Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christian Cameron
carved of leather. His aged face had vertical lines etched by sun and weather, and the man might have been a hundred years old, yet he stood in chain and plate, his pointed helmet a magnificent display of blue and gold, his scimitar hilt made of jade.
Swan looked him over and thought, There’s a killer .
‘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
Swan looked him over and thought, There’s a killer .
‘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
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