The Prince Book 2: Götterdämmerung

By L.A. Bartrom

Prince Djem Sultan, youngest son of Mehmed Il The Conqueror was born in 1459 into the opulence of Edirne Palace and Istanbul. Trained with his brothers in the ancient arts of combat and the Princely art of Rule, he warred for 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Regency Publishers
• Release date: Oct 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781959434696

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Copyright © 2022 Linda A. Bartrom.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-959434-70-2 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-959434-71-9 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-959434-69-6 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

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Contents

Forward

Chapter 1: Messenger of Blood

Chapter 2: The Gathering

Chapter 3: Sultan of Anatolia

Chapter 4: The Battle of Yenisehir

Chapter 5: Nomads

Chapter 6: Ancient Damascus

Chapter 7: Egyptian Dreams

Chapter 8: Betrayals

Chapter 9: The Final Campaign

Chapter 10: Rhodes

Chapter 11: The Leavetaking

Chapter 12: Dark Horizons

Chapter 13: Storm

Chapter 14: The Lord of Syracuse

Chapter 15: Venetians

Chapter 16: Things of Elder Earth

Chapter 17: The Tresor Makes Land

Epilogue

Characters

References

For Dad

Forward

I met Dr. Linda Bartrom as a teenager in her Chemistry class. For many of us she was more than a teacher, she was a duty-driven role model and mentor. I always knew she enjoyed history but didn't appreciate the conversations I would have with her until my later years of adulthood. I periodically would check my messages to find Dr. B. sharing her passion project of researching her family legacy throughout the vastness of the Ottoman Empire. Being a first-generation Turkish-American, I naturally had my interest piqued.

Like many of her students, we remained friends long after my 10+ years ago graduation from Villa Park High School in Orange County California. This past year she began sharing with me her developing novel, and after reading the first few pages of The Prince, I found myself plowing through the remaining chapters of the extensive story told by her; I found it to be a pivotal and underrepresented part of history. The Prince and its series are tales of fascinating depictions of war, lust, courage, and trauma. Dr. B captures the shaping of character, the brutality of war and the fight for realization of destiny as she follows her ancestor, Prince Djem Sultan, in his battles for valuable territories in Anatolia and the western Mediterranean.

It pleases me to write this forward for Dr. B, as I'm excited to see what more there is in this exploration of history in the form of entertaining storytelling based in the deep truth of the long ago.

- Korhan Mehmet Ereren

Chapter 1

Messenger of Blood

Stefan, who arrived at Prince Djem’s summer Palace, had run for his life to outdistance the two Sipahi who were tracking him. Karamani Pasha had sent two others, himself and his brother, besides the three slaves sent on the main roads toward Konya. Stefan and his brother had been sent to trail the others, to watch and report whether they had succeeded in reaching Prince Djem. But he had not returned to Istanbul to report their capture to Karamani, he had instead gone to look for his younger brother, only thirteen, anxious to help, excited by the adventure. And then after finding Josef, he had gone on himself to Konya, there was nothing else in life for him to do.

His brother had been captured and taken with the three slaves back to Nicomedia, and the Sipahi had made camp just outside the bivouacked troops. Stefan watched from a thicket beyond the their camp; a cold sharp fear was in his chest, he felt heavy with it. He crouched low, the firelight danced and glinted in the Turkish night; all he could think was there must be a way, some way to distract them, pull them away from the roped men, circle around and free Josef. There had to be a chance . . . He was close enough now, he could see it, the stake. The sharpened pole leaned against the trunk of a tree, he had never seen this done, he had seen the results though; rather, he had heard them. Once, in their village they had been invaded by the Sultan’s men looking for one of their townsmen who had evaded taxation. He was a very rich man, Stefan had been to his house two times only, and both to bring clothing his mother had made.

He had carried the stack of garments, carefully folded, deftly made with his mother’s swift hand; she made clothing for himself and his brother and father of course, until his father had died of a fall from climbing for fruit; it had not been a far fall but his leg had shattered. The bone was white through his skin and the doctor had pushed it back into his father’s leg, he could still hear the screams, he had never heard his father scream or even raise his voice. He had not been prepared, his mother had not been prepared; the screams struck, slammed him until he felt physically beaten. The horror, the horror was all he could remember. And the days after. The leg had swollen, pus oozed out mixed with blood. His father had died. The two small boys dug a hole that filled with tears.

