A Place Called Armageddon (14 page)

Achmed ignored the bottle. He turned, then turned back. ‘This place we go?’

‘The Red Apple?’

‘I heard it has another name.’

‘It has many. It used to be called Byzantium. It is hailed as the Rome of the East. We of the true faith have always seen it as that delicious fruit waiting to drop into our hands. But the Greeks themselves, the world, know it by another name – Constantinople.’

‘Constantinople.’ Achmed mouthed the strange word, hard on his tongue. Then he nodded, turned again, seeking a corner for sleep.

It did not matter what it sounded like, where it was, who held it now. All that mattered was that he go there. Die in the holy cause, if Allah so willed it. Or live to get the gold that lined its streets, then return to build a bower of wild roses over his dead daughter’s grave.

–
NINE
–

Persuasion

Edirne, capital of the Ottoman Empire
January 1453

‘It is time.’

Ignoring the voice, the gardener glanced along the raised bed. Every ten paces, from the terrace to the pond, a sapling stood in a mound of freshly turned earth. Swivelling, he checked again that this last he’d planted was directly opposite another across the mosaic path. Each would grow as Allah willed. But this much he could control, their precise placement.

He raised a hand. Hamza pulled him up. He bent to rub his right knee. He’d been crouched a while and his leg had never been completely free of pain since Kossovo four years before. He had commanded the right wing of his father’s army on the Field of the Blackbirds and a Serb had hit him hard with the boss of his shield before he’d ridden him down.

‘They call it
Cercis siliquastrum
in the Latin. I have heard there is an avenue of these in the palace of Constantinople. There it is known as the Judas tree.’ He glanced over. ‘Do you know why?’

‘No, lord.’ Hamza’s tone made it clear he did not wish to know, that other matters pressed. He even turned towards the direction they must take.

Mehmet did not follow. He had spent a precious morning doing what he loved, here in the garden that was his joy. And even though the path that Hamza urged him along could lead to an even greater joy, he did not want to take it. Not yet.

‘Judas is another name for the betrayer of the prophet Isa, praise him. It is said that after the betrayal he hung himself from this tree; the thirty pieces of silver he’d been paid spilled at his feet.’

Hamza looked down. ‘Is it not a little small for hanging?’

Mehmet laughed. ‘It can grow to three times the height of a man, though the branches are ever thin. Yet strong enough to bear the weight of a traitor.’ He looked down the avenue. ‘My
bostanci
tell me that it will grow fast, that the flowers are pink, bountiful and fragrant. Perhaps in ten years we shall walk beneath these Judas trees, Hamza, and breathe in their scent.’

‘
Inshallah
.’ Hamza shook his head. ‘Or perhaps the scent will be from the bodies of traitors dangling from their limbs.’

Mehmet noted the hint that was there. But he was in too good a mood to join his adviser in his fears. ‘Well, it would be a convenient place. Since my
bostanci
…’ he gestured at the five kneeling gardeners, ‘are not only janissaries but also my executioners.’ He turned to the waiting men. ‘Water them down, then report to your barracks.’

Hamza wiped the mud from his master’s hand onto the sleeve of his
gomlek
. ‘There is water also for you to wash,’ he said, as they began to move down the path.

Mehmet stared at his fingers, the nails like black crescent moons. ‘I think I will not. It will be good to see the mark of the soil on my
belerbeys
’ faces after they have paid homage to me.’

He laughed, and Hamza’s concern increased. His master was yet young, his emotions … variable. ‘This talk of trees and traitors, master,’ he murmured as they climbed the steps up to the
saray’s
rear entrance. ‘Do you fear …?’

‘I fear nothing.’ For the first time colour came into Mehmet’s voice. ‘“Traitor” is too strong a term for these men, my father’s men, grown fat and lazy and cautious. But they are as bad as traitors, for they stand between me and my mark. And now they must duck else my arrows go through them.’

The other grunted. ‘And this talk of Isa …’

Mehmet halted, his voice lowering. ‘I know that many find my interest in other faiths troubling. Suspect that I may even be … drawn to the mysteries of the Sufi, or the salvation offered by the Christ.’ He stopped before the door, laid a grubby hand on the older man’s sleeve. ‘But do not fear, Hamza. Today they shall see only what I am – a
gazi
of Islam.’

