for me, Halil,’ he muttered, his voice coming from somewhere at ground level.
Halil Pasha felt a jolt to his humanity. Of course Murad could not stand up to Mehmet. Nobody could, except Vlad Dracula. He thought of Vlad Dracula’s father, and the Book of Job came into his mind again. The guard had recounted how the bundle of possessions, including the book, had been taken by force from Dracul and his guard on the day he was detained at Edirne. Somehow, it seemed significant, a memory jogging his mind.
He ordered sweet tea. ‘Highness, there is something we could do.’ He waited a moment as the servant set the glasses down. ‘If the scrolls are being moved, why not intercept them, bring them here, to Edirne?’
Murad looked up.
He continued, warming to the thought. ‘They must be travelling in the hands of monks or scholars; they would have to cross Bulgaria, Wallachia, and Transylvania.
Murad sat up straighter and put his glass down. ‘What we would need, then, is someone who can go where he likes, this side of the border and the other, all the way to Vienna and back again,’ he muttered. ‘But who?’ he said, stroking his beard. ‘It can hardly be a Turk.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of one,’ said Halil Pasha, folding his hands in his lap. ‘I was thinking more of a Rumani.’
Murad stared at him. ‘Dracul?’
‘The son of Dracul. Vlad Dracula.’
‘You think he is loyal? His father is not.’
‘Anyone is loyal if they are given the incentive for loyalty,’ Halil Pasha replied, thoughtfully. ‘It would simply be a matter of putting a finger on the right thing.’ He thought of Vlad Dracula’s position. If there were ever a hold to be had on a man, Mehmet could provide it. He already had, in the form of Radu Dracula. All that was needed was a push in the right direction and the wheel of Vlad Dracula could start to turn. Of course whether anyone would be able to stop it again was another matter. ‘His brother, for instance.’
‘What do you mean, his brother?’
The tone of Murad’s voice fell again at the mention of Radu Dracula. Halil Pasha decided to make light of it.
‘There is a bond between the Dracula brothers, which in my opinion would stand the test of loyalty very well.’
Murad stared down at his hands. ‘You think it persists, this loyalty? You think we can use it?’
How peculiar were the workings of destiny, thought Halil Pasha. Vlad Dracula arrives as hostage with a copy of one of the scrolls of the library in his pack. He earns his liberty by bringing back the rest. And in all honesty, the sooner he left, the better. Those nightly forays into the forbidden courtyards would not long go unnoticed. Perhaps the eunuchs had been silenced, but there was the Kizlar, and the Bostanji of the fourth courtyard was practically impervious. Even a demon could not shake him off.
‘I think we must. He is of little use to us where he is, in any event.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ said Murad, thoughtful. ‘It’s strange. Only the other day someone else put me in mind of the usefulness of the young man; I don’t deny that I have overlooked him. What is the matter, Halil, what are you looking at?’
Halil Pasha pointed to the figure of the Defterdar, who was traversing the hayat at a speed that did not match his weight. They both stood up.
‘Forgive the interruption, Your Highness,’ said the Defterdar, nodding a greeting at him. ‘A situation of urgency has come to light and I thought it wise to inform you straight away. There is a man come to see us, or rather, come to see the Draculesti boys. His name is Cazan.’
‘And what does he want?’
The Defterdar paused and took a breath. ‘He says Dracul is dead. His son also.’
‘Dead? How?’
‘Killed, Highness. According to their emissary, Janos Hunyadi had a hand in it.’
‘And his son?’
‘Died defending his father, according to that captain of theirs.’
‘An honourable death then,’ the Sultan murmured. ‘I applaud him for his courage.’
‘I dare not think of courage,’ replied the Defterdar. ‘Mircea Dracula was buried alive by his own people.’
Halil Pasha closed his eyes.
The Defterdar continued. ‘With the reputation Dracul has for rocking his neighbour’s boat, I suppose the son had it coming to him. I did hear that the German merchants of Sibiu were particularly angered by his new trade demands. I must say that…’
Murad emerged as though from a dream. ‘I would rather you said nothing at all,’ he snapped. The Defterdar lowered his head.
‘We will have to inform the Draculesti brothers.’
Halil Pasha nodded and eyed the Defterdar with distaste. He had never liked the man much. Nor could he conceive that anyone, good or bad, could have anything of the kind coming to him. That was what account-keeping did to you. The Defterdar had tallied too many figures.
The Defterdar left. Murad turned away and paced over to the portico. The palace was full of the markers of the Greeks. Murad might not want to admit it, but he admired them as much as the next man. Halil Pasha did not doubt that, despite or because of his intransigence, the Sultan had also admired Dracul. A prince was a prince; even a vassal was still a prince.
