Muttering, Hunyadi stood up; he leaned into the mantle of the hearth and stared into the blue-green flames that crackled at his feet. ‘If what you say is true, our defences must be strengthened.’ He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, you do not know what we have to deal with. Durad Brankovic, the Serbian leader, is not a man to trust.’
‘Durad Brankovic was set before a choice, as my father was: his sons or his allies. Blood or fealty. You said yourself that it was difficult.’
Hunyadi’s eyes washed over him. ‘And what choice did you make? My guard tells me that you carry the sword of the Turks, the kilij.’
Vlad stretched out his fingers and clenched them to a ball. His hands had become stiff. His seizures turned them into claws. He could hold a sword and grasp a cup, but he couldn’t fasten a collar or stroke the neck of a horse.
‘It is better than a long sword,’ he said quietly. ‘I make the choice that suits me.’
Hunyadi moved closer, his broad-shouldered body blocking out the hearth. ‘If you will permit me to give you some advice, learn the lessons of your father. You cannot make alliances on either side and think that they will hold. Each one in turn will break, and you will have nothing in your hands except your own sword.’
‘Is that what you have decided to tell me, Captain? Because I have a different view of it.’ He leaned back and launched the thought that had been turning in his mind since the day he’d left Edirne.
Hunyadi almost smiled. ‘And what is that?’
‘Unless I am wrong, in which case as his friend I hope you will enlighten me, it is what my father believed in every day of his life, even in the moments that he doubted.’
‘You are talking about faith? About God?’
‘No, Captain Hunyadi. What I am talking about is unity. And if we do not build it now, we will have choices of our own to make, more personal ones, such as will I be Christian or will I be Mohammedan.’
He took his leave from Hunyadi and followed the servant through torch-lit hallways, past the tight-lipped portraits of the Huns, heavy-browed and bearded, past a wall of ancient spears and a tapestry with a horned faun lying by a riverbank.
Sometime in the middle of the night, when Corvin Castle filled up with the silence of Hunyadi’s fallen armies, the servant slipped inside his chamber. He lay with her until the light crept through the window drapes in a shattered pool of silver, and the shadows of Edirne palace were chased off by the dawn.
Chapter 60
Mehmet leaned over the rampart of the fortress and looked across the emerald waters of the Bosphorus to the walls of Constantinople on the other side of the straits. He turned to the head janissary.
‘The trees will need to be cut; the vines also.’ He stretched out his hand and marked out the problem. ‘If we leave it as it is, the cannon fire won’t get through.’
He tried to picture the effect. Ten Turks to one Greek, and enough cannon rocks to fill the arena of an Old Roman circus. The battle was already won.
‘Not with this, Excellency!’ The cannon founder backed away from two crates of Chinese salt that were baking in the heat.
Moments later, a janissary came back with half a hand. The cannon founder stared in horror. Mehmet held the hand up. The janissary winced, blood dripping down his sleeve.
‘Is this what we are, a bunch of fools that cannot even shift a crate of salt!’
The cannon founder sidled forwards. ‘With respect, Excellency, if you keep it in the sun, you might as well set a taper to it yourself. It must be kept cool; it must be aired. Salt is not just salt; it is firepowder; it is saltpetre.’
‘I know what it is,’ said Mehmet, impatiently. ‘I ordered it.’
There were times when he felt he had inherited a band of untrained farmers. His father had wasted precious time with his vassals and his talk. The army needed a lesson, a display of what it was he would expect from them when the moment came. A sharp sword was not enough; the will had to be sharper. He needed something more, something that would drive them through those gates and over that wall.
A messenger handed him a note. He unfurled the scroll and saw the hand at once. Halil Pasha had written again. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and skimmed through the note. The Greek Emperor Constantine sends a plea for peace. He shook his head, handed the note back to the messenger and told him that the reply was very simple and there was barely any need to set it out in script.
