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  “Aye, my lord.”

  “And the Byzantines are of the Greek faith. How can you love such men?”

  “There is no love, my lord,” John Hawkwood said. “I hate them for their perfidy.” At that moment he even hated Constantine.

  “And now you are here before me,” the Emir mused. “Would you live, Englishman who has fought with Great Harry?”

  John could guess what would follow; but he owed Constantine nothing now. “I would live, my lord. If my wife and son may also live.”

  The Emir shifted his gaze to Anthony, who underwent a most unusual experience. He felt almost caressed by the Ottoman’s eyes, which were, surprisingly, ice-blue. Then the Emir turned his head to the right, to glance through the window of the room. This looked out on to the Bosphorus, and across it at the twinkling lights of Constantinople.

  “Constantinople,” he said softly. “How have I dreamed of thee. How have my father and my ancestors dreamed of thee. You are my destiny. Now, perhaps, my destiny will be realised sooner than I had anticipated.” He turned back towards the room. “If you would live, Hawk, and your son” — again his gaze drifted over Anthony — “and your wife, you will speak to me of Constantinople tomorrow.” He nodded to signify that the audience was at an end.

  *

  The two Hawkwoods were marched out of the chamber, but this time there were no kicks or slashes with whips. Nor were they thrown back into the courtyard, but instead taken along a stone corridor and down a flight of steps.

  “There will be a dungeon,” John Hawkwood muttered. “Courage, boy.”

  To their surprise, however, they found themselves in a bathing chamber. The floor sloped away from them in four levels, and there were huge tubs of steaming water at hand. There were also four black men — if they were men? They wore loin cloths and nothing else, and their faces and chests were quite hairless.

  “Truly we have fallen upon strange people,” John muttered, turning to the captain of their escort, who had already indicated that he spoke Greek. “What has happened to my wife?” The thought of Mary at the mercy of such strange men was alarming.

  “Your lady has been taken to the harem,” the captain told him.

  “The harem?” Anthony repeated in dismay. In Constantinople, the word was redolent of seductive sin.

  “She will be cared for,” the captain assured him.

  “And what is to happen to us?” John demanded.

  “You also, will be well cared for,” the captain said. “It is the will of the Emir Mahomet.”

  “Mahomet,” John muttered, “so that’s the fellow’s name.”

  “We would like food, water, and some wine,” Anthony said eagerly.

  “Wine is an abomination in the sight of the Prophet,” the captain said severely. “The others you will have. But first you must bathe.”

  *

  John Hawkwood had found the people of Constantinople far more concerned with cleanliness than those of England; now he and Anthony discovered that the Byzantines were positively filthy compared with the Turks. The bath took more than an hour, in which time they were required to do nothing but stand on the uppermost level, while the eunuchs ministered to them. Water, alternately cold and hot, was emptied over them, trickling away from level to level to exit through a huge gutter let into the lower wall. Their skins were massaged with sweet-smelling substances, the gentle black fingers seeking every crevice, their hair shampooed and combed. All the while, the eunuchs chattered amongst themselves, their voices unpleasantly high and harsh — but clearly they were delighted with the size and strength of their victims.

  “By God,” John observed at last. “How many times a year must a man undergo this treatment?” he asked the captain.

  The captain looked astounded. “Except on a campaign, Hawk, a man is bathed every day.”

  John was left speechless.

  *

  By the time the bath was completed, both men were nearly asleep on their feet, but then they were escorted up other flights of stairs and into a bedchamber, sumptuously furnished, with two soft divan beds and a carpet on the floor. Here waited a pile of Turkish clothes and, better yet, a meal of lamb, couscous and water. If they required further stimulation, there was a drink called coffee, unknown in England but which they had already sampled in Constantinople, although hardly made as strong and sweet as this.

  They ate and drank because they were hungry, and then collapsed on to the divans.

  “Father,” Anthony said, “have we been saved?”

  “I don’t know, boy. This Emir, Mahomet, may wish us to take arms with him against the Byzantines. Are you ready for that?”

