Siege (13 page)

Sofia was shaking her head. ‘But you married the emperor. Notaras is only a noble. And besides, he will not listen to me. He is too proud, too arrogant.’

‘I see.’ Helena closed her eyes and lay back. She sat unmoving for some time, and Sofia began to fear that she had fallen asleep. Just as Sofia began to rise, however, Helena opened her eyes. ‘You will not marry Lucas Notaras,’ she said. ‘No, do not speak. Let me explain. You know that we are sending an ambassador, Andronicus Leontarsis, to Italy?’

‘Yes,
Mamme
.’ Sofia blushed. How did Helena know?

‘As a young woman, I too sat behind that wall, listening to secrets that I should not have heard,’ Helena said. ‘Leontarsis is a good man, but his is not the most subtle mind. In dealing with the pope, great tact and intelligence will be required, perhaps more than Leontarsis is capable of. I have persuaded Constantine that we should send another ambassador to second Leontarsis. You shall be that ambassador, Sofia. You are politically able, of the royal household, and most importantly, a woman. The Italians are easily moved by beauty. Perhaps you can convince them to send aid where men would fail.’

Sofia nodded. ‘I will not fail you,’ she promised. ‘But how will this prevent my marriage?’

‘The trip to Italy will take months, perhaps years. In the meantime, I will persuade Constantine that Notaras’s loyalty is of too great importance to wait for your return before he is joined to our household. Another princess of the royal family will be married to him, and you will be released from your betrothal. In the meantime, I suggest that you find a man that you
can
live with. You cannot avoid marriage forever; it is your duty as a princess.’

Sofia stood and kissed Helena on the cheek. ‘Thank you,
Mamme
,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

Across the room, the door opened and a tall, spare man in priest’s robes entered. He carried a tray with the bread and wine of the Holy Communion on it. ‘Here is my priest, Neophytus. You must go,’ Helena said to Sofia. ‘I may not be long for this world, but at least I shan’t roast in hell.’

Sofia kissed Helena again and left, passing the priest on her way. There was something distasteful about the man, but Sofia did not dwell on it. Her mind was elsewhere, already in Italy. She stepped into the bright hallway, a smile on her face. She was free again. Thank God, she was free!

Chapter 6

SEPTEMBER 1449: MANISA

M
ehmed guided his horse out from the cool shade of the forest and on to the baked dust of the road leading to Manisa, the city of princes. Behind him came the hunting party: horsemen, a pack of hounds with tongues lolling after the day’s long chase, and the two deer that they had run down in the forests of Mount Sipylus. Mehmed and his party were on the lower slopes of the mountain now, but were still much higher than the city, which spread out on the plain before them, a maze of twisting streets and dusty bazaars broken only by the towering height of the main mosque and by the brilliant green gardens and cool white walls of the newly built palace. The caravanserai on the outskirts of town was crowded with merchants, guards and wandering camels, all taking their ease before continuing the trek to Smyrna or Constantinople. The whole – caravanserai and city alike – was baked by a brilliant late summer sun sitting in a pure blue sky, and heat rose from the ground below, causing the city to shimmer and shift like some fabulous mirage. It was a magnificent sight, but Mehmed gave the city only a glance before spurring his horse down the road at a gallop. The heat from the city was engulfing him already, and he was eager to reach the cool comforts of the palace.

There was no formal business waiting for Mehmed at the palace, which was not a surprise. Although he governed the province of Sarakhan from the palace in Manisa, there was little to do in the
way of ruling other than to police and tax the caravanserai, and Mehmed left that task to the able eunuchs who administered the city. He spent his days hunting, practising swordplay and reading. He read mostly military texts – accounts of battles, writings of famous generals, books of strategy – but he was currently reading an account of Constantinople written in the thirteenth century by a Russian visitor to the Greek court. Upon reaching his suites, Mehmed bathed, changed into cool, cotton robes and took the book into the gardens.