Then his mother had supported them; she made clothes for small coins with which she bought food and cloth from the bazaar which came once a week. The rich man who had paid his mother had been staked, he had not seen it but he had heard it, until he covered his ears with blankets and did not leave the house for those hours until the cries stopped. When he finally went out to the center of their town where the lesson in paying taxes had been carried out, all that was left was a bloody, broken shaft on the ground. There was no picture, there was only the sound in his memory. This was the darkness he felt pulled toward, felt himself being swallowed.

It was into this darkness that he was falling now, but he could not fall. He could not let go of what was happening, the men were moving around his brother and the bound slaves, they wanted something from them; they had a northern accent, he could make out only pieces of what they said, they wanted something from the three men who were tied to each other; his little brother was set off to one side, bound also, his arms to his sides, he was asking for water.

The Sipahi laughed at Josef, one of the slaves who had been captured rebuked the soldier for this, who rose and went over to him.

How about you, slave, do you want water? Some khavesi maybe? And he laughed greatly. Or to be free? I said do you want to be free?

The soldier had picked up his sword, and as he finished the question, Stefan saw him raise his arm over his head and bring it down on the man’s shoulder. The man screamed in surprise and then sudden pain, and his arm, cut off at the shoulder, the arm that had been bound to the slave next to him, hung from the rope bound now only to the next slave, freed from its owner.

There! Now you are free.

The shoulder that was left was spurting blood; the man screamed again, in terror at what had been done, at the finality of it. He was freed from the man next to him, he tried to crawl away, fell over on his side, and the gushing blood began to cover him, turning his chest and neck glistening red in the camp light. There was a terrible sense of the complete and ruthless power these men had over all of them, at the callousness of the act, a sense of doom.

Where were you going? We ask you again, what was your mission? The words were shouted now, clearer, Stefan understood what was happening, the information they were after: whether Prince Djem had been told of his father’s death. The man with no arm was now gibbering frantically, asking for help, realizing none would be coming; he was on his side, his legs pedaled helplessly in the dust, his voice with less and less force. The soldiers sat and watched him now, as did the other captives, they watched silently chewing on their food, watching him with a quiet amusement. They were letting him die, letting the others watch. His voice was very small now, and then nothing.

Josef was sobbing quietly, Stefan could hear him, his boyish voice intermittent with the men’s conversation among themselves, voices low so he could not understand them again. The bound slaves were loyal to Prince Djem, he knew this, knew this was why Karamani had sent them: Sinan Pasha wanted to know if they or anyone else had reached the young Sultan in Konya.

The man lay in the dirt at the edge of camp; one of the Sipahi pushed him further away with his foot and brought back the stake they had leaned on the tree. They cut the rope binding the two slaves together, tied one to the trunk the stake had leaned against, and brought the other into the firelight. More Sipahi who had heard the cries had wandered into their camp, and crouched silently, watching.

It began. The two Sipahi, the ones who had captured the men, bent the slave over the two saddles from the mounts. Two more of the soldiers rose to help; they held his arms down so he could not rise. The man would not speak against the Prince, his loyalty was fierce, Djem was a just man, they were Konyan, descendants of Seljuk; he said nothing, he hardly resisted, he knew this was his day of ending, he said prayer as they bent him down, offering his suffering to Allah. The slave waited. The Sipahi gathered around him, prayed their night prayer together, the two who would perform the act knelt and bowed their foreheads to the ground, also offering this act to Allah. Stefan saw the left and the right of things, the killer and the killed both pray to the same god. His father had been Greek, his god also was angered sometimes, like when he took his father. There was no understanding the gods, his mother would say.

The prayers finished, the stake was placed at the slave’s rectum. With a giant shove it was forced into him, his scream pierced the night, long, long. They stopped for a moment, then began again running the stake through him, high into him, he howled into the night, they pulled him upright and he hung upon the stake, the two Sipahi at either side pulled on his arms, he was pulled down the stake until it came out his chest. His screams summoned more military, they did not laugh, they prayed for him, for his sacrifice to be worthy, for his pain to buy the information the Pasha wanted for the Empire, for the peace of the Kingdom. It was a holy thing they did.

