Siege (22 page)

‘There,’ she said and pointed to where Neophytus sat with his head on his desk, unmoving. He appeared to be sleeping.

‘Father Neophytus,’ Notaras called loudly, but the priest did not move. While Sofia tended to the lamp, Notaras went to the
priest and shook him. Neophytus slumped and then fell from his chair, landing with his face towards Sofia. As the room brightened, she saw that his lips were black and his eyes were rolled back into his head. Sofia’s maid gasped. Neophytus was clearly dead.

Notaras bent down to inspect him. ‘The body is still warm.’ He shook his head. ‘Why would he kill himself?’

‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ Sofia replied. ‘Look, he is holding something in his hand.’

Notaras prised Neophytus’s hand open and held up a small, empty vial. He held it to his nose. ‘Almonds. I think you are right, Princess. Helena was poisoned. I have seen this vial before in Gennadius’s study.’

‘If Gennadius knew enough to dispose of Neophytus, then he will also know that I took Helena’s cup,’ Sofia speculated.

‘Then you are in great danger, Princess,’ Notaras warned. ‘You have seen what Gennadius is capable of.’

‘But without Neophytus, we cannot accuse Gennadius.’

‘There are other ways,’ Notaras said, touching his sword.

‘No.’ Sofia shook her head. ‘I do not wish to make a martyr of him. That would only strengthen his cause.’

‘Then I will have my men watch the church of Saint Pantocrator,’ Notaras said. ‘If Gennadius attempts some treachery, then I will know of it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It is the least that I can do for my betrothed.’

Sofia frowned at the word. She looked Notaras in the eye. ‘You know that I did not choose to become your wife, Notaras,’ she began. ‘And I have made no secret of the fact that I do not look forward to our marriage. Perhaps I was wrong to judge you so harshly.’

‘I did not choose to be your husband either, Princess,’ Notaras replied. ‘The emperor offered you to me in marriage. It is an honour that I could not refuse, but it was never my desire to marry you against your will. Believe me, if I had my choice, I
would not have chosen a woman with such a sharp tongue.’ He smiled. ‘Nevertheless, we will be married, whether we like it or not. I would like to have your consent, if not your love. I am willing to wait until I have it.’

‘Help to make union a reality, and you will have earned my consent,’ Sofia told him. ‘Perhaps then, you can win my love as well.’

‘I ask for nothing more,’ Notaras said and bowed low. ‘Until union is complete, then, no more talk of marriage. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

Constantine stood at the window of his audience chamber and looked out on the evening sky while folding and unfolding the letter that he had received earlier in the day from Lucas Notaras. After weeks of worry and unanswered prayer, Notaras’s letter had finally eased his mind. The megadux had written that he would support union, so long as it was achieved in accordance with certain compromises. With the backing of Notaras, Constantine could accept the Union without worrying about facing down a rebellion the next day. It was the miracle that he had been hoping for. He could keep his promise to Helena, and more importantly, keep the support of the Latins. Constantine wondered what had made Notaras change his mind. Perhaps, Constantine reflected, his prayers had not gone unanswered after all.

He opened the letter again and looked to the second part of the message. It seemed that Notaras had also had a change of heart regarding Gennadius. He insisted that the monk was not a proper choice for the patriarchy. However, even though Notaras might have turned against Gennadius, Constantine would not dismiss him so readily. If he could win Gennadius’s support for union by offering him the patriarchy, then it would be a small price to pay. With both Gennadius and Notaras in support, Constantine was sure that he would have little trouble with the remaining bishops and nobles.

The tolling of bells told Constantine that it was eight o’clock.
Gennadius would be here soon. Constantine had summoned him to the palace that very night to offer him the patriarchy. He folded the letter one last time, slipped it into a pocket, and then took his place on the throne. ‘Please, Lord God,’ he prayed quietly. ‘Grant me one last miracle today.’

Gennadius arrived at the palace in a festive mood. He was sure he knew what the summons meant: finally after years of waiting, he would be Patriarch of the Orthodox Church, with no one over him but God. He hurried to the audience chamber and found Constantine seated upon the throne. Gennadius approached and bowed low. ‘Welcome, Gennadius,’ Constantine said.

‘I am honoured that you would call a humble monk such as myself into your august presence,’ Gennadius replied.

‘I have called you here to discuss the situation of our Church,’ Constantine told him. ‘As you know, Patriarch Mammas is in Rome. Our Church is without a head. This situation cannot last.’ Constantine paused, as if searching for a way forward. ‘The Union has been a source of bitter disagreement between us, Gennadius, but we are not enemies. I have brought you here to ask for your help.’