  “Yes,” Anthony said without hesitation. “I hate them now. And how else can we avenge William? Or rescue Catherine?”

  “It is a terrible thing to have to take up arms against fellow Christians under a heathen banner.”

  “Are these people any more heathen than the Byzantines?” Anthony asked.

  “Sleep, boy. We may have much to undergo tomorrow.”

  ***

  Exhausted as he was, Anthony took some time to fall asleep. His body still ached from the enforced march, his sun-burned skin began to hurt again once the balm of the bath wore off, he was still stiff from the beatings he had received earlier, but his brain was suddenly active. He found himself thinking of the Emir, the boy named after the Prophet — and the way the Emir had looked at him. Then he was asleep — but later woke with a start.

  A figure stood in the doorway of the room, gazing down at him.

  Anthony sat up and glanced at his father. John Hawkwood was still fast asleep, and snoring. There were no weapons in the room.

  “Dress yourself, young Hawk,” the man said, his voice high and harsh, even when whispering. “And come with me quickly. But quiet — do not wake your father.”

  Slowly Anthony got up. He wondered whether he should indeed wake his father.

  The eunuch might have read his thoughts. “It will be to your great advantage to do as I say.”

  Anthony hesitated a last time, but reflected that no harm could befall him unless it was ordered by the Emir. And if the Emir wished to harm him, he certainly did not need to arrange it clandestinely in the middle of the night. So Anthony pulled on the loose pantaloons, so different to the tight-fitting hose he was used to, and then the embroidered shirt he had selected as his own the previous night. He thrust his feet into the soft boots, also close fitting but capable of expanding, and stepped outside the room.

  “Wear this, too,” the eunuch commanded, and gave him an outer robe made of some coarse material, which completely covered him from the shoulders down, with a hood to conceal his head.

  “Now come,” the eunuch said.

  Anthony followed him, feeling very strange but aware that he must look like a Turk, even if an unusually tall one. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am the Kislar Agha,” the black man answered. “I am lord of everything that matters. You may call me Chelebi.”

  “Is that your name; Chelebi?”

  “Chelebi is a title, young Hawk. It means ‘lord’.”

  They had now descended the stairs and were in the presence of the night guard; these came to attention as the Kislar Agha passed them. They did not glance at Anthony at all, nor did they question what the black man might be up to.

  So perhaps he was a lord, Anthony thought. But how did he relate to the Emir?

  They crossed the courtyard to the opened gates.

  “Where are we going?” Anthony asked.

  “There is one who would speak with you,” the eunuch told him.

  Could it be Mother, Anthony wondered. They were now outside the castle and approaching the encampment, which he realised was even larger than it had appeared at a quick, exhausted glance the previous evening. Now, in the pale light thrown by the moon across the darkness, chased by the chill dawn wind off Marmara, he looked at an enormous number and variety of tents arranged in orderly rows. Within the
outer rows the horses were tethered, and then there was a large open space before they reached the centre group. But these could hardly be described as tents; rather they were movable canvas houses of considerable size, and clearly containing several chambers from the varied heights of the roofs.

  This “inner city” was patrolled by armed guards, but, as within the castle itself, no one questioned the Kislar Agha as he walked straight through the cordon, with Anthony at his heels. They made for the second largest of the tents, and stepped through a flap into a small chamber.

  “Wait in here,” the black man said, and opened another, inner flap and ushered him through.

  Anthony looked around. There had been a light glowing beyond the inner door, but there was none here. In the gloom it was difficult to make out much of his surroundings, but he was alone.

  Before he could deduce where he was, the Agha had returned. “Take off the cloak,” he commanded.

  Anthony obeyed, his powers of decision suspended by the sheer strangeness of everything that was happening to him.

  “Now bow your head,” the Agha commanded.

  Anthony obeyed, the Agha passed a thick bandage round his head to cover his eyes, securing it from behind.

  “As you value your life, do not shift the blindfold,” the Agha said. “Now come.”

