Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “I told you about Mother’s portrait two years ago. I have painted many since.” Touran’s face reddened and she looked away. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Naim couldn’t tell.

  Naim swallowed a hard lump. Of course, he chided himself. I got that letter during the Black Sea affair. How could I have forgotten? Naim thought to smooth it over, but Rahele shook her head, calmly drizzling olive oil over a round of bread. Deciding to walk an easier path, Naim turned to his fifteen-year-old son. “Ilyas, tell me of your studies with Sheik Arslan. Is he helping you with your arithmetic?”

  “Yes, Father,” Ilyas said, straightening his posture. His black hair had grown long, and there was a constant nervous bouncing in his leg. He took after his father, with a gangly build since his last growth spurt. Ilyas often affected a regal air around Naim—a transparent, if flattering attempt to imitate his father. “The Sheik is as patient as he is wise. I am doing much better since your last visit. In fact, I think I am ready for greater challenges.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ilyas,” said Rahele. “Now is not the time.”

  “But, Mother, I have waited months to ask.”

  “Ask me what?” Naim said.

  Ilyas cleared his throat. “You commanded me to improve in my studies, Father, and so I have done. I believe I am ready to learn your arts. The arts of the Chronicler.”

  “What did you say?” Naim’s fork clattered on his plate. His heart pounded in his chest. “Where did you hear that word?”

  “It is nothing to be ashamed of, Father. I am honored to be the son of the—”

  “Shut your mouth!” Naim rose to his feet. He managed to check his temper and force a calmer tone. “You will never say that word again.”

  “Why?” Ilyas’ chipper demeanor collapsed. He looked at his father as if wounded. “Are you ashamed of who you are? Are you ashamed of me?”

  An image flashed in Naim’s mind. El-Azzam’s bulging eyes as he gulped for air. He murmured, “You will never say that word again. I hired Sheik Arslan at great expense, and you will confine yourself to his studies. Nothing more.”

  Ilyas looked away, arms crossed. Touran stared at her food, head bowed.

  Rahele said softly, “Children, please leave the table. I wish to speak to your father.”

  Chairs scraped, and Naim’s children hurried into the farm cottage. When Naim and his wife had been alone for a moment, he asked, “What becomes of my children in my absence? They live in abundance, on beautiful land, with fine clothes, and bellies full. I have given them everything, and yet they ask for more.”

  “They do not ask for more, Varlick,” said Rahele. “They ask for you.”

  “This life we lead, it is no gift of charity from the sultan. My absence is the price we must pay.”

  “Perhaps the price is too high.”

  Naim paced to the edge of the terrace. He stared across the vineyards and orchards carpeting the hills. “I have pledged an oath of service to our empire. The work I do…I do it out of love for you and the children. I don’t expect them to relish these sacrifices, but in the brief time I have with them, is it too much to ask they show their father honor?”

  Rahele stood behind her husband. She ran a hand down his back. “Your children do honor you. Ilyas worships you. But they are nearly grown, Varlick. You have been gone for most of their childhood. They do not know you, and the time is fast approaching when they will no longer wish to.”

  “What would you have me do? I have a duty to Sultan Selim.”

  “You have done your duty for forty years.” Rahele faced him and took his hands. “It is time to pass your duty to another. Lay down the sword and come home. Do not lose the time you have left.”

  There was no denying the truth. For years now, Naim had longed to be with his wife and children. As he looked into Rahele’s dark eyes, he felt his resolve weakening. Every man had a weakness. She was his. “Isitan is ready to lead…But what if the sultan will not let me go?”

  A hardness crept into Rahele’s eyes, like the gaze of an empress. “Can any man refuse the Chronicler of Constantinople?”

  Naim was speechless. Few people ever had that effect on him. He swept Rahele into his arms, kissing her as though they were young again.

  ###

  The Palace of the Ottoman Sultan

  Istanbul, Turkey

  “Retire?” said Sultan Selim from his seat on the throne. The thirty-two-year-old son of the late Mustafa had a thoughtful voice and the soul of an artist. He was young and enlightened, but he depended on men of action for his success—a strength he wisely sought in those who served him. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “But the Nizam-I Djedid are not ready. There are still Janissaries all over the Empire calling for their blood. And what of my Chronicler? Who can replace him?”