With the women of his father’s old seraglio clawing at his robes, Halil Pasha, the saviour of all, was having a hard time. On the afternoon of Mehmet’s investiture as sultan, the Grand Vizier had come to him, his face as coloured as a peacock, wanting explanations for the death of the late Sultan’s youngest son, Djem. Boys die, he had told him. Accidents happen. It was not his fault. Why was the pasha coming to him?
‘You are sultan now,’ the pasha had replied. ‘And the boy does happen to be your brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ he corrected.
Naturally the seraglio filled with a chorus of grief. That was what women did, grieve for themselves now or grieve for themselves later. But as he’d pointed out to the Kizlar, a corpse could not have favourites; Azize Hatun would fold neatly back into the anonymity of the seraglio and that would be that. His mother had made a fuss; she had arrived in his chamber the night of his investiture with one of those looks on her face, as though it was he who had treated her badly and not Murad. As for Mara Brankovic, she had requested his permission to leave the palace walls. Fine, he had said. He didn’t care where she went, as long as it was not near him.
He turned away from the wall and walked back towards the tower. The janissary was having his hand bandaged and complaining in a low voice he did not think could be heard along the ramparts. Mehmet hauled him up, slapped his face and told him that complaining meant desertion and desertion meant death. The janissary hung his head and he walked off irritated. There was only one way to light a fire in the bellies of these men, and he had thought about it as he had taken delivery of copper, charcoal and the pungent sulphur he would feed to those cannons. But he needed the flame of the ulema to do it. When he had stood in the mosque for the ceremonial girding of the sword of the Osmani on the day of his investiture as Sultan, the word jihad had slipped into his head as naturally as a mill turned by water. Hadn’t one of the ulema once told him that jihad meant the search for fortitude, that every battle was a test of faith? In which case, they were not defeating the Greeks; they were gaining a victory over their own weaknesses. What he needed was to bring these men to the point where they would even cut off their own hand to the glory of the cause. The Christian must learn to kiss the hand they could not bend, as the Turk must learn to lose it. When a man lost his hand in battle, he was a casualty. But when he cut it off himself, he was a martyr.
He called back the janissary and told him that his hand did him honour and that every strike against the Greeks, every cannon fired and every injury sustained would be rewarded, but not only by God, also by him. Salaries would be paid, he said, and land would be given to every man who pulled his weight in battle.
Satisfied, he left the ramparts for the central courtyard and stood in full sunshine. It was almost spring. In four weeks he would be ready. He looked around. These rampart walls with their corrugated teeth reminded him of Egrigoz. He had taken the precaution of sending a pair of ghazi, scouts used to long distances, to find out the movements of Vlad Dracula. The news had come in on the day of his investiture. Dracula had paid a visit to Corvin Castle, the lair of Hunyadi. He had thought about it as he climbed the steps into the mosque to receive his sword, and he thought about it now. What did Dracula think he was doing? Perhaps he had walked into Hunyadi’s castle and run him through with a sword.
He shook his head and smiled. The White Knight of the Crusades was in any case as good as done for. The Hungarians didn’t want him now that he had lost at Kosovo. The Cath
olics had fallen silent; they would be only too glad to be rid of the Greeks and their endless pleas for help. As for the famous throne of Wallachia, that was occupied by Dracul’s oldest rival, one of the Danesti, and all he was interested in was keeping his head above the nobility and reaping as much in the way of tithes as he could squeeze from that Carpathian wilderness after he had paid the newly increased Turkish tax.
Distracted by the sound of shouts and running, he crossed the courtyard at a sharp pace. The cannons had made good time. He grabbed his horse and rode out to meet them. The sun smashed off the Bosphorus, turning it to emeralds. Against the backdrop of the water, the cannons moved like the body of a long, black snake, sliding on its belly up the hill.
Chapter 61
‘Sibiu,’ said Hunyadi. ‘We are close to the border of Wallachia here; it is not your father’s seat, but you will need my guidance if I give you a title and set you on the throne.’
Vlad looked down at the Saxon citadel from the safety of his horse. They called it the red city for the colour of its bricks. His father had travelled through it on his way to Buda to pay his homage to the Emperor of Western Christendom, Hunyadi’s master.
