Siege

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

Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar hard. 'Are you sure it is not my father's bastard?' Bayezid was crying now, and Gulbehar pulled him to her, holding him tightly as if for protection. 'Answer me, woman!' Mehmed demanded.

Gulbehar 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,' Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar. Her gloating would be a more insufferable punishment for Gulbehar than any he could devise. Mehmed was still angry when he reached his father's chambers, but more at himself now than at Gulbehar. 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.'

'No, you will not recover, Father.'

'And why is that?'

Mehmed pulled the kumru kalp out from under his caftan, and Murad's eyes locked upon the jewel. Mehmed leaned closer to his father. 'I know what you have done,' Mehmed whispered. 'And I have taken my revenge. You have been poisoned. The drug acts slowly, but it is fatal.'

Murad's eyes opened wide, and Mehmed was pleased to think that he had been able to surprise his father, at least this once. 'It is you,' Murad said, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I have been killed by my own son.'

'No, Father. You poisoned yourself the day you took Gulbehar to bed.' Murad's eyes were even wider now, practically bulging out of his head, but he did not speak. 'Did you think that you could lie with Gulbehar without my knowledge?' Mehmed demanded. 'With my own favourite?'

Still, Murad did not reply, and Mehmed realized that it was not surprise, but an attack of apoplexy that had distorted his father's features. Murad's jaws were clenched now and his lips trembling. Spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth, and the veins at his temples were bulging. His body began to convulse, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Mehmed drew back from his father's contorted body and waited until Murad had ceased his shaking and lay still. Then, Mehmed rose and called loudly: 'A doctor! Bring the sultan's doctor, quickly!' The doctor put his head to Murad's chest and then looked to Mehmed. When he spoke, he only confirmed what Mehmed knew to be true.

'He is dead,' he told Mehmed. 'You are the sultan now, My Lord.' Two weeks later, Mehmed was girded for the second time in his life with the great sword in the mosque of Eyub and proclaimed Mehmed Khan II, Seventh Sovereign of the House of Osman, Khan of Khans, Grand Sultan of Anatolia and Rumelia, Emperor of the Two Cities of Adrianople and Brusa, Lord of the Two Lands and the Two Seas. Afterwards, he rode to the palace for his first official audience as sultan. Before making his entrance, he paused and watched his subjects through a curtain. Emirs, beys and pashas from every corner of the empire stood in the grand hall of the palace, waiting to pay homage to him and to take his measure. To Mehmed's right, Murad's ministers stood wringing their hands; to his left, Murad and Mehmed's wives stood veiled and quiet. A dozen janissaries surrounded the imperial divan, separating it from the mass of people. Mehmed took one last look and then stepped through the curtain and into the hall. At once, the assembled men and women fell silent. The only noise was the whisper of silk as the crowd filling the hall bowed low before their new sultan.

Mehmed's heart beat violently, but he kept his head held high and his pace measured as he walked to the imperial divan, knowing that hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching his every step. He wore a white turban and robes of rose-red silk decorated with intricate patterns in gold. His black beard had been cut short, and he looked in every respect the sultan as he reclined upon the divan, propping himself up on his left elbow. Mehmed knew that many in the audience had not seen him since the last time he took the throne, seven years ago as a beardless child of twelve. He would show them all that he was no longer a child. He would show them that he knew how to rule as a sultan must.

He motioned for the crowd to rise and then turned first to his father's ministers. 'You may take your usual places,' he told them, motioning for them to be seated. Their collective sigh of relief was almost audible as they sat on a row of cushions, each cushion indicating their respective place as minister within the sultan's divan. They need not have worried. They had served his father well, and Mehmed had need of their experience. He would allow them to prove their loyalty. And, if any proved unfaithful, then Mehmed's spies would inform him, and the traitors would be beheaded. Mehmed doubted that more than one minister would conspire against him. A beheading was a most instructive example.