  He took Anthony’s hand, and led him through an inner doorway. Even through the blindfold Anthony was aware of the lamps which surrounded him, and of the soft rugs into which his feet sank. He was led forward and through another doorway — his head brushing against the canvas lintel. Now the scents which had titillated his nostrils since first entering the vast tent became almost overpowering.

  “Kneel,” the Agha whispered.

  Anthony obeyed, and heard the Agha speaking, presumably in Turkish.

  When he had finished, a voice replied, and Anthony could not stop his head from jerking up. It was the voice of a woman, soft and musical, yet with currents of strength rippling through it.

  The Agha spoke again, more vehemently.

  My God, Anthony thought, what are they discussing?

  The woman replied, and this time was undoubtedly giving a command. The Agha’s acknowledgement was brief, and there was a rustle of movement.

  Anthony waited, still kneeling on the rug.

  “Remove your blindfold, young Hawk,” the woman said.

  “I have been warned not to do this…my lady,” Anthony instinctively added. “On pain of my life.”

  “Your life is mine,” the woman said. “Remove the blindfold.”

  Anthony no longer hesitated but reached behind his head and unfastened the knot. As the cloth fell on to his lap, he blinked, slowly becoming accustomed to the light. His first impression was colour: there was colour everywhere, from the greys and blues of the rugs to the pinks and pale greens of the cushions on the divan before which he knelt. Even the lanterns gave off coloured light.

  The woman, too, was colourful. She wore a voluminous, deep red, divided skirt which was caught in at each ankle, so that it was really a pair of silk pantaloons; her close-fitting tunic was a paler red; her skin was very white, her hair as red as his own and lay loose on her shoulders beneath a small jewelled crimson cap. There were jewelled rings on her fingers as well. But the glittering stones paled into insignificance when set against the woman herself.

  She was fairly tall, Anthony estimated; she sat on the divan, one leg curled beneath her, but the other touched the floor; the silk of the pantaloons was sheer and she did not appear to be wearing anything beneath. It was a very well-formed leg indeed, with flawless bare toes. The upper half of her body was better concealed, but suggested a mature splendour. And then the face! The first impression was one of utter calmness, because her features were so perfectly relaxed. But they were also perfect features in their own right, moulded into the shape of a heart, within which lay a wide, full mouth, a small nose, and wide-set green eyes. Even this perfection had been assisted: her eyebrows and eyelids had been painted with kohl, a dark dye made from lemons and plumbago; and her fingernails tinted a reddish brown colour with henna. Anthony soon realised that her hair had also been dyed in henna.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And yet, for all the smoothness of her complexion, the grace with which she sat, even so inelegantly, he realised that she was at least as old as his own mother…which would make her very nearly fifty!

  She smiled. “You are handsome yourself, young Hawk,” she said. “The Emir spoke to me of you last night, and he is a man of judgement. Do your knees not hurt? Why not sit.”

  Anthony slid over into a sitting position; his knees were indeed aching, while his brain was spinning. He discovered, to his relief, that the Kislar Agha had left them alone.

  “My name is Mara Brankovich,” the woman said. “Or it was, once upon a time. My nephew is Prince George of Serbia.”

  Anthony gasped. Everyone in Constantinople knew of Mara Brankovich, the Serbian princess who had been sent to the seraglio of the Ottoman Emir Murad, when just a girl. Just as everyone in Constantinople reviled the name of George Brankovich: his desertion of Hunyadi at Kossovo, three years before, had certainly helped bring about the defeat of the Christian army.

  “My husband died but a fortnight ago,” Mara Brankovich went on. “It has been a busy time for me — and for Mahomet.”

  “The Emir is your son, Highness?” Anthony asked, unable to control his curiosity.