‘No; it’s too far north. I would prefer Targoviste.’
Hunyadi steadied his mount. ‘What you are looking at is a trade route; it is the future of Wallachia.’
Vlad shook his head. ‘It is a Saxon city, Captain, and the future of the Holy Roman Empire.’
‘I thought you wanted unity,’ Hunyadi shouted.
‘I do, Captain,’ he answered, and nodded to the Saxon enclave his father always hated. ‘But this isn’t it.’ He turned his horse away; the wind scraped his hair back from his face. It was a cold spring wind, coming over snow. His body ached from the night at Corvin Castle, but it burned from it as well. ‘May we return now? There is something I must tell you.’
He galloped back the way they had come, with Hunyadi following.
Vlad took the bound codex, which was the Book of Job, from his pack and unwrapped it from its hide.
Hunyadi picked it up. ‘You travel with this?’
‘It belonged to my father, as did many other books, although this was the only one he gave me.’
‘You know the significance of it?’
‘I know it is part of the apocryphal scrolls and that it was kept in my father’s basement study, if that is what you mean?’
He picked up the codex and slowly turned the pages. ‘My father gave it to me because he wanted me to learn the lessons of Job.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did, although perhaps not in the way he would have wanted. What is my strength that I should wait? What is my end that I should be patient? God cannot help us, Captain. We must help ourselves.’
‘But not in Sibiu; not where I would set you?’ Hunyadi frowned. ‘What do you want, Dracula?’
‘A title. Count, perhaps. My father’s seat and a free hand to rule as I see fit. Not as the Holy Roman Empire would like me to, and not as the Turks require me to.’ He withdrew his crippled hand from the codex. ‘Victory has its price, Captain Hunyadi, as I have.’
He wrapped the codex in its hide. Underneath it lay the carved emblem the soothsayer of Edirne Palace had given him, together with a few carefully chosen words, the hint of the prophecy he did not want to make. To become the conqueror of the scrolls, Vlad Dracula must first win a victory over Vlad Dracula. He folded the paper tightly, and slipped it in the hide. He knew now what it meant. Perhaps he had always known. Had he not beaten the hollow space of the seizure? Whatever it was that stalked him now could not be worse than what Mircea had endured; it could not be more insurmountable than the fears of his father when the final moment came.
There was a din of ringing, bolts drawn back and voices in the Knight’s Hall. Hunyadi stood up as a cavalryman in long topcoat and Hungarian hat entered. The hussar removed his hat and bowed. He had picked up a Serb north of Sofia and thought he should be heard.
‘Bring him in,’ said Hunyadi.
The hussar left, returning moments later with a younger man in a uniform Vlad knew well because he had seen it at every gate of the Palace of Edirne. It was the uniform of the Sultan’s janissaries.
The hussar’s eyes met his. ‘He says he has deserted – a dangerous business for a hostage conscript.’
‘Captain Hunyadi,’ he said, ‘let me speak to him. If he…’
Hunyadi raised a hand. ‘Let us see what he says first.’ He addressed the janissary in rapid Torlak, a dialect of the south. The Serb shook his head.
Vlad touched Hunyadi’s arm. ‘He has forgotten the language of his homeland.’ He addressed the Serb in Turkish.
Relieved to be understood, the Serb replied. He was hungry, thirsty too. Vlad asked for food and water. Both were brought in, and the Serb spoke fast between mouthfuls of water, bread and goulash.
‘He wants to fire cannon balls at the city wall. Lots of them.’
Vlad pushed the bread towards him. ‘The great cannon?’
The Serb looked at him and nodded.
‘What else?’
‘He is calling it jihad.’
‘Holy war?’
‘There are others, like me, that want to run away, but it’s difficult. Some don’t. They have sworn to the ulema. Once you have sworn, you cannot take it back.’
‘I know.’
The Serb wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Mehmet will kill everyone. He doesn’t care. Man, woman, child, Greek or Turk or Serb.’