The stake was then lifted, the man with it, and leaned against the tree, knotted to a low branch to hold it in place as the man writhed and screamed, then held very still, finding that the pain was perhaps less, then he slid further down the wood. Impaled like an animal, his screams became unintelligible, nothing could be understood, except that he begged for death, a great sin. The tormentors turned away, walked to the other slave and Josef. Stefan’s heart dropped like a stone.

Josef, the little boy, was crying, eyes shut against the world; they picked him up, arms still bound to his sides and before Stefan could even begin a useless run against them, they cried to the slave Do you want this little one’s sacrifice as well?

The man was making nonsense, his words were addled with tears and choking sounds. I will tell you, do not touch him, leave him, he was not with us, I do not know him.

Ah, now you make sense of all this, the warrior’s arm swept to the scene of torture, the staked slave alternating between high howls for mercy and senseless gibberish.

I will tell you, yes, we rode to Prince Djem, to the young Sultan, to tell him of his father’s death, to urge him to Istanbul for the Regency. But we did not reach him- you caught us before we reached him. It is the truth . . .

I believe you, slave. And with those words the Sipahi’s elegant sword flashed backward and took the head of Josef. It was a clean swipe and the youth’s head rolled to the ground beside him, blood spurting upward from his neck.

No! The slave screamed at them, undone, You said you would not, you said, and the sword point was now at his throat. He sobbed, he sobbed deeply, gurgling, eyes streaming. He did not beg for mercy, mercy was now a different song. Mercy was now death.

Stefan could not move. He was cold, frozen, for long moments the hands of the clock of time did not move, the world was still, the earth tilted beneath him, he was off balance. But the cold changed. It became warmth then a fire within him, it burned. There were no tears, no tears. He turned and set out to find Prince Djem.

There had been only one path before him and nine days later found him now at Konya. From the pass he could see Sultan Djem’s Summer Palace, the lake rippling with lights from the veranda lamps, the soft sounds of music drifting upward from its halls. He walked down the bank and across the bridge on the right, its ancient contours embracing him- he was breathless. The Pasha Karamani had given him ducats, many coins still remained in his pocket, he turned the horse he had purchased loose before crossing the pass, sending him back, hoping the Sipahis following him would not continue, would not catch up before he reached the Palace.

As he left the bridge and stepped onto the veranda, he was knocked to the ground and held firmly. He could see they were Janissaries, their breastplates and greaves were thick and burnished, their coats red, he could see this even from his vantage point, head held down on the stones of the floor. I have a message for the Prince from Pasha Karamani, tell him this, do not kill me, tell him!

The hangings drew aside and a figure emerged from inside the Palace, it was behind his head, but he could tell the feet were bare, and only a royal would be such in the Palace, a royal who circled around to his front, he could see a tanned lithe leg. And what is your message boy? What do you come to tell the Prince, I will decide if you may have audience with him.

It is from the Grand Vizier Karamani Pasha. It is for the Prince only I may tell him, . . . must tell him. My brother is dead, the slaves are dead, let me up. . .

The dam broke from the week before, great deep sobs arose from his chest, tears falling sideways down his face onto the veranda stones beneath, and he could feel the coolness of their moisture against the side of his face. He no longer spoke, could not speak, his heart was spilling onto the Palace floor, it had nowhere to go but onto cold tiles under the cobalt sky of night. The silence of the stars looked down upon them all.

Get him up, bring him in, this was the command of a ruler, and Stefan knew whose presence he was in. Khavesi, cheese, bread, and the slaves who had appeared left and returned with food. The Janissaries stayed.

Stefan ate, drank, sobbed, while the Prince watched. A woman came to him, her breasts were bare, she was very beautiful, he waved her away.

In two hours, he said, and turned to the youth.

And you, what message do you have for me?

Stefan stopped eating. He was grounding, he swallowed, remembering where he was, caring. A little. With respect he bowed from the cushion he was seated on.

My Sultan. I am sorry. Your father, Mehmed the Conqueror, Fatih, is dead. Stefan stopped. He could see Djem’s face change. Saw the stone replace the clay.

And the cause?

I do not know sir. His body was being returned to Topkapi Palace, I have not spoken with the Pasha since Nicomedia. I am so sorry my Lord. He paused.

