Siege

Chapter 2

DECEMBER 1448: EDIRNE

Mehmed, prince of the Ottoman Empire, stood outside his tent on a hilltop overlooking Edirne and surveyed the vast army camped all around him. The morning was crisp and clear, and he could see all the way to the jumble of bazibozouk tents that ringed the camp at over a mile's distance. There was little movement. The indisciplined peasant soldiers were no doubt still sleeping off the previous night's celebrations. Closer in to the centre of camp, the more luxurious tents of the Anatolian cavalry formed a wide ring around the hill where Mehmed stood. The Anatolians were nobles, who, in return for absolute control over their lands, fought for the sultan in times of war. The janissaries were camped closest, in a tight ring around Mehmed. Their uniform grey tents were evenly spaced. Cooking pits had been set up at intervals amongst the tents, and they were crowded with janissaries in black chainmail, quietly sharing their morning meal of bread and watery gruel. Just below Mehmed, a dozen of the highest-ranked Anatolians sat in the saddle beside a hundred janissaries of his personal guard, all ready to accompany Mehmed on his triumphant march into Edirne. All they awaited was his signal.

Mehmed turned and entered his tent. Gulbehar, his new favourite concubine, or kadin, lounged nude and seductive on his bed. She was stunning, tall and lithe with blonde hair, a light complexion and wide green eyes. He had found her at Kossova after the battle. She claimed to be a princess descended from Albanian royalty, but Mehmed's advisors whispered that she was a slave girl, the whore of the Christian commander. Mehmed was sure that his father, the sultan, would say that it was a bad match: the heir to the empire and an Albanian slave girl. But Mehmed did not care who Gulbehar had been. She was his now. He had chosen her, unlike the wife his father had foisted upon him.

'Come here,' Mehmed commanded her. 'Arrange my turban.' He sat while she stood before him. Her ripe breasts, large on her lean frame, hung tantalizingly close as she wrapped a long white turban around his head. When she had finished, Mehmed pulled her on to his lap and kissed her hard. Her hand moved between his thighs, and Mehmed felt his sik harden. But this was no time for play. His men were waiting. 'Up, woman,' Mehmed told Gulbehar. He pushed her aside and rose to examine his reflection in the mirror. He was proud of his unusual appearance. He had light skin — the heritage of his mother, an Italian Jew — and delicate features: almond-shaped eyes, a narrow nose and full lips. He wore the gold-trimmed black armour and towering turban of the sultan, but he was sultan in name only. When Mehmed was only twelve, his father, Murad, had abdicated and retired to a life of pleasure, leaving Mehmed the throne. But Mehmed's reign had been a short one. He had never won the support of the army or the people, and two years ago, when another European crusade was launched against the empire, the Grand Vizier Halil had called Murad back to rule. Now sixteen, Mehmed was a sultan without a throne.

'You look magnificent,' Gulbehar whispered in his ear in her heavily accented Turkish. 'When the people see you, they will know that you are the true sultan, not that weak old man who will not even leave the palace to lead his armies.'

Her words were dangerous, treasonous even, but Mehmed did not correct her. Gulbehar had voiced his own thoughts. Maybe now that he had led the armies of Islam to victory on the field of battle and killed one of the Christian commanders in single combat, his father would finally step aside.

'Go and prepare yourself. My father will want to examine you,' Mehmed told Gulbehar. 'And send in Halil and the generals.'

Halil entered first, wearing a ceremonial robe of brilliant seraser — a heavy cloth of white silk woven through with gold — with an interlocking pattern of sharp teeth etched in scarlet silk at the cuffs. The ageing vizier was tall and bony, with a long face and narrow lips encircled by a moustache and the faint outline of a beard. He would have been handsome were it not for the ugly scar that marred the right side of his face. Ulu, the supreme aga of the janissaries, followed. He was as tall as Halil, but thick, with bulging arms and a bull-like neck. Like all janissaries, he was clean-shaven. The other generals trooped in together: Mahmud Pasha, the bazibozouks' short, fiery commander; Boghaz Pasha, the proud commander of the Anatolian cavalry; and his second-in-command, Ishak Pasha, an older man with greying hair and the scars from many battles lining his face.

'Your Highness,' Halil pronounced and bowed profoundly.

'My Lord,' the generals said and knelt.

Mehmed motioned them to their feet. 'Halil, all is ready in Edirne for my arrival?'

'Word of your glorious victory has preceded you, My Lord. The people will fill the streets,' Halil replied, then smiled, wolf-like, his thin lips stretching back from sharp teeth. 'Gold has been distributed. The crowd will cheer.'

'The people do not need to be paid to cheer,' Ulu barked.

'Peace, Ulu. Halil has only done as I asked,' Mehmed said. He turned back to Halil. 'And has my father sent any word from the palace?'

