Siege (6 page)

Mehmed held his tongue. Perhaps Halil was right. Still, he wished his father would see that he was no longer the boy he had been four years ago. He was a man now and wished to be treated as such.

They entered a covered walkway and passed through a courtyard garden before stepping into the dark entry hall of Murad’s private residence. They paused there while a eunuch announced them: ‘Prince Mehmed and Grand Vizier Halil Pasha!’

Mehmed stepped into Murad’s private audience chamber and bowed low before his father, taking the opportunity to observe his surroundings. Little had changed in his absence. The room, dimly lit by a few hanging lamps, was richly appointed with scarlet satin draperies on the walls and thick Persian carpets covering the floor. Murad sat in the middle of it all, propped up by a mound of pillows. He was dressed in pale-blue silk robes and from his neck hung a chestnut-sized ruby as dark as blood, the
kumru kalp
, or ‘dove’s heart’. At forty-four, the sultan showed the effects of a life spent at battle. The scars on his cheeks now intersected with deeper creases around his eyes and his thick black beard was laced with grey. His joints ached so that he could barely rise in the morning unless he was massaged first. And in recent years he had been afflicted by a burning pain in his stomach, which at its worst left him doubled over in bed, retching and cursing Allah. It was this last pain that had led him to abdicate four years ago. His doctors had suggested that a peaceful life far from court would end his torments, and, indeed, his condition had improved before his return to the throne. Now, though, he suffered nightly. Still,
he carried himself with an air of command and his piercing eyes retained their youthful vigour. His mouth was set in a thin line. Mehmed could read nothing in Murad’s face.

‘Welcome home, Prince Mehmed,’ Murad said, his voice deep and flat, the voice of a general barking orders. ‘Now, sit. Have a drink of wine. You must be parched after your long journey.’

‘Thank you, Father.’ Mehmed sat down and drank deep, thankful that his father shared his impious love of alcohol. He had not had a drop of wine during the entire campaign: his father had told him again and again the importance of following the dictates of Allah while leading the armies of Islam. Now he was surprised how quickly the wine went to his head.

‘I am told that you executed Boghaz Pasha today,’ Murad began. ‘A good general dead simply because he insulted you.’ He shook his head. ‘You must learn to control your passions, Mehmed. A wise sultan must sometimes bear insults patiently. Otherwise, he will find himself surrounded only by honey-tongued courtiers, afraid to speak the truth.’

‘I am not afraid of the truth,’ Mehmed replied. ‘But nor was I raised to suffer insults lightly.’

‘I am your father, boy. You will suffer insults gladly if I command it. Now tell me. Is it true that the people proclaimed you
fatih
today?’

‘They did, Father.’

‘Nonsense,’ Murad snorted. ‘What have you conquered? You defeated a ragtag band of mercenaries, nothing more.’

‘I defeated Hunyadi, the Christians’ greatest general,’ Mehmed protested.

‘And tell me, how many bazibozouks did you lose?’

‘I am not sure of the exact numbers …’ Mehmed hesitated.

‘Out of over fifty thousand bazibozouks, we have not twenty thousand left who will ever see battle again,’ Halil said.

Mehmed flashed him an angry look. ‘But I won,’ he insisted. ‘And I killed the Polish king, Ladislas, myself. It was at the sight of his head raised on my spear that the Christian army fled.’

‘King Ladislas is a formidable warrior,’ Murad said. ‘It is no small feat to have defeated such a man.’ Mehmed smiled and nodded, happy to at last receive the praise that was his due. ‘But a sultan must seek more than personal glory. Your tactics were clumsy, you wasted countless lives, and you were lucky not to have been killed. What does victory mean when it comes at the cost of so many lives?’

Mehmed took another drink. ‘At least I am not afraid to fight,’ he retorted. ‘I did not stay cowering in the palace.’

The words were hardly out of Mehmed’s mouth when Murad slapped him hard across the face. The blow stung, and Mehmed bit back tears.

‘Watch yourself, Prince. Do not forget I have another son.’ Murad’s voice was hardly raised. ‘Now, what is this I hear that you wish to make a common whore your favourite?’

‘Gülbehar is no whore. She is an Albanian princess.’

‘She is an Albanian whore who barely speaks Turkish, and you wish to make her the mother of the empire.’ Murad shook his head. ‘You should spend more time with your wife, Sitt Hatun. She at least is worthy of you.’ Mehmed had married Sitt Hatun, the daughter of Suleyman Bey of Dulkadiroglu, over a year ago, but the marriage was an empty formality for both of them. Mehmed sometimes pitied his young wife; she was so beautiful, but was kept locked in the harem like a bird in a cage. He pitied her, but he would never lie with her, never allow Sitt Hatun to produce an heir. He would not give his father the satisfaction.