Is there more to tell me? Djem asked. His eyes were veiled.

Pasha says to tell you to make haste to Istanbul. I believe he wants you to assume the Sultanate, that this was Fatih’s will. Stefan was now silent, he could not believe he was involved in such levels of words with such levels of people. This was not expected. Then the grief of all the world descended on him.

What is your brother’s name? Asked the Prince.

Josef, he had only just turned thirteen. Stefan sobbed.

I grieve for your brother, Josef . . . and for my brother Mustafa, and now for the death of our Sultan, my father Mehmed. Wash here and sleep. and with that the Prince rose and left the room. The night was silent. The image of Josef’s last moments would torment this youth for all his time.

Chapter 2

The Gathering

Part 1

Inegol

The following day was black. The thunderheads of spring in the Anatolian mountains rained great tears of sorrow onto the banks of the Yenisehir, into the swollen mountain streams, onto the meadows at the foothills rising gently above the Palace.

And into the hearts of the young man and the young boy who grieved. The suddenness was the deep cut, the pain was striking, the healing would take a lifetime if ever. As it happened, the Prince and the peasant were one in this and when the tones of the sunrise Adhan called them and they emerged from ablution, their eyes met. There was a silent current of sorrow between them; they went to the Palace Mosque together, knelt together, bowed before Allah the giver of all joy, all hurt, and prayed, lost for the moment in surcease of pain . . . for that moment. At the last prayer of the day, as the last hues of red faded from mother sky, they did not wait for the midnight Adhan, they began their recitation of the prescribed verses and then remained in mosque, continuing to pray, alternating favored thoughts, in particular 112 on oneness, for Allah . . . does not give birth, nor was He born, for there is nothing like Him. The brothers they had lost, the fathers they had lost, surrounded them; they felt the spirits of those who had gone on, they rose and fell in the room, circled them like rings of smoke, the comfort of the continuity sustained them, bound them. The two left before sunrise, they had fasted through the day and night. They put their sorrow behind them now on this morning of the third day. Now it was to war.

His brother had always wanted the throne, wanted the empire, but not for itself or for the glory of Allah. Bayezid coveted power, wealth, his greed was boundless, his envy troublesome for Djem, the younger brother, who had always had the bond with their father that his elder brother did not. Even without Karamani’s calling him forth to Istanbul, he had known his father’s wish. And he had known that they would to war over it, had always known this.

Stefan slept in another room now, near the Prince, in one of the few rooms to accommodate guests in the summer Palace. It was now the fourth week of Mayis in the valley of Lake Yenisehir; the meadows spilled with pink and yellow, verdant with the green smell of spring. The lake rippled turquoise under a weak spring sun. Djem lay back in his bed, withdrawing from the girl next to him and she moaned, languid, turning slightly toward him. She had become his favorite, pliant, bending easily to his will; she came to him nearly every night, stayed to braid his hair in the mornings. Her hair spilled easily over her shoulders, the round of her breasts held the cloth of her tunic outward, he would often desire her during the day, tugging the top down to expose her, lifting her skirting, taking her on the veranda, or falling down on top of her on the divan, tasting her, playing with her, joy was their wine. These days would end now; war between brothers, between regents, would swing the very tides of the oceans when the largest empire in the world took up the spear against itself.

The Prince called his council, a war council it would become, with his Janissary Amir, always with him, the two Pashas who had returned with him from Rhodes, Mesih having gone on to Istanbul, the Beylerbey of Konya, his Sipahi general of Anatolia, and warrior Turkmen from the tribes of Azab, Karamani, Warsak and Turgud. Also two men from the brotherhoods of Dervish and Ahi. These latter were men of peace, but their towns had been invaded, their peace taken, things were not as they always had been. These men all willingly came to their Sultan, he was not his father, nor his brother even. He was himself a warrior and sometimes poet, he did not need or use the strangle of control, he sought comradeship more than rule. Turkmen were freemen not slaves, not conquered, ever, in their hearts. On their own land the respect accorded was returned thricefold. The set face of rigid drive he showed in foreign land he did not show here among his own. They would fight beside him not for him, for their own villages, not his empire; it was this that bound him to the people of his lands.