'None, My Lord, but I am sure he only awaits your return to greet you properly.'

'I am sure,' Mehmed said. He turned to the generals. 'We will leave immediately. I will ride first, alone. My guard will come next, followed by the Anatolian commanders and then Halil and my servants.'

'Forgive me, My Prince,' Boghaz Pasha said, although there was nothing humble about his tone. 'But should I not ride with you? As the commander of the Anatolian cavalry, it is beneath me to ride in the rear, following a prince as if I were his servant.'

'A prince, you say?' Mehmed asked, his voice controlled and calm, although inside he felt the old anger begin to boil. It was never far from the surface. 'Perhaps you have forgotten, but I was proclaimed sultan in the mosque of Eyub four years ago. Nothing can change that, even if I now rule beside my father.'

'There can be only one sultan,' Boghaz Pasha replied. 'And he sits in Edirne.'

'I see. Thank you for enlightening me, Boghaz Pasha,' Mehmed said coldly. Boghaz smiled and bowed. 'Ulu,' Mehmed called. 'Cut off his head.'

Boghaz laughed, but when Ulu drew his sword, the mirth faded from his face. He backed away, but Ulu stood between him and the only exit. There was nowhere for him to run. Boghaz turned to Mehmed.

'You cannot do this, I fought with your father at Varna. He appointed me pasha of the Anatolian cavalry. He would never allow this.'

Mehmed turned his back on Boghaz as Ulu advanced upon the Anatolian commander. Neither of the other generals made a move to help.

'My Lord, I beg you…' Boghaz began again, then stopped. In one fluid motion he unsheathed his sword and swung it at Mehmed's back. The sword stopped just inches short, blocked by Ulu's blade. Mehmed turned as Ulu stepped between him and Boghaz.

'How dare you!' Mehmed hissed.

Boghaz's only reply was to renew his attack. Gripping his sword with both hands, he slashed at Ulu's face, but Ulu deflected the blow easily, wielding his huge scimitar one-handed. Boghaz attacked again, feinting low and then bringing his sword up towards Ulu's chest. Ulu knocked the sword aside with his blade and then kicked out, catching Boghaz in the stomach. As Boghaz doubled over, gasping for breath, Ulu brought his sword down hard, decapitating him. Boghaz's head rolled to a stop at Mehmed's feet, while his body lay still, spilling its blood on the thick carpet.

Mehmed kicked the head aside and turned to Ishak Pasha. 'You have command of the Anatolian cavalry now,' he said to the grizzled Anatolian general. 'May Allah guide your sword.'

Ishak Pasha bowed in recognition. 'Many thanks, My Lord Sultan,' he replied, laying particular emphasis on the last word.

'Now, we shall ride,' Mehmed said. 'I do not wish to keep my people waiting.' 'Mehmed fatih! Mehmed fatih!' the crowd chanted as Mehmed rode along the broad avenue leading to the palace. There were thousands there to cheer him. They stood several rows deep on either side of the street, loudly proclaiming him fatih: conqueror. Yet Mehmed found that their cheers did not please him as much as he had hoped. He could not forget that only four years earlier, these same people had jeered and called for his head as he left Edirne in shame. In his mind, Mehmed could see still see their angry faces, spitting hatred as he rode away. He felt more comfortable now in far-off Manisa, but Manisa would not do for a capital. When he was sultan, Mehmed would leave Edirne behind and make himself a new capital in Constantinople.

Mehmed rode into the courtyard of Eski Serai, the palace built by his father when he moved the capital to Edirne. The palace's huge central dome dominated the city, and smaller buildings and towers spread out around the dome on all sides, like the arms of an octopus. Mehmed dismounted and hurried up the steps. Halil joined him as they entered the great hall housed under the dome. The hall was empty, or almost. In the dim light shed by two lamps, Mehmed saw a single man waiting: Mahmud, the Kapi Agha, or chief eunuch.

'Welcome home, Prince Mehmed,' Mahmud said in his high voice. 'The sultan awaits you in his chambers. Halil Pasha is also expected.'

Mehmed dismissed Mahmud with a nod and began the long walk to his father's quarters, with Halil following close behind. How typical of his father, Mehmed thought, to send only Mahmud to greet him. Murad was never one for ceremony, but Mehmed had thought that this one time, after his great victory, he might be met with the pomp that his station demanded.

'I lead his armies, defeat his enemies, and still he treats me like a child,' Mehmed complained.

'But one does not place a child in command of armies,' Halil countered.

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?'

'Gulbehar 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. Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar enter the harem. Tall and blonde, with fair skin and high cheekbones, Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar was pregnant with his child. As bas haseki — mother of the heir — Gulbehar 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. Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar? 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.