“Do they say so, my lord?”
“That is exactly what they’re saying and, by Allah, they are right. You know, Selim had the nerve to ask that his army show their obedience to him by coming to his tent and kissing his foot, one by one, as if they were a harem full of ladies. ‘Let him come and kiss our asses,’ the army said.
“I tell you, I had a time of it to keep them all from deserting then and there. Even with our dead master’s coffin right before their eyes, they didn’t care. I had to promise them a gift of two thousand aspers when we get home.”
“Two thousand each?” I was astounded.
“Two thousand aspers apiece to every cutthroat and rascal among them. I wouldn’t be surprised if soldiers we never knew we had turn up for this payday, and, Allah knows, I bargained them down every way I could. But that is how edgy they are.”
“Has the Sultan Selim agreed to this price?”
“Yes, Selim agreed. Well, he had to or he would walk back home seven hundred miles by himself with an ambush set at every corner. It will all but break the treasury, but what good is a treasury if you have no soldiers to guard it? He had to make another concession, too.”
“What was that?”
“A group of the more pious men thought of this, and the rest went along in demanding it because it was such a supreme slap in the face of our supreme majesty. By royal decree, it suddenly became punishable by death to drink alcohol. If this caused hardship to any of the troops, they bore it gladly to think of the agony their sot of a Sultan was suffering.
“This delight got the army to their feet again, but, there we were, marching through some of the finest vineyards in the world in Eastern Serbia—and the vintage just in! Within two days the Sultan had exiled the troublesome holy men, repealed the law, and gone on a binge that saw him unable to mount a horse in the morning. He had to usurp his father’s carriage as if he were about to die himself.”
“But the army is here now, my lord, almost within sight of Constantinople’s walls.”
“Yes, they’ve kept going, muttering at every turn, ‘Beware the hay cart, O high and mighty. There are many, many hay carts on the roads these days.’ “
“‘The hay cart’? I do not understand.”
“Another ancient, time-honored Turkish custom. Whenever the army has serious grievances on the road, it contrives to find a hay cart, overturned and blocking passage. The soldiers cannot go forward, will not help clear the route, and so the impasse remains until their demands are met.”
“Surely an overturned hay cart is a common occurrence in farmlands in the late fall,” I remarked. “As I overheard some of the men saying, ‘There are many, many hay carts on the roads…’”
“Yes. Not a good sign, that,” my master said with a weary wipe at his brows, then continued.
“Farmers know well enough to keep the roads clear when the army’s coming through. And if such an accident were to occur, the farmer and his family would have the road cleared in no time, or face the wrath of the whole army, when that army is in the mood to get where they’re going. The hay cart is no farmer’s accident, I assure you. It is carefully planned by some party in the ranks: they have stolen it, they have knocked it over, and no one can ever say who is to blame. The hay cart means neither more nor less than open rebellion. Needless to say, I have put all the hay and anything even vaguely resembling a cart under guard I can trust here on my lands.”
“Praise Allah, my lord, that you are a careful man and that you are almost home without the rebellion you fear.”
“We are not home yet, Abdullah,” the Vizier said.
“Then, master, the news I bring may not be so difficult for you to believe.” I brought the vetro a filigrana vial out of my sleeve and showed it, interpreting the message for him.
With the fingers of his right hand, Sokolli Pasha shoved the flesh of his sharp nose up into his eyes, a gesture of extreme exhaustion. The nose appeared much less hooked and daunting for a moment. “Abdullah, I cannot think of such things now.”
“But this puts backbone to the spurts of rebellion you have seen. Murad is intended to replace his father.”
“He would in any case.”
“Sooner rather than later. According to the note—tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Prince is already on his way from Magnesia.”
“You think a harem woman is orchestrating the business?”
“I know it.”
“How does she do it?”
“I’m not sure. She does have a eunuch. A monster.”
“Forgive me, Abdullah. A khadim? And a harem woman?”
“He’s a Hungarian.” I was desperate.
Sokolli Pasha stopped in mid-eye rub. “And what is she?”
“Venetian, my lord.”
“You know this woman? You believe her capable of such things?”
I considered. My lady and his own mother were the only women this man knew. He knew that the new Sultan’s heir had sired an heir. Who the mother was, he didn’t know. And didn’t care. He certainly didn’t know Safiye Baffo. But he ought to know. This was a serious weakness in Muslim life.
“My lord, she is capable. Of this—and more.”
Sokolli Pasha seemed to digest this information with a thoughtful movement inside his mouth. “Hungarian,” he said, as if with a mouthful. “To move with ease among raw Hungarian troops, still restive because of the damage my late lord—may Allah receive him-—wracked among them. It is the Hungarians who are most uneasy, and I thought it was no more than this. And a Venetian. That explains the reports I hear of a Venetian fleet lying just
