Shadow of God (6 page)

Piri moved to the standard. Immediately, the Janissaries began to congregate near him. The Sipahis stayed with their horses, reins in their hands, ready to move. The Janissaries were dressed in their full battle gear, swords and lances at their sides. They moved toward the Pasha and waited for him to speak. There was only the occasional sound of a stamping hoof on the soft earth, and the far-off nickering of a horse impatient to run. Piri waited. He tried to feel the energy of the men. At last he spoke.

“Our Sultan, Selim, is dead. May Allah smile upon his tomb.”

Instantly, and as a unit, the Janissaries drew their curved scimitars in one great movement. The noise of steel against the scabbards sounded in unison. They raised the blades above their heads, and Piri found himself staring down into a sea of lethal glittering steel. The swords whistled through the damp morning air, slashing the ropes of the Janissaries’ own tents. As the white tents crumbled to the ground there rose the wail and sobs of thousands of grieving young soldiers. In a moment, the camp had been leveled, and the tents lay on the ground like hundreds of piles of laundry. Where there had been a disciplined military camp, there was now only the dust and the commotion of men tearing off their white plumed hats and dashing them to the ground in their grief.

The Sipahis, too, threw their hats to the ground and cried out as if in pain from their loss. The horses stamped and reared at the cries of the men. The Sipahis held the reins tightly, never looking at the horses. Sobbing drowned all the other sounds of the morning.

Piri watched the spectacle before him. He was amazed at this display of grief from these thousands of men who had suffered so grievously for eight years under the unpredictable wrath of Selim. But, this, indeed, was what he had hoped for. The slashing of the tent cords was the traditional display of grief and loyalty at the death of a Sultan. Now, the men would follow Piri Pasha’s orders. This was what he had prayed for so long would happen.

Inch’ Allah.
God willing.

Piri Pasha returned to his
serai
while the wailing and mourning continued through the early light. He went to the heavily guarded tents that housed the Sultan’s treasure chests. He set about sealing each box carefully with the ring of Selim. Then he posted a heavy guard, giving them instructions that he was turning over command of the forces to Bali Agha, the
Seraskier,
Commander-in-Chief of the Janissaries.

Bali Agha was dressing in his military uniform. He had been combing his long, black mustache when he heard Piri Pasha’s speech from the tent.

Piri entered the tent without being announced. The
Seraskier
continued wrapping his waistband. He placed his sword in its folds, and turned to face the Pasha.

“You have heard, Bali Agha?”

“I have heard, Piri Pasha.”

“Then you know what you must do.” Bali Agha nodded his assent. Piri continued. “You will take command of the army this morning. Strike the camp tonight, and be moving after first light. I have sealed the treasure, and it is ready to go. I will keep the seal with me.”

Bali Agha showed no reaction at this apparent lack of trust. Piri continued. “Move slowly but steadily toward Istanbul. I will ride ahead, and see to the preparation for the arrival of the Son of Selim. The new Sultan and I should arrive there about the same time if my
messenger gets through. I will ride in disguise until I reach the capital. I have sent Achmed Agha ahead to prepare the Janissaries and keep everything under control until we are united outside the gates of the city. Word of the impending arrival of your army will assure compliance. I know there will be spies to alert our enemies of your progress. Their news will act in our favor, for they will spread the word that your army is coming. I need but a day or two ahead of you, so move cautiously, but let no one, nothing, impede you!”

Bali Agha said nothing. When Piri Pasha had finished, the Agha stood to attention and saluted. Piri left the tent and went back to his own. Now he could mount his guard and set off for the capital with the better part of the world’s fiercest fighting force close behind him. Now, he could precede his men to Istanbul, and await the arrival of the Son of Selim.

Achmed Agha and the young Sipahi, Abdullah, had ridden hard from the encampment. At first they went towards the Kabarda Horses as they were told. But upon reaching the corrals, they turned to the east without pause. The two men pressed on in silence, bent over the necks of their mounts, side by side along the dry road. They looked like father and son as they rode, Achmed’s bulk and power in sharp contrast to Abdullah’s smaller wiry frame. They kept a fast lope, moving the horses steadily toward the east. For fifteen miles they rode together through the last of the summer’s wheat fields and the stands of sunflowers now beginning to wilt and drop their seeds as autumn approached. People in the sleepy villages along the way were waking to the morning light as the two men sped by. Grazing animals scattered before the horses’ hooves. Few trees broke the rolling terrain, but the icy northeast winds of winter had not yet begun to sweep in from the Black Sea.

At the fork in the road at another of the many identical villages along the way, the two Sipahis stopped and watered the horses. They drank from their leather canteens, and refilled them. Achmed Agha hugged the younger man, and whispered in his ear. “Ride well, my brother. Bring the Son of Selim safely back to us. May Allah go with you.”

“And with you, Achmed Agha.”

They rose as one into their saddles, and the Agha veered left to the east. He rode directly toward the capital, while Abdullah wheeled his horse right, south, and toward the crossing of the Dardanelles. The young Sipahi pushed his horse as hard as he dared, well aware of the animal’s limits. He made sure to maintain a pace suitable for the long road ahead.

By late afternoon, the rolling hills gave way to rising terrain. Abdullah was approaching the pass to Koru Dagi, the mountain rising more than a thousand feet above the Dardanelles. This mountain pass would be the hardest push before the gentle descent to the water’s edge and the ferry crossing into Asia. There would begin the final drive to Manisa and the
caravanserai
of his new Sultan. Abdullah slowed his pace to a fast lope, and pushed the horse up the steady climb.

