His father opened his mouth to speak then closed it again.
‘I just can’t do it. I can’t.’
His father’s voice came through the air like a spear. ‘You are Osmani. You can do what I say you can do.’
Mehmet returned to the divan and sat beside his father. He thought about the words he had just uttered and wondered if he would not have done better speaking them to one of the figures in his father’s tapestry, for all the good it had done him.
‘You will be required to attend the feast of circumcision of your brother Djem soon. The dates have been set, so please take note of them.’
Mehmet stared at him, his face blank. ‘But he is too young, isn’t he?’
‘Younger than Aladdin,’ his father replied, distractedly.
Mehmet swept out of the salon. As he crossed the hayat, Vlad Dracula, escorted by his father’s best guards, was walking towards it. He slowed a little. With a nod to one of the guards, he halted the group. His father’s eyes bored into his back from the galleried landing; Vlad Dracula looked ahead as though he was not there. Mehmet stopped at his side.
‘I think you have some bad news coming.’ He nodded towards the gatekeeper. ‘But I’m sure you can guess what it is already, can’t you?’
Vlad turned his head. The Draculesti eyes, green as swamp pools, churned with deadly movement. Mehmet stilled a shudder.
From the galleried landing his father gave an instruction and the guard started to move.
He seized Vlad Dracula’s arm, and held it. ‘You think you can make that kilij work for you, but it never will, I promise you that.’
A long moment passed; the old wound in his neck throbbed with memory.
Vlad raised his eyes level to Mehmet’s face. ‘Anything else?’
The arm repelled his hand. Mehmet drew it back and the body of Vlad Dracula moved forward with the guard.
He turned away, deep in thought. He counted off the years that his father could command and broke them down into parts. Which parts could be reduced, and which could be removed? It was not so difficult. It could be done. He had already removed one part, the part that included the city of Constantinople. It would not be his father’s victory. The part of Vlad Dracula he would let Murad have, since it had become futile. His father could make all the condolences he liked. The Draculesti future no longer existed. Once a name was dead, it was dead. Nobody could bring it back to life. Even if Murad gave him his liberty, it would be like freeing a slave with his manacles locked. Nobody had the key to Vlad Dracula’s freedom. Once Constantinople was in Turkish hands, the Patriarchate of the Greeks would have to go in any event. An emperor should keep his army in one hand and his clergy in the other, anything else and he would find himself praying to his own generals.
Murad watched his son until he had crossed the full length of the first courtyard and disappeared behind the door from which Vlad Dracula had just emerged, in the company of his guards. Something was bothering him; it snagged in his mind like the thorn of a rose caught on a garment and he could not shake it off. He thought of the miniatures of Aladdin’s feast of circumcision and tried to remember the day. Why was it so difficult? Drawn back to the present by the arrival of Dracul’s son, he raised his eyes to look at him. The boy had grown astonishingly well. He was a striking blend of Rumani and Romano-Slav. His face was somewhat wild-looking, but so had his father’s been, and particularly wild on that first night of his captivity. Dracul had almost attacked him, or tried to. But deep down, Murad didn’t blame him for it. He loved his sons, that was all, as he, Murad, had loved Aladdin. Vlad Dracula must be around the age of Mehmet, but he looked older, much older. Pity stirred his chest.
He had instructed the gatekeeper earlier to bring the objects Dracul’s officer had delivered with the news. There was a sword, Iberian from the look of it. Sharp, clean, and barely even used. A collar, gold and with the mark of the dragon of Dracul on the throat plate. The request was that sword and collar be remitted to Vlad Dracula. Not to the youngest son, but to Vlad alone. Although now that the Hungarians had secured the throne of Wallachia for themselves and set a Catholic on it, the question of succession was irrelevant. Still, instinct warned him to hesitate. And then there was the matter of the scrolls.