‘I cannot remember Aladdin.’
Halil Pasha looked up. Framed by the pillars, the Sultan resembled a statue. He frowned. ‘He is dead, Highness. The dead must be forgotten; that is the way of it.’
‘No.’ Murad turned, his voice thick with grief. ‘I must find a way to remember. Will you help me, Halil? Help me to remember?’
He inclined his head, his eyes pricked by pity. ‘Of course I will help you.’
‘I wasn’t ready,’ continued Murad, his voice shaking. ‘I am still not.’
Halil Pasha took his arm, and led him to the divan. This news ha
d opened up the box of Pandora. No, he corrected. He had, by bringing up the matter of succession. He chided himself. From now on, nerve must be stifled.
‘The news of Dracul has dealt you a blow, that is all. You will be better soon.’
‘Where is the soothsayer?’ said Murad, suddenly.
‘You wish to consult the dervish?’ said Halil Pasha gently.
‘No.’ Murad shook his head. He ran a hand over his face. ‘Half a prophecy is enough,’ he muttered. ‘I will hear no more. Nothing more must be said. I want that made clear.’
He nodded. ‘I had thought it a good idea myself to send him on his way. I will see it done.’
Murad leaned back. ‘Give me a little time and I will be right again.’
‘You are already right, Highness.’
‘Yes. Good.’ Murad touched his sleeve. ‘And tell the emissary of the Rumani that I will give the news to the Dracula brothers myself, as a mark of respect for their father.’
‘Very well.’
He left the Sultan before a fresh glass of steaming tea. Then he made his way back across the hayat, and slipped through the door of the first courtyard, where the emissary was waiting. The season of autumn had come to Edirne. The trees of the palace gardens were losing their foliage. He trod them underfoot as he crossed the first courtyard, and wondered why the White Knight Hunyadi had turned against his ally. The murder of Dracul and his son had the ring of judgement to it. That, at least, was what his father would have said. But he, Halil Pasha, was not his father, and he was not a judge. Whatever Dracul’s eldest son had done, to be buried alive must surely be the worst kind of torment. One last look, one last breath before soil took the place of both. He shivered deeply; some things were simply inadmissible.
Whatever else it meant, this news would set the seal on Vlad Dracula’s fate in a way that none of them, even the dervish, had foreseen. The path to his release and that of his brother was open. The leverage they represented over the will of their father no longer had a place. The boy could be legitimately removed from the palace, where he was causing far more trouble than anyone was comfortable with, and placed in a position where he could do the most harm to Mehmet. The interception of the scrolls was a good plan, if it ever came about, but the main idea was pure gold. Halil Pasha did not doubt that the moment Vlad Dracula heard about the death of his family, he would already be making his plans. Hunyadi, their old irritant, would be first on the list. But second would be Mehmet. If there was one guarantee he could have devised to curtail the bloody ambitions of the heir, it was the rise of Vlad Dracula outside these walls and in the wider world beyond. It was so easy to picture, and so perfect. He drew his cloak up around his neck. Murad was weakening; you only had to look at him to see it. Was it a matter of years or a matter of months? He paused at the door to the second courtyard, his heart heavy at the thought of the news the son of Dracul would soon have to learn. It was only with an effort of concentration that he continued on his way. What must it be like to regain your liberty only to discover that everything you held dear had been lost? Would the hunger for vengeance be enough to throw you into darkness? Perhaps such things were irrelevant to the children of Zalmoxis. Once a man is wolf, he is hungry forever.
Chapter 55
Peering through the dusk of the third courtyard, Azize quickened her step. Unable to sleep, she had tossed and turned until finally the sounds of someone softly walking along the corridors of the seraglio had distracted her and she’d had to get up.
Ever since the death of Aladdin she had been wary of night prowlers. But this figure was female. It slipped through the door of the third courtyard far too easily. Azize waited for the guard to stop her, but nobody did. She noticed the slumped, sleeping form of a eunuch and shook her head. Murad never had listened when she’d warned him that the eunuchs of the seraglio were being worked too hard. If he listened to her now, it was only because he knew that she had been right about Mehmet.
She slid through the open door of the third courtyard and pulled it shut behind her. The figure was heading towards the gardens, the penumbral paths of the palace grounds. Once it reached the shrubbery, another figure joined it and the two shapes merged as one, folding into darkness.
She backed away from the roses and hurried to the third door. She knew the shape of one of those figures. She had stared at it often enough as it sat beside the bathing pool, weighed its advantages against its faults.