Hunyadi grasped his shoulder. ‘Well, what is he saying?’
He turned. ‘Mehmet is preparing to attack the walls of Constantinople with his cannons and his men.’
‘How many men?’
‘Nearly one hundred thousand,’ said the Serb. He stopped eating and watched them.
Hunyadi turned away, one hand over his face.
The hussar stepped forward. ‘What shall we do?’
Vlad felt the hussar’s eyes upon his kilij. He moved up to the hearth and pressed Hunyadi’s arm. ‘Captain – the Danube.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Hunyadi pushed back from the hearth and stood up straight, his face taut with sorrow. ‘Prepare the horses and provisions for a journey. We leave for Belgrade first thing in the morning.’
Chapter 62
The bitter smoke of cannon fire poked its fingers through gaping holes the size of ships in the great double wall that enclosed the city of Constantinople – the wall that had withstood the Varchonites, repelled the first of the Mohammedans and tormented the Norsemen. It hung about the turrets and the shattered towers in garlands of honeyed gossamer. As for the inhabitants inside, either they were dead, dying or herded together into weeping enclaves by soldiers hardened by the horror of their acts and desperate to consolidate the righteousness of slaughter with the discipline of cruelty. The veil of finality had fallen; the last act was played.
Mehmet stepped over a body and walked through the bronze gates of the citadel. It was possible that one of the bodies scattered in the debris of battle belonged to Constantine the Emperor, but they were so piled one atop the other that it was impossible to find a face in such a heap, and so he gave up looking. He passed through the double wall and stepped onto the Mese, or what was left of it. The thoroughfare now resembled a giant beach. Rocks the size of horses littered the road, and the whole place was a mess of metal, stone and sulphur. He covered his face with a cloth, angry that the elation of victory had died away so fast. He called out words of praise and proclamations to the men he passed, but the looting had already begun and the soldiers had dispersed into the mangled streets looking for life, gold or whatever they could lay a hand on easily.
Irritated, he called for a mount and threw himself onto the back of it. Then he headed towards the great dome of the Hagia Sophia, the Church of the Orthodox Patria
rchate as was, which seemed to have withstood his assault like a virgin in a ring of bandits. On his left he saw a sweep of steps, and rode his horse up it. The library. Thick grey smoke poured from the roof, which had been almost entirely demolished. The walls still stood, but they gave the whole building the look of a ruin. He hesitated, loath to enter. This was the reason for his father’s ramblings. He asked for a watered cloth and walked inside the building only to find himself once more in the open. Small fires were burning here and there amongst heaps of stone and wood. He passed a long table and stopped. A bundle of scrolls lay open on it; he shook the dust off it and picked it up. Greek – naturally. He put the bundle down and turned. His father had thought he would not make a success of his conquest, but he had been wrong there too. Now that he had taken the city, he would set it to work. He would rebuild it. It would have a palace finer than Edirne, new bathing houses better than the Roman ones, and mosques to commemorate the victory of the Turk. He would have to rename it of course. Something would come to mind that was not Greek.
‘Put out the fires,’ he ordered, ‘and gather up whatever you can find that is not burning.’
He stepped out into the hazy sunshine that struggled with the smoke, and saw a messenger approaching on a horse. Every now and then the horse stumbled, either from fatigue or from the air, which still trembled from the firing of the cannons. He watched the messenger dismount. There was muttering around him. As Mehmet walked through the crowd of janissaries, it stopped abruptly.
‘Well, if you have news, what is it?’
‘The Hungarians are re-forming, Excellency.’
‘Re-forming? Where?’
‘At the fortress of the White City.’
Belgrade. The very place he knew he had to take. He turned away and walked back up the steps of the library and into the silent hall, one fist tight and the other gripping his halberd. He had deliberately avoided a show of strength in the north, knowing that the assault, when it came, would have to come quickly. Surprise was always the best strategy. Now he did not have it. By the time he reached the Danube it would be crawling with ships and men. He picked up a rock and flung it at a row of smouldering shelves.
The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer Page 34