‘I will decide who is worthy of me, Father. Gülbehar is my
kadin
and will have a place of honour in the harem. I love her.’

‘Love?’ Murad scoffed. ‘You were not born to love, Mehmed. A sultan has no family, no friends, no lovers. You know that.’ Murad sighed. ‘Have this Gülbehar sent to me today. I wish to inspect her.’

‘Very well, Father.’

‘Good,’ Murad concluded. ‘Now, you have heard that the Greek emperor is dead?’

Mehmed nodded. ‘With his death, Constantinople is vulnerable. I already have an army at my command. Let me lead it against the Greeks. I will win victory for you there just as I did at Kossova.’

Murad smirked. ‘
Kizil Elma
, the red apple. It is a great prize. When I was your age, I too longed to take it,’ he said. ‘But this apple is sour, I fear. I laid siege to the city for months, but I put not a single dent in those walls. To take Constantinople requires planning, years of preparation, a fleet to block their supply ships, a huge army.’

Mehmed opened his mouth to protest, but his father held up a hand, silencing him. ‘Still, you are right,’ Murad continued. ‘If there is civil war amongst the Greeks, then we would be fools not to take advantage of it. Keep your army, Prince Mehmed. Drill the men. Show me that you know how to make soldiers as well as how to destroy them. If I am pleased with your progress, then perhaps I shall allow you to attack Constantinople.’

Mehmed bowed at the waist, as low as he could while sitting. ‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Now, off to your wife,’ Murad ordered. ‘She has waited long for your return and must be eager to see her husband.’

Sitt Hatun sat motionless amidst a profusion of silk cushions, waiting patiently while two
jariye
– female house slaves – applied her makeup, highlighting her dark, oval eyes and her small, full mouth. Sitt Hatun was accustomed to waiting. After her marriage to Mehmed, she had waited in vain, night after night, for him to lie with her. When Mehmed had been sent in shame to Manisa, she had waited for him to call her to him from Edirne. Then, she had waited for Mehmed to return from war in Kossova. Now, that wait was over.

Mehmed would be joining her soon. Murad would make him spend his first night in Edirne in her bed. But while he might allow her to pleasure him, he would not fulfil his duty as her husband. Mehmed had made it clear from the first that he was not interested in giving her a son. At first, his rejection had confused Sitt
Hatun. Petite but with a curving figure, golden skin and slender limbs, Sitt Hatun drew envious stares from the other women of the harem, and before her marriage she had received her share of suitors. Even now, living in the harem where entry meant death for any man who was not a eunuch or of the royal family, there were men who had risked their very lives to make their interest in her known. Mehmed, however, was not interested. Sitt Hatun knew now that he preferred another type of beauty.

From the window of her chamber, Sitt Hatun had watched Gülbehar enter the harem. Tall and blonde, with fair skin and high cheekbones, Gülbehar was everything that Sitt Hatun was not. She was a nobody, a slave girl whose father was not even a born Muslim. Yet Mehmed had chosen her as his favourite, and there were even rumours that Gülbehar was pregnant with his child. As
bas haseki
– mother of the heir – Gülbehar would be entitled to honours that Sitt Hatun would never receive. Sitt Hatun would be sultana in name only, just as she was now wife only in name. Unless she listened to Halil …

‘Wife,’ Mehmed called out, snapping her from her thoughts. He was there, in the entrance room to her chambers. Sitt Hatun waved her attendants away and moved to greet him, gliding through her chambers in a transparent, silken gown.

‘Greetings, husband,’ she said and curtsied low before him, revealing her ample cleavage. ‘I am overjoyed at your safe return.’

Mehmed took her hand and raised her up. ‘You have been well, wife?’ he asked, stiff and formal.

‘As well as I can be, with my husband gone,’ Sitt Hatun replied with a smile. Mehmed did not smile back.

‘I am sorry to inform you that you will be moving to smaller apartments,’ he said. ‘You will have to reduce the size of your court.’

‘But why? Have I done something to displease you?’ Sitt Hatun prostrated herself, even though she knew she had done no wrong. ‘If I have, then punish me.’

‘No, you have not displeased me. Gülbehar will be taking your apartments. As mother of my child, she will need a large court.’