  Varlick Naim was the only other soul in the throne room. Dust floated in shafts of daylight. Naim replied with a bow, “My honored sultan, I have trained Commander Isitan with my own hand. He is strong and smart and loved by his men. He is ready to command your New Order Troops. As for ‘the Chronicler,’ he is not an official member of your court, and his title began as a name of mockery bestowed by your enemies. I am the experiment of my late mentor, Soysal Nisanci. A calligrapher-trained-as-assassin is a curiosity you no longer need. I have hand-selected the new head gardener, grand vizier, and spymaster—they will protect your New Order. I retire from a position that never truly existed.”

  “And what of my friend?” asked Selim. “Who will replace him?”

  “Until the end of his days, he will be at your call. My advice and council will ever be yours for the asking.”

  Selim was silent for a long time. “Very well. I shall release you from my service.”

  “Thank you, my sultan.” Naim bowed deeply.

  “But first,” added Selim. “I must beg of you one more task. A task you have long refused me.”

  Bile churned in Naim’s stomach. “My liege, I know what you would ask, and my answer is the same: I kill wolves, not lambs. You speak of young boys still in the seraglio with their mothers.”

  “There are many in the empire,” argued Selim, “and even in my own seraglio, who would supplant me with a sultan to undo our reforms. The work on which you and I have labored for so long. It is your own handpicked spymaster who tells me—my three nephews are having their minds poisoned against me. Naim, my old friend, we cannot allow this to happen. Do this last great work on behalf of the empire, and retire to your orchards with my blessing.”

  Naim weighed the possibility of saying no. It was a rare assassin who could leave the service of his master with his head intact. Selim would honor his word, but artistic or no, he was not a man to test. It was not a request, but a counteroffer. The price of Naim’s freedom. To spend his twilight years walking among his olive trees, holding hands with Rahele, making up for lost years with his children…he must show three boys the silk cord. Three more bodies heaped on the pile.

  “It will be done,” said Naim.

  “Thank you, my loyal servant. Your years of service have breathed new life into the Ottoman Empire.”

  Naim turned to leave. The click of his boots echoed off the beams. Before he reached the door, Selim spoke again.

  “I shall compose a symphony in honor of your life’s work.”

  Naim didn’t break stride. “If honor were my due, there would be no need for my work.”

  Chapter 30

  The Janissary Docks

  City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Near Dawn

  In the darkest hour before dawn, torches burned along the deserted wharves of the Janissary harbor. John sat at the bow of a longboat, the thwarts behind him filled with over a dozen freed slaves. Along with them were Ethan, Buford, and his own father, all dressed like Barbary pirates. Stars rippled in the water as the keel cut through their reflection. The boat passed through a narrow man-made canal, fifty yards across, with t
owers on either side. Overhead, a pair of massive chains spanned the distance between the two towers, one low enough to block the hull of a ship, the other high enough to rip through masts. Flags and banners of every color draped along the chain like laundry hung out to dry. Beyond the towers, the canal opened into a dockyard enclosed by twenty-foot walls.

  It hadn’t taken long for Naim’s false orders to spread. There were no longer any patrols on the ramparts or the wharves. Gunboats, schooners, and ketches lay along either side, tethered to pylons, their lateen sails stripped off and stored under lock and key. Warehouses, coffeehouses, and boathouses, which were built against the walls, were locked and dark. Along the north side of the wharves, the Wolf of Tunis towered over the smaller, single masted ships. No pirates worked her decks, no sailors manned her rigging, and her sails were furled. As John had hoped, pirates and Janissaries all over the city were abandoning their street patrols, their gatehouses and ramparts, their ships and barracks, their houses of ill repute, and most importantly, their docks. The armies of Tunis were converging on the palace of Bey Hammuda.

  “Remember, men, we only get one shot at this,” whispered John. He looked over the faces of the men behind him, silhouetted against the stars. A few miles aft, the lit windows of the Lake Fort flickered on the dark water. “We each have our jobs. One more fight, and tomorrow, we’ll be homeward bound under a full press of sail.”

