'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
