'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
Mehmed, 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. Gulbehar, 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 Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar. 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,' Gulbehar 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. Gulbehar 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 Gulbehar. 'And send in Halil and the generals.'
Halil entered first, wearing a ceremonial robe of brilliant seraser — 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.'