Dracula’s eyes touched on the sword and the collar. For a moment, Murad saw the bolt of a storm on his face, but it passed quickly and chilled remoteness took its place. He thought of Mara, and the thought jolted his gut. It was Slavic perhaps. It was the Slav in them. He dismissed the guard, then glanced at the blade again and kept two guards back.
‘Do you know what these objects mean?’
‘Yes. My father is dead.’
On the back of Murad’s neck, hair prickled over skin. He searched his face for a sign of grief, but could not find one. Then, finally, the question.
‘How did he die?’
‘A rebellion. Apparently led by Janos Hunyadi, which means that the rebellion was merely an excuse for the Hungarians to take your father’s throne. You know Hunyadi, I think.’
Vlad Dracula nodded and glanced again at the sword. ‘They are mine?’
‘Yes. They are. When you leave, I will remit them to you,’ he said firmly.
He said the words too fast. Those green eyes flickered down the blade.
‘When shall I leave?’
Was that a tremor in his voice? He decided it was. Many years had passed. He remembered the first time they spoke. Vladislaus Dracula, the boy, had tried to save his brother’s life. Was he still that boy?
‘You may tell your brother, if you wish. He is here at the palace.’
‘I know where he is. You may tell him yourself, or Prince Mehmet may tell him.’
Murad stared at the ground. It was an honest answer. There was impertinence in it, but where there was impertinence there was nerve. Both were crucial to success.
With the tip of his finger he brushed the dragon on the gold collar. The sign of the Order of Dracul: the mark of the Christian Crusade. ‘I see no reason why you may not have this at once. If that is what you want, you had better take it.’
At first, Dracula did not reply. The collar lay there on the table, untouched.
‘I will take the sword.’
Well played, Murad thought.
‘Where is Mircea, my brother?’
Murad hesitated. ‘Killed by the same people that took your father’s throne and put their man upon it.’
Dracula turned away.
‘The Habsburgs or the Catholics?’
‘Since the Holy Roman Empire of the Habsburgs is united to the Pope and both have the support of the Hungarians, I can see no other who could be responsible,’ said Murad, looking at him. ‘But you would have to ask Hunyadi such questions, since he will have the answers, if he chooses to give them, which I doubt he will.’ He peered into the Draculesti face, but its thoughts were well hidden. ‘You will have to make your choice. Us, or them. But do not make your father’s error of trusting the wrong side.’
‘I am not my father.’
Murad frowned. ‘Whatever you might think, I did not dislike your father, and I never wished him ill.’ He paused. ‘What do you want from me? If it is promotion in the ranks of the janissaries, I can give it.’
‘I want my liberty,’ said Vlad Dracula, coolly.
Murad nodded. ‘We will talk about your liberty later. There will be a condition. But first, I will give you time to grieve. You have the right to it.’
He pushed his hand onto his knees and rose. ‘I am sorry about your father and brother, Dracula. But you know it is better to look truth in the face than to hope for salvation in a lie. The Hungarians would never have given him that salvation. Not in a thousand years. Not to an Orthodox.’
‘And would you?’
‘I cannot say, since he never gave me the chance.’
The guard escorted Dracula to the door of the salon. He called him back.
‘I have heard that you have been unwell.’
‘No, I am very well, as you see,’ said Dracula. It was true; he looked as strong as an ox. Perhaps a little pallid, but he was a Goth.
‘And your Turkish is faultless. I must congratulate you on it.’
Vlad Dracula inclined his head. ‘I had a good tutor.’ He stared over at the hayat of the third courtyard. Murad followed his gaze and saw it had alighted on Mehmet, who was sitting there in state observing them from a safe distance. Suddenly, Vlad Dracula spoke. ‘You have another son besides Mehmet, I think?’
‘I do. I had two sons, one is dead.’ As he said the words he wondered why he did.
‘So I have heard,’ said Dracula. ‘I am sorry, Highness.’ Murad looked up.
‘Prince Mehmet spoke of him once when we were at the fortress together.’
‘Is that so? And what did he say?’ Murad heard his heart inside his chest. The beat was uneven, as if it wished to stop.