They met in his chamber of receiving, where supplicants approached him on the green jade floor. The table against the wall of maps, his father’s maps he had brought with him, was ebony, soft with many polishings, an ancient piece from the Seljuk days which had gone before. There were no rugs here, the surface was barren, mellow underfoot with the soft deep glow of a giant carven jewel. Djem stood at north, his back to the light of morning from the veranda, the ten men stood around the great wood, Amir to his right, in green as was the Prince; a large leather map of Anatolia including Uskudar and Istanbul lay before them.

They bowed to their Prince, bending from the waist in deep appreciation of his station, he nodding back to them, knocking his Prince’s ring on the wood. They drew themselves up and were silent. Djem spoke.

My father is dead. They all bowed again, including Djem. We will pray at the noon prayer in the mosque for his soul in its trip to Paradise. Silence fell. Moments passed.

The young Sultan spoke again, his voice even, clear. My brother will have taken the throne by now; Karamani sent messengers to me, he knew my father’s will, they did not reach me in time. I see my brother’s hand in this, he will have enthroned himself I believe, by now. We are to war for the empire. We have Konya, we go next to Inegol and then to Bursa. These southern kingdoms are mine from Mustafa and my father.

He looked from man to man around the table. I will need four thousand with us, go back to your villages and garrisons, bring them here in two days, two days. Mayis 20. He nodded to them. They were honored at this, Princes did not accede to the honor of others, for this Prince they would fight. He took his leave, they waited, then spoke among themselves of the division of the warriors, the roads back they would take, the supplies they would commandeer. Then they left to their business and Amir went to Djem. As he always did.

In two days time the army Prince Djem had amassed crossed the summit of the pass above the lake and dropped down into the mountains edging Konya. The road turned to plains, the tall spring grasses waved, rippled like water across the horizon. They camped, Djem walked among the troops, clustered by tribe and corps of militia; he spoke all their languages, every one, and they loved this young Sultan who would sit with them in their camps, who would handle and weigh the heft of their weapons with his own hand, whose hair was bound back at his neck with no turban of royalty, and they gathered and spoke quietly to him, and he to them, and the binding wove between Djem and his men.

The plains softened into the dry red clay at the base of the Nelif Mountains, desert, sparsely treed, even more sparsely populated. The pass between the low mounts lay ahead and on 24 Mayis the assemblage reached the top and dropped down into the valley of Inegol through which ran the Temir River, spilling its bounty onto the farmlands which reached its gates. Djem’s Janissaries under Amir rode at the head, the Prince with his Anatolian Sipahi; all were fully girded with their war colors as were the local militia, and their villages and corps formed a train of color blocks as they descended from the pass and approached the gates of the city.

By the time the line of horsemen reached the town the gates had been shut. Guards in the cerulean blue of Inegol, city of tradesmen, gateway to great Bursa, shouted down their questions of why armsmen came to their doors. Djem rode to the fore, horseman moving aside, then closing ranks behind him. He was beside Amir who was unhappy at his Lord being at the fore. He spoke when none other would have dared.

My Sultan, allow immersion in your men, let me forge the way for your protection.

But it was as if he had not been heard. Djem spoke, Fatih is dead. The Conqueror has passed into Paradise a month past, and we come to claim lands for Prince Djem of Konya and Karaman, to claim Inegol and then Bursa, so that his seat may be secured in Istanbul. May we enter?

Now Inegol was composed mightily of men of the land, of farmers and herdsmen, traders and guilders, and even its High Council was composed of those who had labored and had risen at the agreement of their peers. They had no great love for the chains of subjugation, they knew of Konya and Djem. One appeared on the wall, the high turban of a Chieftain showing his import.

And where is this Prince of whom you speak? The air of spring became quiet, even the rustling of the horses seemed hushed as both warrior below and wall above awaited the answer.

After consideration and a low growled objection from Amir, the Prince rode forward. He was not in royal garb but rather that of the soldier, indistinguishable from the mixed clans which followed him.

I am Djem, sir and he nodded to the wall. And the gates of Inegol opened.

Part 2

Bursa

Leaving Inegol brought with the young Prince enlargement to his army, gathered from the town itself and the small villages nearby. Also their militia and irregulars, some with no uniforms and he had none to give them. They did not come under force, they came under will of their own. Their leaders had taken repast with Djem, he had slept in the home of the Chieftain, not the Castle to which he would have had right. They had been swept into his warrior’s face, the lance of war was his flag, was his call to arms.

