‘Welcome to Constantinople, Prince Demetrius,’ he said. ‘You honour us greatly by accepting our invitation.’
‘The honour is mine, Gennadius,’ Demetrius replied, pushing back his hood. He had dark black hair, cropped short, and a small beard, immaculately groomed. ‘Forgive the late hour of my arrival, but you all understand the importance of my entering the city unseen.’
‘Of course,’ Gennadius agreed. ‘None can know that our next emperor has already arrived in Constantinople.’
Demetrius’s eyes glittered. ‘So it is true. You wish to offer me the crown.’
Gennadius nodded. ‘There are conditions.’
‘I expected as much. What are they?’
Lucas Notaras leaned forward, his hands gripping the table. ‘We all know your brother, Constantine, wants union with the Catholics. He would have us licking the pope’s feet the day after he took the throne. Union is a fool’s dream. We will make you emperor, Demetrius, but you must swear on your life to never accept union with the Catholic Church.’
Demetrius looked at their expectant faces. He had never shared
this religious fervour, this blind faith that led men to such foolish acts. Still, if religion would make him emperor, then he would embrace it. ‘I swear on my life, on the blood of the Saviour himself, that as emperor, I will never allow union with the Catholics.’
Gennadius’s lips pulled back in a predatory smile. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘But I believe Mammas has one more condition.’
Mammas nodded and licked his lips. ‘There are many in the Church who wish to see me removed for having supported union.’ He glanced at Gennadius, then back to Demetrius. ‘You must promise to maintain my position as patriarch, and in return, I will crown you emperor.’
‘Very well,’ said Demetrius. ‘It shall be as you say.’
‘Then you shall be emperor,’ Gennadius confirmed. ‘It will take several days to gather all of the nobles who are loyal to you. In one week’s time, Patriarch Mammas will proclaim you emperor in the Forum of Theodosius. From there, you will parade to the Blachernae Palace, where you will take the crown.’
‘What of my mother?’ Demetrius asked. ‘Constantine is her favourite. Surely she will not accept me as emperor.’
‘She will have no choice,’ Notaras replied. ‘Helena is only a woman. She thinks the palace guard can protect her, but in a week we will have gathered over five hundred nobles to support you. If it comes to a fight, we will win.’
‘And Constantine?’ Demetrius pressed. ‘He will not sit idly by in Mistra after I take the throne. He will bring an army against me.’
‘The walls of Constantinople have stood for over a thousand years, they have defeated Huns and Turks alike. They will defeat Constantine and his army, too.’
Demetrius nodded.
‘Until next Sunday then, when we shall greet you as emperor,’ Gennadius said. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you stay here, out of sight. Nobody must know that you are in the city.’ He pulled a long bell rope that hung from a hole in the ceiling. They heard no sound, but a second later the door to the room opened to
reveal the monk who had led Demetrius into the catacombs. ‘Eugenius,’ Gennadius called to the monk. ‘Lead Demetrius to the guest quarters. He will be staying with us.’
Demetrius followed the monk out of the cell, and the two disappeared into the darkness of the catacombs. Patriarch Mammas hurried to close the door behind them. ‘Do you think supporting Demetrius is still wise?’ he asked, turning back to Gennadius and Notaras. ‘You have heard the news that the Turks have defeated Hunyadi. If we put Demetrius on the throne, then we will have civil war. The Turkish army will come for us. Demetrius is no leader. The Turks will push him over like a toy.’
Gennadius and Notaras exchanged a glance. ‘Better the sultan’s turban than the cardinal’s hat,’ Notaras said.
Gennadius nodded in agreement. ‘My thoughts exactly. Leave politics to others, Mammas. You are a man of God. These matters are not your concern. Simply do as we ask, and you shall keep the patriarchy. Otherwise, we are prepared to act without you.’
Mammas stood silent, wringing his hands. ‘I will do it, but with a troubled conscience,’ he said at last. ‘I fear that we are inviting our destruction at the hands of the Turks.’
Chapter 2
DECEMBER 1448: EDIRNE
M
ehmed, 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. Gülbehar, 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 Gülbehar 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 Gülbehar. 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,’ Gülbehar 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. Gülbehar 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 Gülbehar. ‘And send in Halil and the generals.’
Halil entered first, wearing a ceremonial robe of brilliant
serâser
– 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.