  “Aye!” said several of the men.

  “Bloody right!” said another.

  “We’re ready,” said Ethan, cocking his musket.

  “Lead on, son,” said Declan from his spot at the tiller.

  To John’s surprise, he found his father’s confidence reassuring. A feeling all the more puzzling when he considered how much respect he’d lost for Declan. He gave a perfunctory nod and turned his attention to the Mountain Man. “Buford, you’re sure the north tower is guarded?”

  The muscular Tennessean was sitting on a thwart between two of the older rescued boys, his size all the more menacing by comparison. He picked at the blade of a long, fat butcher knife. “They’re up there. Unlucky day to be a Janissary.”

  John nodded. “Right, then. Steady as she goes, men. Stay alert and be ready.”

  The men rowed on, dipping their oars gently so as not to make noise. Every time they disturbed the surface of the lake, another whiff of moldering sewer waste assaulted the air. The odor instantly transported John to that sweltering day five years ago, huddled on a barge with the enslaved crew of his father’s ship. He would never forget being a fifteen-year-old boy watching the heat rise off the city of Tunis, an iron chain shackled to his ankle, his dreams of being a merchant captain shattered. Never again, he thought.

  The launch rowed up to the wharf, and the men climbed onto the docks. They tied the boat to the pylons, then gathered at the door of the north tower. The massive chains rang gently as they swayed in the breeze. One end of the boom was permanently anchored to the south tower, while this end was threaded through portholes in the opposite tower. A light flickered in a window near the top. John tried the door, and it opened. A spiral of stairs wound upward. Drawing his rapier Ace, John led the way. The rest of the men poured in behind him.

  Buford followed close behind John, his black hair and beard more wild than usual. The black marketeer tucked his meat cleaver under his leather kaftan. He plodded up the steps as calmly as a man rising for breakfast. John drew his dagger Spade and held it in reverse grip.

  The sound of voices drew John’s attention to the platform above. He didn’t know the language, but there were short quips and hearty laughs. The sound of comrades enjoying one another’s company. It reminded him of his last game of brag with Lieutenant Chester Ryland—a handful of officers in the hold of the Philadelphia playing cards and sharing drinks. The Janissaries deserved what they were about to get. Still, he couldn’t deny a certain sinking feeling as Buford laid a hand on his shoulder. Taking the trader’s cue, John let Buford go ahead.

  They were stopped at the top of the stairs, just below the floor of the tower room. John peeked over the floorboards at eye level. There were four men sitting around a massive tiller and using it using it as a card table, their stools positioned between the horizontal spokes. A massive rope was coiled around the column of the tiller, which snaked through a hole in the floor. It was the machinery that raised and lowered the harbor boom.

  Buford straightened his kaftan like a trader primping his lapels, then strode up the last few steps with stiff-legged confidence.

  “Gentlemen,” said Buford. Conversation stopped, and stools scraped. He switched to Lingua Franca. “I have come to make delivery of weapons. Now, who has my piastres?”

  The lieutenant of the Janissaries, wearing a brass spoon on his felt hat, knit his eyebrows. He laid a hand on the pistol tucked in his belt. “Buford. What are you doing here? I’ve ordered no weapons.”

  “Why that is a shame,” Buford didn’t break stride as he crossed the room. “I am afraid all sales are final.”

  The lieutenant pulled the pistol too late. Buford lunged with surprising speed. His meat cleaver flashed out of his coat and split the Janissary’s skull. The man jerked, his tongue slipping out of his mouth, then fell off his stool.

  Cards fluttered as the other three sprang into action. A swish of air and Buford’s butcher knife hewed open another Janissary’s throat, the soldier’s mouth gumming as he tried to suck air.