Thus it was that they left Inegol, left four abreast on roads which accommodated two, over the windswept fields of grain surrounding the summited city, its white stone walls and watchtowers becoming distant as the growing siege train wound its way toward Bursa, ancient seat of power from Seljuk reign. The soft cool of morning air greeted the lines of warriors. Currents gently lifted their capes and the long bound hair of the Sipahi; saddles creaked and the metal of a thousand horses’ livery softly moved across the land.

The road rose slowly toward the mountains of Senegal, high and encrusted still with winter’s snow. The trees freshening with spring leaves gave way to the firs of high land, and the road wound narrow so that only two horses made their way side by side. The fallen cones and dry needle beds crunched underfoot. They camped by a small stream bringing the waters of snowmelt to the basin below. Before sun’s rise the next day they would descend the path to Bursa, citadel of the Ottoman, sons of Osman Ghazi. Both Orhan and Asman rested there, it was a custom among the Ottoman princes, and the citadel that was Bursa was sacred among the towns of the Empire.

Djem slept, as did all the men, the deep sleep of the road, but awakened at Aldebaran’s light; he was called to the summit by the path that lay before him and he walked, climbed alone through the silent snow, and stared down at the great walls of the ancient seat of the Empire’s power.

Bursa was a giant among cities, a rival even to Istanbul, at the crossroad of overland trade from east to west; even in the moonlight he could see caravans approaching her gates, winding slowly from the valley floor which stretched eastward along the streambed of the Mangali. The city thrived. The Osmanli empire did not, would not; she awaited a new regent.

He stood looking down at the City in the distance, far sounds of music, voices, drifted upward, an occasional call from a guard atop the entry bastions. This was his by right from Mustafa’s death, but was not his by rule, this he knew, for he had not been to the gates in a year, and then only to gather conscripts; the city would remember this. There were spots of snow, he wrapped his overcoat about him and sat on the ridge beside the path. This was a dream and he would awaken, and Mustafa, tan and golden with his laughing eyes would be beside him. Mehmed would bring javelins for practice, their wood burnished, their tips keen, and they would compete, these three, and perhaps with Omar and young Amir. In the high cold the deep night wrapped herself around him, he could not feel the way of this place, it was a stranger to him. The lamps glowed yellow in the streets, life went on, the trades went on, at night as well as day.

Thoughts drifted, had no direction. His army was not one, only in allegiance to him, not as fighting units; if his brother were here Mustafa would command, would know what to do; if his father were here he would challenge him for decision. That was the thrust of it what would Fatih do? He saw men running away, down the mountain paths, returning to the gates of the fortress, running through the night when they hit the road below; of course they had reconnoitered his approaching siege train, of course the city beyler would be aware, would have been warned, be prepared for his arrival. Moments later he left the high ridge and returned to his tent to sleep.

And indeed, Bursa was ready for them in the morning. The mountain road widened. Djem was at the lead with Amir and even from a distance they could see the huge metal wrapped gates were closed. Soldiers manned the bastions at the entrance and along the front of the fortress which enclosed the entire city. Its wall of stone had been built earlier than could be remembered, and ten men high it rose; it dwarfed the ox-carts and wagons left outside in a rush by citizens to be within before the giant doors clanged shut. The town was closed.

Djem and Amir, who refused to be away from his side, rode toward the huge entrance. The gates had not been closed, walling off the inhabitants completely, for fifty years. This city was a gateway, it hummed with transactions day and night, it had become wealthy, gold flowed through its doors, the fragrance of spice wafted into the streets, the rich brocades and cerulean blue china bisque of the east were the stuff of commerce. Yet Bursa did not know the flawed decadence that thick abundance can bring. Her people were wary, her militia fierce and respected. The ramparts behind the crenelated parapets of her walls was a stand of militia, members of the families within. The defense of this city was their existence, she was their mother and their lover, the core of their world.

The Gate Guard called down to Djem and Amir Who are you to come to Bursa with army? Answer now. Or die. At this, archers appeared on the walls, bows drawn.

Your Prince is here, guardsman, he comes with news of the empire.