They continued, reached the
saray
. The robing room was where Mehmet had donned his gardening clothes. It was also where a very different type of clothing awaited.

‘Arm me,’ the sultan commanded the men who waited, raising his hands. ‘And Hamza?’ He waved at the table. Parchment rolls covered it. ‘Once more.’

Hamza felt he did not need to look at any page, so inscribed were their facts on his mind. Yet there was something reassuring about the inked lines, the lists of forces, the disposition of ships, the signatures on treaties. He named them all now as Mehmet was armed, his voice measured.

He was not close to the end when Mehmet halted him with a word. ‘Look.’

Hamza looked. Studied. Nodded.

They had argued long about what Mehmet should wear this day. To exalt the status of a sultan, without setting him too far above those he needed to serve him. To remind them that he was, though young, a soldier of some experience from a tradition of military men. That he was also what he called himself – a
gazi
, a warrior of the faith, taking up the Prophet’s banner in a jihad eight hundred years old.

Mehmet was muscled from years of training at arms and on the wrestling floor. His armour emphasised that, the mail coat raised over padded shoulders, his chest plates lifted slightly. These were clearly old, dints visible, though polished to a brightness that would dazzle in the sunlight. Only in the helmet was there any ostentation, for though it was in the simple style of a metal turban, with more mail descending to protect the neck, a type that all his
sipahi
horsemen would wear, the metal was silver. And on its surface had been etched, in cursive Arabic lettering, a well-known
haditha
of Muhammad: ‘I will assist you with a thousand of the angels, ranks on ranks.’

Hamza went to Mehmet. Though as tall, he felt dwarfed by the shining bulk. Which was how he wanted to feel, what he hoped all would feel. ‘And your sword, master?’ he asked. ‘How did you decide?’

Mehmet opened his hand and an armourer placed a weapon in it. Mehmet pulled a hand’s span of steel from the battered sheath, to glitter in the sunlight. ‘I know what we discussed – a new sword, perhaps, so they would see a new leader and not …’ he hesitated, ‘a father’s insufficient son.’ He drew the sword fully now, dropped back into fighting stance, free hand out and forward, curved blade high and back. ‘But the men we are to persuade saw this sword melt the Crusader ranks at Varna, saw it scythe the very air upon the Field of the Blackbirds.’ He stepped back, swung it in a high cut that was yet low enough to have men ducking. ‘I decided that a small touch of my warrior father’s memory will not go amiss this day.’

It does not go amiss with me, who loved him, Hamza thought, but with you, who did not? Still, on balance he thought the choice was right. Murad had been one of the greatest warriors the House of Osman had ever produced. He had nearly always won.

Mehmet swept the blade through the air. ‘So what think you, Hamza? Am I not Achilles?’

Hamza nodded. His master considered the text of the
Iliad
as a near equal to the holiest of books. Achilles, the fearless, ruthless supreme warrior, was his model. ‘Every fibre of him, master. And are you ready now to go and mock the strutting Achaean lords?’

The younger man smiled. ‘I am ready. Stay by me. Guide me if I falter.’

‘I shall be your rock ever, master. Though you will need nothing from me but my praise when you have won them.’

‘Your lips to God’s ears.’ Mehmet lifted the sword into sunlight once more before sheathing it, then sliding it into its strapping at his belt. ‘
Inshallah
,’ he said, and led the way to the door.

He needed no fanfare, just the tent’s flaps thrown back. The hour had been judged precisely so that the sun, low in the west, shone through the
otak’s
aligned front entrance and made his armour dance with flame. Other servants had instructions to keep that canvas spread till Hamza signalled them to lower it. He did not do so till Mehmet had reached the centre of the raised platform and even the most reluctant had their noses pressed to the carpet for three full breaths.

‘
Allahu akbar!
’ Mehmet roared.

‘God is great!’ came the echo from fifty voices.

The flaps dropped, faces came up, men rose, and saw their sultan clearly for the first time. Saw too, just behind and to the side, the plain contrast of Mehmet’s imam, Aksemseddin, the cleric in sober brown and grey, a gold-leaf-covered copy of the Qur’an in his arms.

The Prophet’s warrior let them study him for half a dozen breaths before he beckoned. Only a few had been allowed the honour of kissing his hand.