‘He said that brothers get in the way.’
Murad’s heart rose up into his mouth. He moistened his lips. From the hayat came the sound of running water as a servant emptied a jug into the pond. He wanted to say, ‘in the way of what’, but the answer was there before him plain as morning light. There was the feast of circumcision; there was Mehmet offering a gift into the hand of his brother. Then there was that look on his face, the one that Murad had always tried to forget.
He could not recall how he had dismissed the son of Dracul, but he knew that Vlad Dracula had left because he remembered watching him walk back through the gardens of the hayat between the guards. After that, he was escorted to his divan bed by the Imperial Chamberlain and the Kizlar, to the background hum of Mehmet’s sudden solicitude. He vaguely knew that from then on, everything would have to be forgotten again, just when he was starting to remember it. He also understood, because the physician told him as much, that if he did not get some proper rest he would not be fit for anything, never mind imperial business. He wanted to explain to the physician how Vlad Dracula’s words would not let him rest, but that of course was impossible, just as Mehmet’s removal from power was impossible. Instead, he repeated the words several times over in his head, like a parable he had known about forever, but whose lesson he had forgotten.
As he walked through the main gate and back into the second courtyard and his chambers, Vlad knew he did not have much time. The feeling was draining from his fingers and his feet. He stumbled slightly, and the guard held him up. He pushed the guard back, only to find that he needed him again. When at last the door was closed behind him, he threw himself down on the floor, and waited.
The seizure came for him and he gifted himself to it. His mouth shuddered; his head shook. The chamber vanished, replaced by a dark space over which only the quiet thud of barren movement held sway.
When it was over he stripped, washed, and dressed again, his hands shaking and his mind clearing. Murad had said that Janos Hunyadi, the White Knight of the Crusades, had brought about the death of his father and Mircea, but it made no sense to him. Hunyadi had always been his father’s ally. There had been arguments, but not enough for this. He told himself that he had been a hostage of the Turks for many years, and in many years much could happen. But the collar of his father had been there upon the table. The oath had been real – even to the bitter end their father had upheld it. There had to be another reason; there had to be more, and the only way of finding out was from the mouth of Janos Hunyadi. If Murad released him, which he certainly intended to, Vlad did not doubt what the condition would be. Beside the wooden emblem the soothsayer had called his future, was a note bidding him good fortune. He read the note, folded it and placed it in the pouch around his belt. He picked up the carving of the dragon and the wolf, and held it in his hand. On the day of their arrest, his father had refused to swear an oath. Now he, Dracul’s son, would have to swear it in his place. Murad would demand fealty, and he would have to give it. But it was not the Holy Book, nor even the book of the Muslim Turks that had made his father refuse the oath on the day of their arrest. Whatever it had been was tied to the emblem in his hand, and if he did not find out how, he would be haunted by the unmade oath forever.
As for fealty, the Danube would be the threshold of his own promise to the Sultan, no more, no less. As soon as he crossed it in the barges of the Turks, and set his feet on the soil of Wallachia at Giurgiu, he would take his chance with Murad’s anger. The Sultan owed him six years. Six years stolen. One day when the time was right, his son would have to pay for them.
Chapter 57
The Defterdar pointed. ‘There he is. I must say I’m rather glad he is leaving. A son of Dracul in our ranks would never have been a good idea.’ He put down a chunk of venison and licked his fingers. ‘I never really liked the thought.’
‘Yes,’ said Murad. He gazed, listless, from the gallery of the first courtyard towards the stables from which Vlad Dracula had just emerged. Halil Pasha had recommended that he stay in his chamber where nothing would disturb him, but he knew that he wanted another sight of the cause of his pain and his awakening. He said nothing of it to the Defterdar; it was not his place to know, as it was nobody’s place to know, even if he sometimes wondered that everybody did know, and always had.
The solak, the head janissary of his private guard, had given him a rather complicated report of Vlad Dracul’s attempted training as a janissary. Enough to convince him that promotion outside the palace was a far better option than promotion within its walls.