A mile ahead of the young rider, two men waited by the side of the road. Both were dressed in long caftans of dirty, gray wool. Their boots were made of old felt, and worn nearly through. On their heads they wore black skullcaps. From a distance, it would be hard to tell the two men apart.

They, too, had horses, but theirs were nowhere in sight. The men had tied them in a small stand of trees, where the horses grazed on the scant ground cover now turning brown at the end of the growing season. The horses’ ribs showed through their sides, and sores festered where the worn saddle leathers had rubbed them raw.

The men squatted in the low scrub at the side of the road. One of them squinted, looking north in the direction of a cloud of dust appearing just over the horizon. He rose and stood on his tiptoes to get a better view. After another minute, he smiled, and kicked his dozing partner. The sleepy man awoke with a start and rubbed his eyes, cursing the older one. The standing man pointed up the road to the north.

Neither spoke, but they both saw the dust now, as it resolved slowly into horse and rider. The rider had slowed to rest his horse as he climbed a steeper portion of the hill leading to the high pass of Koru Dagi.

Their plan was simple and effective. The highwaymen would wait, concealed in the brush, until a likely victim came by. If the victim was on foot, the men would emerge from the brush, their curved knives at the ready, and surround their prey. Usually, there was no resistance. They would take what treasure they could find, and ride away on their horses, only to return to the same spot some hours later. The pickings were poor on this stretch of road, but they were far from any authority, and few travelers would come back to try to track them down.

If the travelers fought, they would likely die at the side of the road, for the two men worked well together and had much practice. If the traveler were on horse, the men would leap out at the last moment, hoping to startle the mount and toss the rider to the ground. One would grab the reins, while the other pulled the rider down, if he had not already fallen. If they missed their target, they would rarely pursue the chase, for their horses were old. And the men, too, were old. Soon another rider would appear. These were patient men.

This rider was clearly in sight now. The two highwaymen crouched lower into the brush. The horse had slowed even more for the big hill. He was ridden well in hand. Surprise might not work this time, and so the two highwaymen moved into the open. They pretended to be working on something in their pack. This time they would hail the rider and ask directions, then they would spring the attack.

The Sipahi looked ahead between the ears of his mount. He saw the men at the side of the road. All strangers were a danger to him, and Abdullah became alert. He urged the horse faster, a voice within telling him there was danger indeed. He pressed his knees into the sides of his mount, digging his heels into the horse’s ribs. As his speed increased, he slipped both reins into his left hand, laying his left fist onto the horse’s mane. He let the reins drape loosely, so the horse could extend his neck and stretch out his stride. The horse knew this signal, and he did what the Sipahi asked of him.

The pace quickened now from a fast lope to the beginnings of a gallop. The rider calculated the distance, allowing the horse to
accelerate, timing for maximum speed just as he came to the men. His right hand slipped to the handle of his long curved scimitar, and he slid it carefully out of its scabbard. His fist clutched the sword lightly as he held it to the horse’s flank, out of sight.

The men saw the rider more clearly now. What they never saw until it was too late was that the brown color of the rider’s clothes was dust and mud covering the light blue uniform of the Sultan’s Sipahi. They moved out to the edge of the road, confused by the acceleration of the horse and rider. They had lost the element of surprise, and they were momentarily at a loss for a plan. Finally, the bigger man raised his knife in threat, hoping to stop the horse’s momentum. The second man ran further ahead along the road for a second attack, should his partner fail.

The young Sipahi crouched lower over the horse’s neck. The horse raised its hind end and broke to full gallop. Mud flew in brown clots off the back hooves as the Sipahi leaned low to the right side along his horse’s neck. The robber reached out with his knife, ready to slash the horse’s shoulder. The horse and rider moved ahead, never veering from their straight run. Suddenly, Abdullah’s arm rose from his side. “I place my trust in God” flashed in Arabic on the steel of the scimitar raised high in the air. But the highwayman never saw it.

Before he could feel the pain, before the realization, the robber watched with utter disbelief as his knife fell to the ground, still clutched in the fist of his right hand. He opened his mouth to scream as the blood spurted from the stump of his forearm and the pain reached his brain. But, no sound escaped his lips as he fell to the earth clutching at his terrible wound. The severed hand held the knife tightly even as the horse’s passing hooves kicked both knife and hand into the brush. The robber—now on his knees—watched the dust around him turn to a maroon jelly as he slowly bled to death from his wound.

The other man hesitated for just a second, trying to comprehend what had happened to his partner. Even before he could react to save himself, the rider was on him. So fast was the Sipahi’s stroke that the man’s world went instantly black. Swiftly, painlessly, the
highwayman’s head toppled to the ground, while his body remained standing upon his splay-legged stance for a few seconds more. Then the corpse fell forward into the dust, and his blood darkened the edges of the road.

And the Sultan’s Sipahi rode on.

Doctor Moses Hamon sat on the cushions in his tent turning the pages of a new text on human anatomy. It was the very latest work on the subject, and was written in Arabic. Hamon read the language easily, since many of the most current medical and scientific research was being done in the Arab world. He spoke fluent Spanish, French, Greek, Hebrew, and Turkish. In his medical training, he had learned Latin, but never had the occasion to use the language. Now, by the light of his oil lamp, he looked through his new treasure. The illustrations were done in beautiful detail and clear lines. Some of the drawings showed new concepts in the anatomy of the circulation of the blood. In his home in Istanbul, Doctor Hamon had, over the years, amassed one of the finest book collections in the world. His volumes ranged over the fields of medicine, science, history and philosophy. Few private libraries anywhere could match the scope and quality of his.