We have the news, warrior. Prince Bayezid claims the Empire; he rules now from Istanbul.

What of Pasha Karamani? this from Amir.

The news is not good. He is dead. What is your business here? What of this siege train? And with that the Captain gestures outward, upward at the still descending line of troops gathering behind Djem, spreading out on the plain, arrayed by color of their towns and corps.

Djem and Amir were staid, did not move. Janissaries began to move up beside them; Djem raised his arm in abeyance and the sounds of movement stopped.

The Captain on the high wall saw the power of that simple gesture.

Who goes here, what is your name?

Amir raised his voice This is Sultan Djem Celibi Khan Sayd. Bow to your Prince, Bursa. We come here to confirm the Sultanate, to make ready the reclaim of Istanbul.

The Captain. You will not enter these gates. Sultan Bayezid is the Emperor of the Ottoman, and has claimed the sword of Osman, confirming his reign. Retreat or we shower with flame your presence before our city.

Amir turns toward Djem, Turn your horse, now . . . Lord. Turn! And Djem did turn his mount, as did all the Janissaries now stationed behind them, and rode to a bank west of the city so that the guards in the Bastions of Bursa saw them against the evening light at the sundown Adhan. The thousands amassed there praised Allah as one, the Janissaries under Amir gathered at the fore, and the red of their uniforms glowed scarlet in the evening light, and the guards on the wall, themselves Janissaries, took note.

The following sunrise after prayer, the Janissaries alone made advance on the wall, with Sipahis mounted behind and beside them. They ran at the walls, arrows rained down, their cries of challenge echoed in the clear air, shields raised, javelins deftly thrown. Not one of Amir’s Janissaries fell in the skirmish, but their javelins had found their mark, the screams from the parapets gave notice. The Sipahi arrows flew so thick the sky darkened, not one Bursan soldier dared raise their head above the wall, and the mongol warriors laughed into the morning, reveling at battle, black hair no longer loose, bound now by leathern thongs down waist length braids, flashing the yellow jackets of the high steppes of the eastern plains. For these two warrior clans, battle was their celebration of life, the Janissaries with the grim face of war machine, the Sipahi with laughter, fulfilling the legacy of their father’s father in the deep joy of battle.

While the advantage of position was to the Bursans, the victory was to the men of Prince Djem, for they fought not for him, but for the love of he whom they served. And they sang that night around the fires that dotted the plains after sunset of the enemy they had killed and great joy of battle, of the chance that death may enter the dance, and they would laugh at his entrance and wait for him as for the arms of a lover.

The following day there was a second foray, this by the militia and rebellious tribes of freemen who had resisted Mehmed even in captivity, their hearts had resisted, their souls would not belong to any man save themselves. They ran at the walls, shields of sheepskin held back the arrows but the javelins from the walls pierced the countrymen, they who were without the breastplates and iron shields of battle. The wounds drew cries of surprise, the slice higher than pain, for their invincibility was their strength. But the sway of the battle went to the men of the Konyan villages, for their battle was the song of freedom. The Sultan had conscripted from their children, and their loosing from the yoke of oppression spurred them. These men were rebellious, freemen of the back country whose independence chafed at the demands from the old Sultan and his eldest son who would push them even further into the chains of service.

Although they lost twenty-three, and more besides to wounds, the walls of Bursa were worse and more so knowing that this was not serious battle, for no cannon had been set in place. To at least parley, this they would do, and therefore the third morning the Captain of the Gate appeared alone on the high battlement.

From the wall he called toward the encampment spreading itself across his vision: Show us proof of this, that you are not here to siege us, this said at warriors who filled the plain before Bursa, spreading out to accommodate more horsemen winding down from the pass.

Djem and Amir mounted and rode toward the great entrance followed by a thousand Janissaries and as many again Sipahi. Silently they faced the towers and high walls of Bursa, waiting for the outcome. Out of reach of arrows, their number ranged back and around the city walls, content to wait for this Prince’s command, many units but one in allegiance. This was peculiar to the Gate Captain, that so many would unite, it was curious indeed.

Amir spoke, with decorum, to his brother Janissary who was the figure on the wall, this he now recognized.