He can do more damage with a kilij, the solak had written, than half a unit of fully trained janissaries. That had struck him first as a good thing, but there was more. I do not recommend further training, Highness, on account of his volatile character, which I believe would exclude him from a role in Your Highness’ private guard. Like father, like son, Murad had thought. Both volatile, both difficult. Then: The Honourable Defterdar informs me that there is little chance of any acceptance of our Holy Book or indeed of any book at all. He does not pray, and the Honourable Defterdar claims that even if he did, he would probably bring a curse down on his own head to say nothing of ours… Yes, yes, thought Murad, a little impatiently. But then there was the final remark, which, he had to admit, had been the most worrying. Which brings me, Highness, to this last difficulty. The guards informed me that he suffers from the Devil’s trance, in which case isolation seemed by far the safest course. I will continue to keep him separate from the rest of the training corps, at Your Highness’ pleasure, until such time as Your Highness instructs otherwise…
He watched, fascinated, as Dracula led his horse over to within easy sight of him and bowed. He waved his wrist in a gesture of acceptance then turned his eyes away as soon as he possibly could.
‘What is that mount they have given him?’ murmured the Defterdar. ‘From my memory of what happened to his last horse, I hope it is a peaceful one.’
The black horse reared as Dracula swept onto its back in a single clean movement. The officer and his small group of mounted guards had his orders. No doubt Janos Hunyadi would be watching out for the arrival of the black rider with a little trepidation, which was one of the reasons Murad had let him go. Hunyadi had fallen low in Hungarian estimations. The marionette Hunyadi had placed on the throne of Wallachia was losing battles even on his own land. It was not impossible to imagine that, under the right conditions, one day they could use Vlad Dracula even more effectively than they had used his father. And then there was the matter of the scrolls.
He had told Dracul’s son that the scrolls of the Greeks must be intercepted before they reached Belgrade, although he was forced to admit that most of them were doubtlessly already stashed away in the coffers of the Catholics. What they would do with them was anybody’s guess. Burn them, perhaps. In any case, he no longer cared about s
uch things. They had become irrelevant. Still, by killing his father and brother, Hunyadi had ensured Dracula’s fealty to the sultanate. Even Halil Pasha had been forced to admit that whatever fire of accusations Hunyadi had stoked to remove Dracul from his seat, the Hungarians would find it hard to get rid of such a fine specimen as his son. He doubted that they ever would.
Movement in the second courtyard caught his attention. He watched, fascinated, as Radu Dracula passed through the gate into the first courtyard under the watchful eye of the guard. He had to admit that the youngest son of Dracul had become no more significant to him than a palace servant. He had banished the boy from his mind, as he had banished love, and as he had banished murder.
The Defterdar wiped his hands and stared. ‘How did he get there?’
Murad glanced at him, irritated. ‘He is a guest of the palace; he may go where he chooses.’ If Mehmet permits him, he thought, although he did not say that.
The Defterdar pursed his mouth. ‘All the same…’
‘All the same it is quite normal for a brother to bid goodbye to a brother,’ said Murad firmly, turning back to the first courtyard, almost eager to witness what he did not have and knew he never would: the love of a brother for his own. Radu Dracula had gained entry at the gate and was standing in full sunshine, shielding his eyes. Would he now take another step? Vlad Dracula had not yet seen his brother, but he would if he turned his horse around. He did. As the older brother looked at the younger, there was a stillness in the first courtyard, as if a falling pin would wake a thousand sleepers. Then, abruptly, Vlad Dracula turned his horse around again, spurred its sides and rode out through the gate.
Satisfied, but at the same time appallingly empty, Murad left the balcony wondering what had happened to the Timekeeper. It was probably time for a meal, but eating had become an effort, and he was weary of effort. Perhaps he would settle for a glass of watered yoghurt. But even as he thought it, his stomach burned like a wound that had been pissed on. Perhaps he would settle for nothing at all.
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 32