‘I will do all that I can.’

‘Good. The Synaxis looks to you as its leader,’ Constantine said. ‘If anybody can unite them behind my rule, it is you.’ Gennadius bowed his head graciously, thinking it best not to reply. ‘Would you be willing to lead the Church, Gennadius?’

‘I am but a monk. But I feel it is my duty to undertake whatever task God calls me to in the service of our Church.’

‘Good. Then I offer you the patriarchy, provided that you use your influence to persuade the bishops to support union with Rome.’

The words ‘if the Lord wills it, then let it be so’ froze on Gennadius lips as he realized what Constantine was saying. If he accepted Constantine’s terms, then he would be nothing more than a puppet of the emperor and a stooge of the pope, like
Mammas. ‘But My Lord, the bishops will never support union,’ Gennadius replied. ‘Nor will the nobility.’

‘You are wrong, Gennadius. Megadux Notaras has decided to support union. Even he realizes that it is our only hope.’

Gennadius shook his head. So, Notaras had betrayed him. No doubt this was the doing of the meddling Princess Sofia. He would have to deal with her. ‘Notaras is a soldier, not a man of God,’ Gennadius said at last. ‘The Synaxis will not be so easily swayed. There can be no compromise when souls are at stake.’

‘They might accept union if you were the one to declare it,’ Constantine insisted. ‘I know that union means acknowledging the primacy of the pope, but it is better than being forced to bow before the sultan.’

‘Is it?’ Gennadius replied. ‘I am not so sure.’

Constantine’s face hardened. ‘You dare speak treason to my face, monk?’

‘Of course not, Emperor,’ Gennadius said and bowed low. ‘God willing, I shall bow before neither the pope nor the sultan. But I must always bow before the will of God. I have already renounced a bishopric to better serve Him as a monk. It is His will that I serve Him humbly. I must refuse the patriarchy.’ The words were bitter, but he would rather be a monk than a hollow patriarch without power.

‘Very well,’ Constantine said and sighed. ‘I understand your opposition to union, but I meant what I said. We are not enemies, Gennadius. Remember that. You may leave.’

Gennadius bowed and departed. Constantine was a fool. Gennadius would bring him down and union with him, but he could not do it alone. As he rode back to Saint Pantocrator, Gennadius began composing a letter in his head, a letter to the grand vizier of the Ottoman court, Halil Pasha.

Chapter 11

FEBRUARY AND MARCH 1451: EDIRNE

M
ehmed rode through the gate into Edirne, his back straight and his head held high. A crowd had turned out to watch him and his household enter the city, but the atmosphere was far from festive. Murad, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, was dying, and his poor health was no secret. The faces of the people were grim and unsmiling. There were no cheers for Mehmed.

The people’s dark mood mirrored Mehmed’s own grim thoughts. Only two weeks ago, Sitt Hatun had given him a son, Selim, and Mehmed knew that any child of his could be a rival in the hands of a cunning mother. But that was not the true reason that he disliked Selim. The child raised painful memories of his other son, Bayezid, and of Gülbehar. Even though the
kumru kalp
lay against Mehmed’s heart, a reminder of Gülbehar’s infidelity, Mehmed still longed for her. The thought of her in his father’s arms was a nagging pain that not even Murad’s impending death could remove.

Mehmed reached the Eski Serai palace and dismounted in the courtyard. Halil waited on the palace steps along with a crowd of important ministers, eunuchs and viziers. The entire group bowed low as Mehmed approached. ‘Greetings, Your Highness. Allah be praised for your safe journey,’ Halil said. Mehmed motioned for him and the other men to rise, and Halil straightened and stepped closer. ‘I have a great deal of news for you, but first, the sultan is eager to see you.’

‘I will wait on my father shortly,’ Mehmed said. ‘I have other business to attend to first.’ Mehmed turned to Sitt Hatun, who was just emerging from her covered litter. ‘Wife, you will come with me. Bring your child.’

Mehmed led them to Gülbehar’s apartments in the harem and pushed the doors open without knocking. A
jariye
servant girl was standing in the entrance room, watering plants. She dropped her watering tin at the sight of Mehmed glowering at the threshold. ‘Where is she?’ Mehmed roared. The
jariye
bowed low and backed away.