The grand vizier, of course, would be first. The two
belerbeys
next – as governors of the larger provinces, it was expected. Other
beys
, only just below them in prestige, would follow. Every one of them he and Hamza had, in endless night-time analysis, named for animals. As each approached, Mehmet spoke the alias along with the name inside his head.

The Elephant came first, his grand vizier, Candarli Halil Pasha. The Ox and the Buffalo followed closely, Ishak and Karaca,
belerbeys
of Anatolia and Rumelia, who would command his Turkish and European levies respectively. Each bent, kissed, avoided his eyes. Mehmet watched them waddle back to their factions. Old bulls, he thought. Devoid of seed. Lowing for peace.

He had a different smile for the two men – the two animals, Cheetah and Bear – who came next. Zaganos was an Albanian, a convert, more fanatical for the faith than almost any born to it. He was lean, fast, young, ambitious. The other man was huge and also well named. Baltaoglu was a Bulgarian, a former prisoner and slave, who had embraced Islam only to rise as fast as he could, his skills at naval war matched by the brutality with which he pursued it. They worked as a pair, a young Balkan alliance against the old Anatolians.

A last man came when they retreated – Imran,
agha
of the janissaries. His bow was brief, his kiss likewise, his leaving swift. He and his sultan had little love, for he had been Murad’s man entirely. But Mehmet knew as he watched the man walk away and stand directly in between the camps of war and peace with the other undecided, the majority in the room, that he could be persuaded. Janissaries got restless with too much peace and made trouble. Like cheetahs, they needed the hunt.

He looked at all who’d greeted him, at the others behind grouped mainly in the middle. Suddenly he felt uncertain. What was it he was going to say? In what order? He turned … and Hamza was right behind him. In his adviser’s stare, he found certainty again. And when he looked again at the upturned faces, sought out those of the men he must persuade or overcome, he saw that he had marked them all. Mud, that had been on his hands, was now on their faces. His grand vizier was wiping grit from his lips. It made Mehmet smile – and then he was speaking.

‘Lords of the horizon,’ he said, lifting off his great silver helmet, ‘pashas of lands that stretch from the mountains of the Tartar to the seas of the Greeks, all united under Allah, praise Him …’ He paused as ‘Praise Him!’ was shouted in response, then added, ‘Welcome, lords, to the end and the beginning of history!’

Some men, already aligning themselves with him, cheered. Most did not. He lifted a hand, and received immediate silence. In a quieter voice he continued, ‘You know why we are gathered here. And since it is not a secret …’ he turned to Hamza, nodded, watched his adviser leave by the back of the tent, turned back, ‘let me remind you where we seek to conquer, why we seek it and how. Let me shout the name, so that it goes to God’s ears as tribute, as prayer.’ He threw back his head and yelled, ‘Constantinople!’

He looked down again. ‘Constantinople,’ he repeated softly. ‘We also call it the Red Apple. How many times have the sons of Isaac camped before its walls, waiting for that luscious fruit to drop into our hands? In the memories of men gathered here are visions of my grandfather, whose name I bear to my honour, packing up his tents and stealing away from that prize. My own father, Murad, an incomparable warrior, could not cut the fruit away from the tree. So why do I, grandson, son of such esteemed warriors, believe that I can do what they failed to do?’ His voice dropped and he smiled. ‘Because prophecy is the voice of destiny – and it is prophesied that it is time for the Red Apple to fall. Did not the Prophet, most exalted, say: “Have ye heard of a city of which one side is land and two others sea? The Hour of Judgement shall not sound until seventy thousand sons of Isaac shall capture it.”’

He stared out, letting the Prophet’s words rest in their ears a moment. ‘You know that we have already assembled the number of the prophecy,’ he continued. ‘You have brought them yourselves to gather beneath my tug. More are coming. Many more. Yet what size of army will face us? Our enemies have never been weaker, nor more disunited. We will fight only those impoverished few who live there. No one will come to their aid. Oh, they will make great noises, they will clash their arms – but they will not lift them. I have treaties signed with the dread Hunyadi, the White Knight of Hungary. With Brankovitch of Serbia. The Pope weeps … and does little more. And if conscience does finally strike them all and they set out, it will be too late.’ His voice dropped and men leaned closer. ‘Too late. For we will already have turned their temple, the Hagia Sophia, into a mosque.’