She brought the matter up with her new friend and ally. What was she doing walking through the shrubbery in the dead of night? Did she not realise that Murad was the owner of her body, that it was his by right of conquest, even if the conquest hadn’t happened? When she saw the flush on Mara’s face, she sat on a divan in the corner of her chamber and tried to picture the white skin of the Slavic Serb pressed against the lean and hidden body of Vlad Dracula. That insurmountable obstacle to friendship between women – men – came over her like an old sickness. The Valide Hatun was right. Men had condemned them to Barzakh, the purgatory between reward and punishment. They were, essentially, damned.
She took to reading the Koran more often. She prayed for a state of divine grace, or if not grace, submission, since that was what was needed. In one year, or perhaps two if she was fortunate, Djem would be taken from her. She would no longer have the right to enter his chamber whenever she liked and she would not be permitted to sleep beside him at night to protect him as she had always done. She tried to prepare him for it.
‘If at night someone comes into your chamber, if someone tries to…hurt you, you must scream very loud,’ she said, ‘so that everyone will hear.’
‘Why?’
‘Everyone needs a guard. I am your guard. But one day you must be the guard of yourself.’
‘But there are lots of guards, all over the palace.’
‘Yes,’ she said, stroking his face, ‘but none are as careful as you and I must be.’
‘How loud must I scream? Like this?’
‘Louder.’
‘Like when the Bostanji is punishing a thief at the gates?’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘Don’t worry, Mama, I can scream really well. Better than you.’
‘I know you can, my darling.’ She closed his eyes with her fingertips, and blew out the candle.
She lay down to sleep, dried her eyes in the dark, and tried to keep a steady head. She had trusted Mara Brankovic, but it was never a good idea to trust another woman. Brankovic wanted Vlad Dracula for herself; that was all. She had her own plans, and they had nothing to do with Djem. Still, soon the prince of the second courtyard would be gone, and all envy with him. He would build his army against Mehmet and Mehmet would have other things to worry about than the city of Constantinople. In her view, Vlad Dracula was nothing less than Murad had deserved. If he had opened his eyes on the day of Aladdin’s circumcision he would have seen Mehmet’s intentions written in his face. But no, he had hidden his head in the sand, closed his eyes to murder. She could have told him right from the start that the foundations of Mehmet’s dynasty would be dangerous; a foundation that is built upon the bones of the deceased will always attract a ghost.
Chapter 56
‘You wanted to see me, Father?’
Mehmet had waited at the door of Murad’s apartments to be admitted. Normally he would simply have walked in, but Murad liked formality and he liked people to wait. He didn’t see formality for what it was – pretence. When his father made him wait, it was a last resort; when he waited, it was a strategy.
‘The father of the Dracul brothers is dead,’ his father said, flatly, accepting Mehmet’s forehead at his hand. ‘Murdered, in fact.’
‘Murdered?’ Mehmet moved forwards, his breath quickening. ‘Who did it?’
His father turned away. ‘His own people, or so it seems, although naturally the Hungarians will be implicated.’
&n
bsp; Mehmet felt a spur of stimulation. He adjusted his face for his father. One vassal less would not be a bad thing.
As if he could see the stuff of his thoughts, his father shook his head. ‘Do not make the error of thinking it will be helpful. The Hungarians will put their own man on the throne.’ He removed his white turban, the one he always wore, and held out his hand for another. His father’s skull was close-shaven, closer still than his. ‘I will be offering my condolences to his sons for their father and brother.’
‘What, the brother too?’
‘Yes,’ said his father in a voice that sounded as if it was announcing his own murder. ‘Mircea Dracula has also been killed.’
Mehmet paced to the divan and back again, his hand on his skull. ‘In that case…’ he began, but Murad raised his hand horizontally against his face. Mehmet stopped and stared.
‘What will happen to the Dracula brothers no longer concerns you. I will deal with them myself. Soon you are going to be married, and…’
Mehmet threw himself against a cushion on the divan. ‘Yes, that is what my mother seems to think. But she’s wrong, as usual.’ He turned to face his father. ‘And so are you.’
Murad pushed the turban into the hands of the Imperial Chamberlain and waved him away. ‘You will marry because I say you will, and there will be no argument.’
Mehmet stood up. ‘You can’t force me.’
‘Can’t I? And if I told you that I will revoke your status as heir, will that persuade you?’
Mehmet walked to the tapestry his father had hanging on his wall. A hunting party was spearing a unicorn in the clearing of a forest. The unicorn flung its head up, its eye wide with terror.
‘It’s not my fault,’ he said, licking his lips. Something was stuck in his throat and he knew it must come out. ‘I tried once, with a woman, but it didn’t work.’
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 31