Cushions were laid out for him under a lemon tree, and there he reclined, reading amidst the pleasant scent of lemons. He was attended by three
gedikli
– beautiful female slaves, trained from youth to serve him – who fanned him and fed him honeyed dates and wine, but Mehmed’s attention was entirely taken up with his book. The Russian author, named Alexandre, described the city in detail, and Mehmed took careful notes as he read, filling a battered old scroll with sketches and ideas. The current section discussed the numerous underground passages in and out of the city – a topic of particular interest to Mehmed – and as he read, his mind drifted, turning to stratagems and plans of attack against the great city. If he could only find those passages, then he might sneak his troops into the city by night and have them open the gates. Or, perhaps he could fill the passages with gunpowder, and thus bring down the walls above them. But Constantinople was only a dream for now. In distant Manisa, Mehmed had little news of the court in Edirne and even less influence there. I cannot even command my own
kadin
, he reflected bitterly, much less an army.

Murad had insisted that Mehmed leave Gülbehar behind at the Royal Harem in Edirne. Mehmed missed her, but even more he regretted having been absent for the birth of his son, Bayezid. The boy was still only a babe – too young to be poisoned against his father – but nevertheless, Mehmed would rather have kept him near. Murad had made it clear that he disapproved of both Gülbehar and Bayezid, and Mehmed feared that his father might take advantage of Mehmed’s absence to eliminate them. There
was no sense in dwelling on the matter, though; he would have to be patient. And, in the meantime, there were his
gedikli
to keep him occupied. The girl holding the fan was particularly exquisite. She had a broad, oval face and red hair. Mehmed thought she looked Russian and would thus offer a perfect compliment to his book. He made a note in the margin to tell his
haznedar
, the keeper of the calendar of royal nights, to schedule the girl.

A black eunuch approached Mehmed across the garden. He was from Abyssinia, clean-shaven and rather heavy-set. Like most black eunuchs, he was also a
sandali
. Before they reached puberty, the
sandali
had their testicles and penis removed with a single cut of a razor, a wooden tube set in their urethra, and the wound cauterized with boiling oil. Afterwards, they were buried up to the chin in a mound of fresh manure and fed only milk for one week. If they survived, which they did surprisingly often, they were taken into service at the royal court. This particular
sandali
was named Salim, and as he drew closer, Mehmed saw that his brow was knit in irritation.

Salim bowed low before Mehmed, and spoke in a high, distraught voice. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, most gracious Lord,’ he said. ‘There is a man to see you, a merchant from one of the caravans. He must be very wealthy, for he bribed every guard and eunuch in sight to obtain an audience with me.’ Mehmed smiled at this, for the man had no doubt bribed Salim as well. ‘I told him that Your Excellency is occupied, but he insists upon seeing you. He says that you know him. He introduced himself as Isa of Attalia.’

Isa. Mehmed did indeed know a man of that name, but he had thought him dead for many years now. When Mehmed was still a child, still third in line to the throne, there had been a doctor of Asian origin named Isa who came to live in his household at Manisa. Isa knew much about herbs, both beneficent and poisonous, and in return for sizeable fees, he had poisoned Mehmed’s two older brothers. Afterwards, Mehmed and his mother had concluded that Isa was a liability. Mehmed had dismissed him from
his household and then sent a detachment of janissaries to track him down and kill him. The janissaries had reported Isa’s death, and Mehmed had put them to death in turn. He had supposed that all knowledge of Isa had died with them. Yet here was a merchant, some six years later, claiming to be this same man.

‘Show the man to my private audience chamber,’ Mehmed ordered. ‘Be certain that he is not armed. I wish to meet with this Isa alone. Only Ulu is to be present.’ Salim bowed and hurried away.

Mehmed dismissed the
gedikli
and walked to his suites. Before entering his private audience chamber, he stepped into a small adjoining room and peered through a spyhole. There was Ulu, standing grim and stern next to Mehmed’s throne, and there, in the middle of the chamber, stood the very same Isa that Mehmed had known as a child. Indeed, the man seemed hardly to have aged at all, even though he must now be near fifty. His gentle, yellow face was still smooth, his head shaved clean and he had the same lively, slanted eyes that Mehmed remembered so well. Mehmed observed Isa for a few minutes – he insisted on making all visitors wait for an audience – but he learned nothing from the man’s impassive face. The Asian was carrying some sort of package: perhaps the reason for his presence lay there. After a last glance, Mehmed entered the audience chamber and seated himself on the throne.

Isa bowed low, his forehead touching the ground. ‘You may rise,’ Mehmed said, filling his young voice with as much authority as he could muster. He wanted Isa to understand from the start that he was a man now, not the boy that Isa had known years ago. ‘It pleases me to see that you are well, Isa. I had feared that you were dead these many years.’