He was joined this day by another figure, in a long tunic, void of armament and war regalia. He spoke something to the Captain. They talked for another moment. Then Open the Gates. Enter Prince Djem. And the gates of Bursa opened, the giant carven doors creaked on hinges long worn, and Djem and Amir rode in.

A retinue of officials, the Beylerbey in their lead, met them at the gate and they passed between the high stone towers of the Bastions from which the metal doors of the fortress were suspended. The Captain of the gate had descended from the rampart above; he was a Janissary of the first order of Anatolia and wore the Celibi green as a guard of the Sultanship there. He and Amir moved to the right of the young Sultan and the Bursan Beyler, a full battalion of the Janissary corps and twenty mounted Sipahi moved in behind them. The balance of the army remained camped outside on the western plains at the foot of the mountain. A full army within the gates of any city risked, of course, the forfeit of the government to the sheer might of the warrior, and thus as all rulers had learned, the strength of their militia must be encamped without the city walls. Thus the young Prince was invited to parley with the city state of Bursa left to him by his brother. It was fitting. Now his leadership would be tested indeed.

The four walked slowly down the streets of the ancient city, across granite squares embedded in the soil of ages past. The building they approached was of white stone, hewn into huge blocks, forming the steps they climbed and the walls which rose above them. Within, the high polish of marble flooring reflected the light of high latticed windows laced with colored glass in melted patterns of gold and green. Incense in high bowls filled the hall with deep scent, an old scent, memories of the east from which the Seljuk had arisen circled them in its soothing embrace. The Prince breathed its calm, this was an old place.

Your shoes my Lord, and all left their boots and slippers at the archway to a low room where tables had been laid for the travelers’ rest. Figs and dates, warm breads and sharp cheeses lay on porcelain which lay on trays which lay on wood which stood on carpets, thick and soft. Layers upon layers, and the Beylerbey and Djem settled themselves with their chief Janissaries standing in the doorway and the Prince’s armsmen outside. The two ate. The Prince was without his taster, this bespoke of a completeness of trust unheard of. Amir was uneasy, shifting from foot to foot, a scowl darkening his face, My Lord, . . . the Prince knew what he wanted, to partake before Djem, to wait the required hour, but the regent waved him to silence. There must be the signaled trust, for his brother was ahead of him in this, yet had not come here. There was a bond to be made here, and suspicion does not lace bonds, it loosens them.

The two ate, water with lemon was brought, turkokhavesi followed and there was a music softly played. The silence which fell between them was not light, it was the wall of a pact already made. His brother’s hand was over this place, the iron grip of the Ottoman cast a shadow, a pressure on Bursa; his messengers had brought news of the Sultanship in Istanbul and the reach was dark, threatening.

The Bursan leader spoke, Your brother has sent messengers to us from Istanbul, we know of your father’s death, of Karamani’s part in it, of Sultan Bayezid’s rise to Emperor. The Ottoman throne is passed on, my Prince.

I have heard these things, beyler.

What then does this army mean? This said, although the man well knew what an army lead by a rival prince meant. And what it meant to the subjects of a kingdom caught in the death struggle of brothers battling for an empire. It mattered not who won or lost, not to the common man, to the peasants of the land, for their blood would flow, their sons would die, their villages would burn until only one brother remained.

He continued, Fatih favored you my Prince, this I know. My Janissary believes this, I know this, we have knowledge of his leanings for warrior sons. But your brother has installed himself. This is not an easy matter. It is not for me to push against the power of the throne.

My Prince, when your brother Mustafa governed our region it was rumored that he would ascend to rule Fatih’s empire. With his death we knew an uncertain future awaited our lands. Only a year back we yielded ten thousand of our young men and tradesmen to your father’s attempt to take the Island of Rhodes from the Christian Knights. Many sons and fathers never returned to their families or worse, returned with grave injuries, unable to care for themselves or their families. It is a truth to me and the people of Bursa that as our regent, even in your youth, you were a ruler of the common people, fair, righteous to all.

Tell me my Lord, if the positions had been reversed and Bayezid had come to Bursa to conscript our troops against your Sultanate, how would you have dealt with us? For well we know that the risk of a failed challenge to Sultan Bayezid’s new rule will be certain death. Those who would raise arms against a reigning Sultan will pay with their lives and the lives of their families.

"In the same breath I tell you that Bursa and all of the provinces