  Mara Brankovich smiled. “No,” she said. “I was never able to bear Murad a son. And yet I was his favourite wife. No other woman gave him so much pleasure.” She spoke with quiet arrogance. “Mahomet’s mother was an Albanian slave girl.” Now her tone was faintly tinged with contempt. “But she is dead.” She paused to stare at him, and he realised that this beautiful woman was probably as cold-hearted towards a possible rival as any man could be. “Thus I am the Emir Valideh; that means, young Hawk, ‘the Mother of the Emir’. Mahomet would have it no other way.”

  “As you have said, Highness, the Emir is a man of judgement,” Anthony ventured.

  The boldness of his reply took her aback. She gazed at him for several seconds, and then smiled. “You may go far, young Hawk,” she told him. “My son is…interested in you. He is very young, but he is yet a man. He is also an Osmanli. Do not ever forget that.”

  “A breaker of legs,” Anthony murmured, remembering what his father had told him.

  “Of more than legs, young Hawk,” Mara commented. “Do you know what the Janissaries already call him? They call him Hunkar. Do you know what that means?”

  “No, Highness.”

  “It means ‘Drinker of Blood’. You would do well to remember this at all times.”

  “But he is also very talented, Highness,” Anthony suggested, practising the most blatant flattery. “He speaks Latin like an Italian.”

  “But of course. As his mother died…young,” Mara said, “and as there was no older son of the great Murad, I saw to Mahomet’s education myself. My adopted son speaks not only Latin, but Greek, Arabic, Chaldean, Persian and Slavonic. More, he can read and write in all those languages. I taught him these skills.”

  She paused so that he could appreciate that she must therefore know them all herself, which would make her just about the most accomplished woman in the world, he felt. “His father Murad taught him the art of war. To this end he has studied the lives of Cyrus, Alexander, Julius Caesar, Octavian, Constantine, and Theodosius. He is…he will be the conqueror of the world. You can share in all this, young Hawk, if you have the wit and the courage.”

  Anthony supposed he might be dreaming to be holding such a conversation with such a woman on such topics. But he was determined to play his part. “For your son to conquer the world, Highness, he must first conquer Christendom,” he suggested. “Are you yourself not a Christian?”

  “A Christian indeed,” she said contemptuously. “As are you, young Hawk. But what do we see when we look at Christendom?”
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  She rose from her divan and moved to and fro in front of him, a swirl of red silk and glowing flesh. “England and France locked in warfare. The Pope and the Emperor locked in enmity. And these bastard Byzantines preying upon the world like the veriest mantis. I did not tell the truth just now. My son did indeed speak to me of you, but only after I had spoken of you to him. I stood in the gallery above the audience chamber of the castle, and looked down upon you both.”

  The cloth behind the trellis, Anthony thought. This woman had looked upon his naked body.

  “I realised then that God, whose aim is always unity rather than discord, had sent you to us. My son has dreamed, since birth, of conquering Constantinople. But how may Constantinople be conquered? Its walls seem impregnable. Now you will show us how.”

  “Highness?” Anthony asked uneasily.

  Mara Brankovich paused in front of him. Through her transparent skirt he could see her groin, and he realised with consternation that it was shaven. He had no idea what he should have expected, never having seen a naked woman, but what was exposed seemed irresistible.

  “Or you die,” she said. Then she did an amazing thing. She dropped to her knees before him. “But live, and scale the veriest heights.”

  She stood again quickly, with hardly a flexing of muscle.

  “Do you know how I am called?”

  “The…Emir Valideh,” he said.

  “That is nothing. It means Queen Mother. To the women of the harem I am Queen of the Crowned Heads. Not even Mahomet may take a woman to his bed unless I have first approved the girl.” She stared at Anthony. “Nor a handsome boy.”

  Anthony gulped. “Highness…

  “You are from England, where such relationships are frowned upon. Here in the East they are commonplace. A woman is for comfort and children — so long as she provides them.” Mara’s lips twisted. “A handsome boy is for companionship and true enjoyment.”

  “Highness…”

  “Would you resist my son? He could have you stretched on your belly and opened to him by snapping his fingers. If you would not accommodate him, you must use art, subterfuge; illusion even.”