‘Many thanks for your generous welcome. I am delighted to see that the years have treated you well,’ Isa began. ‘As for thinking me dead: I do not wonder that you thought so. I am certain that the janissaries you sent to murder me were quite persuasive when they returned.’

‘They told me you were dead,’ Mehmed said. ‘Were they still alive, I would have them put to death. Did you bribe them?’

‘No. There was no need. I entered a tavern, and your janissaries lay in wait for me outside. I sent the tavern owner out with drink, to ease their wait. When I came out, I told them that the drink had been poisoned, and that they would only have the antidote if they did exactly as I said. They were to return and tell you that I had been killed. After that, I would have the antidote delivered to them. Of course, they were not poisoned at all, but that hardly mattered. I knew that you would have them put to death as soon as they reported back.’

‘I see.’ Mehmed was impressed. Isa would have to be handled with care. ‘And what brings you to my palace after so many years?’

‘I come on behalf of another, bearing a gift and an offer,’ Isa said and unwrapped his burden, revealing a finely crafted mahogany box the size of a large book. He stepped forward and held the box out for Mehmed. Mehmed reached for the box, but then hesitated.

‘Gifts from you often prove poisonous, Isa. Perhaps I should refuse this one.’

‘It is only a box,’ Isa said. ‘But if you wish to refuse it, that is your choice.’

‘And what of the offer you spoke of?’

‘The offer and the gift are one and the same. You must accept the gift before I can reveal the offer.’

‘Very well,’ Mehmed said and took the box. Then he reconsidered and handed it back to Isa. ‘You open it,’ he ordered. Isa gently opened the lid. It swung back on hinges to reveal a brilliant, crystal vial containing an amber liquid. Isa presented the opened box again, and Mehmed took it. He held the vial up to the light. ‘What is it? Poison?’

‘A very powerful poison, and untraceable,’ Isa said. ‘It acts on contact with the skin and can kill in a matter of hours. Swallowed in small doses, the poison works more slowly. Depending on the strength of the victim, death can take days, or even months.’

‘On whose behalf have you brought me this mighty poison?’ Mehmed asked. ‘And what would they have me do with it?’

‘A friend from Edirne has sent it. I can tell you no more. As for its use, I wonder that you have not divined it already. After all, we both know that you are not afraid to call on poison when necessary to clear your path to the throne.’

‘Are you suggesting that I would assassinate my own father?’ Mehmed asked, his voice rising. ‘I will have your head for this, Isa. Ulu,’ he barked, and the burly janissary stepped forward, drawing his long, curved
yatagan
.

Isa did not so much as blink. ‘If you kill me, then you will die before the day is out,’ he said in a calm voice. Ulu hesitated, his sword hanging in the air.

‘Ulu, desist,’ Mehmed ordered. ‘What do you mean, I will die?’

‘Did you think that I would walk into your palace without taking precautions? The box you are holding is coated with the same poison that is in the flask. You should already be feeling its effects – a drying of your throat, a sudden tendency to sweat.’ Mehmed gulped and wiped sweat from his forehead. Isa continued. ‘Yes, I held the box too, so we are both poisoned. But there is an antidote. If it is administered soon, we may both live.’

‘How do I know that you are not lying?’

‘You do not.’

‘Give me the antidote,’ Mehmed ordered.

‘I do not have it with me,’ Isa said. ‘It is in my tent at the caravanserai. Only I know where it is kept, or, indeed, what it even looks like.’

‘Go then, and hurry,’ Mehmed said. ‘Ulu, do not let him out of your sight. If you make one false move, Isa, I swear that Ulu will kill you.’

‘I understand. You should know that I have more than a hundred men in my service at the caravanserai. I will give the antidote to Ulu, but if he or anyone else makes an attempt on my life, then he will die, and you will never see the antidote.’

‘Understood. Ulu will allow no harm to come to you.’

‘Very well,’ Isa said. ‘Many thanks for this audience, Prince Mehmed. Your friend in Edirne will be most disappointed that you did not accept his offer, but I was told that you are to keep his gift regardless. May it profit you.’ Isa bowed, and followed by Ulu, left the audience chamber.