‘I demand to see the Sultan immediately!’ shouted the bishop.
Very softly, Cesare said, ‘If we kill him ourselves, do you think the Sultan will let us go?’
And the great doors opened.
The bishop, caught a hundred feet from his entourage, scurried back, his heavy garments making the noise of a woman’s skirts as he crossed the marble floor.
No one watched him, because Sultan Mehmet II entered – led by fifty Royal Sipahis, followed by his personal bodyguard, surrounded by his advisers and friends. Every man was dressed in silk; every soldier’s armour was engraved with verses of the Holy Koran, inlaid in gold, blued like the sky. The courtiers had jewels in their turbans the size of bird’s eggs. Their robes were woven in complex patterns, and yet the whole made one pattern around the central figure of the Sultan as if a single intelligence had chosen all their clothes.
Swan bet that someone had.
Omar Reis was standing at the Sultan’s right hand.
The Sultan settled on to his throne, and Omar Reis was allowed a stool at his feet. The other courtiers bowed – some actually lay flat on their face before the sultan.
Alessandro said – quietly – ‘Kneel.’
All of the men-at-arms sank to one knee.
The bishop hissed, ‘On your feet! We do not kneel to some infidel warlord!’
None of the men-at-arms moved until the Turks began to move at the word of a chamberlain, who thumped the floor with his baton.
The bishop looked close to apoplexy.
The chamberlain began to speak. He spoke in Turkish, and another chamberlain spoke in Persian. One of the embassy’s interpreters began to speak.
‘It is a recitation of the Sultan’s titles and names. Allah’s servant, flower of felicity, lord of Rum and Antioch . . .’ The titles went on and on – some religious, some military, some tribal.
Swan went back to thinking about Khatun Bengül. Her hair – the scent of her. The scent was with him yet. He smiled.
‘Conquerer of Constantinople, Lord of Greece. He bids us welcome.’
Mehmet was young – of middle height, and quite handsome, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. He had large eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and the shoulders and arms of a swordsman. Yet he sat in quiet repose with a dignity often missing in young men, especially fighters.
Swan found him the most impressive monarch he’d met. On the other hand, Mehmet II had only Henry VI of England as a rival in that regard, and the comparison wasn’t even fair. It was like comparing a magnificent stallion with a small and rather shy donkey.
‘The Sultan greets you and asks if your lodging was to your satisfaction. Are you well fed? Has your stay in his new capital been pleasant?’ asked the interpreter.
Swan realised the there were Europeans standing among the Turkish courtiers. He didn’t know them well, but there was the Venetian senior merchant, and there was a Florentine who Alessandro had pointed out, the chief factor of the Florentine merchants.
They were standing with the Sultan.
Swan looked at Alessandro, caught his eye, and gave the slightest nod in the direction of the Venetian.
Alessandro allowed the slightest smile to cross his face. And gave his own minute nod.
So Alessandro had pulled strings to get Venice to send a representative, which made it almost impossible that they would all be murdered.
The bishop bowed – it was the closest thing to a social concession Swan had seen the man make. He spoke very quietly to the interpreter, who himself bowed.
He spoke in Turkish for what seemed to Swan to be a very long time.
He became aware that Omar Reis was watching him. The man had a slight smile on his face.
Swan smiled back. It wasn’t the wisest choice, but Swan couldn’t stop the smile.
It became a grin.
Omar Reis’s smile faltered.
The introductory oration ran to its final stanzas – in Persian.
‘That’s my bit,’ said Cesare.
At the poety, Mehmet sat forward.
The bishop, who had been toying with his magnificent crystal crozier, suddenly looked up.
Mehmet smiled. He leaned over and whispered something to the Florentine, who nodded and walked across the hall to the embassy, even as the chamberlain answered the embassy and the translator began to say:
‘The Sultan is delighted to accept the plaudits of his cousin, the Pope . . .’
The Turkish answer ground on – a little more pointed than the papal oration, in that it suggested that Christians had always been the aggressors and Islam, and Allah’s servant Mehmet and his father Murad, were but innocent servants of Allah’s will.
The Florentine stopped and bowed. ‘The Sultan wishes to know who among the embassy composed the poem at the end?’
Before he could be stopped, Cesare bowed. ‘I had that honour.’
‘You write in Persian?’ asked the Florentine.
‘I write in Latin. I found a translator.’ He bowed.
The Florentine returned his bow.
The Pope’s gift was a bridle – a magnificent piece of horse tack, decorated in gold, with medallions of the finest Italian work, buckles in blued steel and gold, dyed a deep red.
The Sultan looked at it, smiled, leaned over to Omar Reis and made some remark which caused all the men around him to laugh.
Their interpreters paled. The nearer said, ‘The sultan says the Pope takes me for a horse.’
The bishop went forward with the second gift, a cabinet such as Italian noblemen used to display their jewels and their antiquities – a magnificent piece of vulgarity, with a hundred drawers of exotic woods and mirrored backs, gold and silver wire inlay, marble terraces . . .
Like a palace, reproduced as a piece of furniture.
The Sultan didn’t even look at it, or the bishop. He had started to chat with the men closest to him. The bishop stood by the Pope’s great gift and time ticked by – literally, as there was a German clock in the centre of the cabinet. It was wound, and set, the machine ticking away.
Swan found it fascinating. A machine. A machine that could measure time.
Eventually the Sultan was interested, too, and when one of his confidants stopped talking, he rose suddenly, walked down from the dais, and stood by the cabinet. With the help of the Venetian factor, he opened the clock and looked at the mechanism. Then he shrugged, and said something in Turkish to Omar Reis, who grinned – or rather, showed his teeth.
The interpreter closest to Swan gulped audibly. ‘He says, first he takes me for a horse, and now, for a woman.’
Omar Reis passed within a few feet of Swan. He turned to grin his feral grin, and his nose wrinkled slightly.
Swan saw him pause in his progress across the floor.
He looked back – not a long look, but a mere flick of the eyes.
Swan would have sworn that the Wolf of Thrace’s eyes glowed. Swan had never had such a look of poisonous hatred directed at him in all his life.
Uh-oh.
Cesare, behind him, said, ‘Boy? What have you done?’
Alessandro looked at him.
I smell of Khatun Bengül’s perfume. Swan’s vision tunnelled, and for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. Or worse.
I’m an idiot.
Mehmet spoke quietly, his words clear in the silent hall.
The bishop bowed and extended a hand with the Pope’s letter.
The chamberlain took it. Without any grand display, he managed to give the impression that he was handling a small sack of human excrement. He deposited the letter with a lower functionary, who scurried away.
Mehmet nodded.
‘The Sultan would like to grant you a boon in return for your magnificent presents,’ said the interpreter. ‘He says that he has a surfeit of Christian slaves – so many that their value is plummeting throughout his empire. He is about to launch a great military campaign to crush rebels against his rule – and he says this will only result in still more Christian slaves.’