‘I … I will bring her to you, My Lord,’ she stuttered and disappeared into the servant’s passage. A moment later, Gülbehar appeared with her son Bayezid, who was now two and a half years old. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Sitt Hatun holding the infant Selim, and then she bowed gracefully before Mehmed. Bayezid also bowed. Mehmed could not help but notice that the boy had Murad’s golden eyes. His jaw tightened as he felt a fresh surge of anger well up in him.

‘And whose child is this?’ he demanded. ‘Is he my son, or my brother?’

Gülbehar flushed crimson. ‘I do not understand, My Lord. He is your son. Bayezid, go to your father.’

The boy took a step forward and then froze, frightened by Mehmed’s menacing scowl. ‘My son?
My
son!’ Mehmed said, his voice rising. He stepped forward and slapped Gülbehar hard. ‘Are you sure it is not my father’s bastard?’ Bayezid was crying now, and Gülbehar pulled him to her, holding him tightly as if for protection. ‘Answer me, woman!’ Mehmed demanded.

Gülbehar lowered her head. ‘I had no choice,’ she whispered. ‘He is the sultan.’

‘
I
am your sultan!’ Mehmed roared. He raised his hand to slap her again, but then restrained himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but hard. ‘You will leave here and go to your apartments. You are not to leave them. I will post a guard outside, since it is clear that you cannot be trusted.’

‘But My Lord, these are my apartments,’ Gülbehar protested.

‘They were. They are Sitt Hatun’s now. You will take her old quarters.’

‘But what of my court? Those apartments are too small for them.’

‘You have no court,’ Mehmed replied. ‘You will have your maidservants and a few
jariye
to look after your household. That is more than you deserve.’ He turned to go, but Gülbehar stopped him, pleading one last time.

‘What of your son, Bayezid?’ she asked, tears in her eyes. ‘Surely he deserves better.’

‘As you see, I have another son now.’ Mehmed turned and left, leaving Sitt Hatun alone with Gülbehar. Her gloating would be a more insufferable punishment for Gülbehar than any he could devise.

Mehmed was still angry when he reached his father’s chambers, but more at himself now than at Gülbehar. He should not have lost control of himself; it was unbecoming of a prince. It was even worse in a sultan. He would have to rule his emotions more closely now that the throne was practically his. While the Master of the Sultan’s Chambers announced Mehmed’s presence to his father, Mehmed took the time to compose himself.

Murad did not move when Mehmed entered. The sultan had aged greatly in the almost two years since Mehmed had last seen him. His thin, wasted body looked tiny amidst the pillows that propped him up. Despite the wintry weather and the noticeable chill in the palace, his robes were soaked with a fevered sweat, and two slave girls fanned him vigorously. His hair, flecked with grey before, was now almost totally white. The biggest change, however, was in the sultan’s face. Murad’s strong, tanned face had become thin and wasted, with dark hollows under his eyes. The scar on his cheek stood out bright red against the sickly pallor of his skin. His father was a pitiable sight, but Mehmed was in no mood for pity. He knew that Murad deserved his fate, and he felt no remorse, only an emptiness.

Mehmed knelt beside his father. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered the slave girls. ‘I wish to speak with my father alone.’ He thought that his father might be asleep, or even already dead, but then Murad’s eyes opened, the same bright, intelligent eyes that Mehmed remembered. They, at least, had not changed.

‘So, you have come to see me die,’ Murad croaked, his voice so weak that Mehmed had to lean close to hear him.

‘I have come to speak with you, Father.’

‘You had best talk quickly then.’ Murad managed a short, wheezing laugh. ‘I am not long for this world. The throne will be yours again soon, Mehmed. I pray that you use it better this time.’

‘I am no longer a child, Father,’ Mehmed snapped. ‘I will rule wisely, and I will succeed where you have failed. I will make Constantinople the capital of our empire.’

Murad shook his head. ‘You are still young, my son. Do not seek to be great so soon. Constantinople has stood for more than a thousand years. Let it wait a few more. You must learn to rule in peace before you can rule in war.’

‘I have learned enough, Father. The Greeks are weak. They have no allies. When I strike, they will fall.’

‘You have always been too eager. Why will you not do as I say, boy?’ Murad said in a louder voice, his eyes flashing. For a second, Mehmed thought that his father might reach out and slap him. But instead Murad collapsed back against his cushions, consumed by a fit of coughing. ‘Ah well, you are not the sultan yet,’ Murad said when he had recovered. ‘Perhaps I will disappoint you and cheat death.’