  John charged toward the tiller. The third man at the table stumbled back, his pistol free of his belt, and leveled it at Buford. The Mountain Man twisted it away like a parent depriving a child of a toy, pressed the muzzle to his attacker’s forehead, and fired. Red chunks exploded across the stone wall. The fourth Janissary swung his scimitar at Buford, his white under-kaftan stained with his mate’s blood. John thrust his rapier, catching the blow just in time. The massive Tennessean snatched the man’s head in both hands like a boy catching a bug, then slammed it into a tiller spoke once, twice, three times. The third strike left a sticky stain on the shaft. John stepped back out of the way as Buford tossed the final dead guard aside.

  “Hmm.” Buford looked at John, unable to bring his lazy eye to bear. “Tower’s done.” He’d killed four men in as many seconds, and he’d done it with all the passion of a shipwright hammering rivets.

  “Right,” murmured John.

  Buford nodded and trudged to the upper tower door. He opened it a crack, peeked at the wall ramparts, and nodded at John. “All clear.”

  “And this man is Katie’s friend?” Ethan came alongside John, a musket hanging in his hands as he stared at Buford.

  John shrugged. “At least he’s on our side.”

  Ethan returned a skeptical frown. “That’s what worries me.”

  ###

  The Palace of the Bey

  City of Tunis

  Tuesday, September 13th, 1803

  Day 4, Sunrise

  Kaitlin Sullivan ran for her life, dashing through the sunlit hall of the seraglio. Wood-paneled doors blurred by, along with priceless vases, paintings, and silver candlesticks. The fearful cries of harem women and the shouts of the Nizam-I Djedid echoed up from the first floor. There were loud crashes as the invading soldiers kicked in doors and turned over furniture. They were looking for a thief.

  From the moment Kaitlin had climbed out of the chimney in a cloud of soot, things had gone bad. The morning sun shined bright—the death knell to any thief’s escape. Kaitlin had tossed her filthy cloak aside, having no further reason to cover her bright blue kaftan. With Janissaries and Nizam-I Djedid swarming the palace grounds, she managed to break into the seraglio by the narrowest luck. But in her haste to get the side door open, she’d broken her pin and tumbler pick. It would be the last locked door she would get through.

  The harem was the one place in the castle men weren’t allowed to go, save for the eunuchs, who were hand-picked by the bey to protect the women. Kaitlin should have been able to find a quiet place to hi
de. It was not to be. Naim’s soldiers had stormed in, demanding the women turn over any thief they might be harboring.

  Now, Kaitlin ran to each chamber door, trying the knobs. Again and again, she found them locked. The stomping of soldiers was growing louder—they were heading toward the stairs at the end of the hall. Kaitlin ran to the third-to-last door. Locked! Feck! she cursed. She only needed one open room and a window to the roof. Kaitlin moved to the next—and ran straight into an end table. A tall fluted vase wobbled, tipped, and before she could catch it, shattered on the floor.

  “Oh, shite!” Kaitlin hissed. She tried the next doorknob. Locked again!

  She heard Djedid boots trotting up the stairs at the end of the hall.

  “Kaitlin?” said a woman’s voice.

  Kaitlin spun like a goosed cat. She stared wide-eyed at the woman who stepped out of the room across the hall. The woman had kind, copper-colored eyes and smooth skin. She wore layers of silk, each bright color complimenting the next. It was the lady of the seraglio, Mistress Nejat.

  “Kaitlin?” Nejat repeated. “Is that you?”

  It was a stunning moment. Five years ago, Kaitlin had been torn from her mother Nora’s arms and imprisoned in Bey Hammuda’s harem, soon to be a child bride to the highest bidder. She had only been eight years old, still unaware of her impending fate. Only Mistress Nejat had shown her kindness.

  “Mistress.” A tear slipped down Kaitlin’s cheek. “Please. Don’t tell them I’m here.”

  Nejat blinked at Kaitlin, and for a moment, it looked like she might shout for the soldiers.

  The first of the Djedid was coming up the steps when Nejat said, “Here. Quickly.” She opened the door behind her to a lavishly furnished bedroom suite.

  Kaitlin dashed across the hall and into the room. She paused at the door to say, “Thank you, Nejat. Thank you.”

  “I will distract them as long as I can,” Nejat whispered. She gave a fond smile. “I missed you little one. It’s good to see you again.”