‘I understand,’ Sitt Hatun replied. So it was true. This Gülbehar already bore the child that should by right be Sitt Hatun’s, and now she took her apartments as well. It was almost too much to bear. Sitt Hatun dug her nails into her palms as she struggled to control her anger. Finally, she stood and managed to ask demurely, ‘Would you like to sit? Some wine?’

‘No,’ Mehmed said. ‘I wish to sleep. I am tired.’

‘Shall I give you a massage, to help you rest more peacefully?’

Mehmed gave her a long look – whether of desire, pity or both she could not tell – and shook his head. ‘I wish to sleep, wife.’

In their large bed, with its silken sheets and elaborate canopy, Mehmed lay rigidly still, an arm’s length from Sitt Hatun. She listened as his breathing slowed to the rhythmic cadence of sleep. She had hoped that tonight would be different, that his great victory would have changed Mehmed, allowing him to put aside his rivalry with his father. She still hoped that someday he would give her a child. Maybe he only needed some encouragement.

Sitt Hatun eased herself across the bed towards Mehmed. Gently, she placed her hand on his bare chest. He did not move; his breathing was still easy. She stroked his chest gently, and then moved her hand down slowly, slowly. Mehmed stirred in his sleep, but made no move to stop her. Sitt Hatun leaned forward and kissed his ear, moving her hand still lower, past his stomach.

Mehmed’s hand caught hers, gripping it painfully. He was awake, his face right beside hers, his breath hot on her face. ‘Wife,’ he whispered, his every word a threat, ‘you know the punishment prescribed in the Koran for taking that which is not yours?’

‘Yes, husband.’

‘Good,’ Mehmed said. ‘Then keep your hand to yourself if you wish to keep it.’ He continued to look at her, and the anger faded from his eyes. He ran his hand along the length of her side and then stroked her black hair. ‘But if you insist,’ Mehmed continued, his voice altered, deeper now, ‘then you may pleasure me.’ He gripped her hair and forced her head down. Sitt Hatun grimaced
in distaste as she placed the tip of his
sik
in her mouth. She knew better than to refuse.

Mehmed hardened immediately and arched his back, thrusting against her so that she gagged. Within minutes he climaxed and collapsed back with a moan of pleasure. Sitt Hatun turned aside and spit out his seed, wasted. When she turned back, Mehmed had already settled in to sleep, his back to her. Sitt Hatun lay back, tears in her eyes. It was humiliating to be treated as little better than a concubine, good only for pleasure. She knew now that Mehmed would never lie with her. Nothing would change that, not success at war, nor even his father’s death. She would be locked away in the harem all her life, shamed and childless.

She thought once more of the proposal that Halil had made to her. If Mehmed died, and she had a son, then her child would be the sultan when he came of age. No matter that the child would be Halil’s and not Mehmed’s. That secret would be theirs alone. Sitt Hatun would be the
valide sultana
– mother of the sultan – and Halil the ruler until their son came of age. And Gülbehar? Sitt Hatun would enjoy devising a suitable end for the Albanian whore and her bastard child.

But no, Sitt Hatun sighed. These were just dreams. Reality was sleeping right there beside her. She would be mad to join Halil’s plotting. Mehmed was a vengeful man. Sitt Hatun had heard of Boghaz Pasha’s gruesome death. Mehmed would not hesitate to do the same to her if she did not keep her place.

Still, to see her own son seated on the throne, to take her rightful place in the harem, to no longer have to serve as Mehmed’s whore … Sitt Hatun wiped away her tears. Crying would not change her fate. Only she could do that.

Chapter 3

DECEMBER 1448: CONSTANTINOPLE

‘
I
proclaim you, Demetrius Dragases, Emperor of Rome, heir to Caesar, ruler of Constantinople, Selymbria and Morea,’ Patriarch Mammas intoned. His gold-embroidered white robe was heavy with rain, and tiny drops of water ran off his nose in a continual stream as he made the sign of the cross over the kneeling Demetrius. ‘Rise, Emperor Demetrius.’

Demetrius stood to the half-hearted acclamation of the nobles who surrounded him. Notaras had promised five hundred men, but the day had dawned grey with a drenching rain that had turned the streets to mud and the forum of Theodosius into a quagmire. Less than four hundred nobles had braved the weather, and they were soaked and cold. ‘Hail Demetrius, Emperor of the Romans,’ they grumbled once or twice. It was clear that they were ready to move on to the warmth of the Blachernae Palace.