33
BATTALION
They camped in a lightly-forested plain at a midpoint between the Throat-Cutter and the Bosporus, Constantinople drawing all eyes like a beacon. Enough timber to be cleared and used as firewood, and enough grass for the horses. An ideal location.
Night had fallen by the time the royal tent was habitable, and Val sank gratefully into a chair with a cup of mixed wine and blood.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mehmet told him, accepting his own cup, and perching on the chair opposite. Slaves still bustled about, dressing the bed, and unfolding nightshirts, but the table was set up, and Mehmet reached immediately for a rolled parchment.
“Why ever not?” Val asked on a sigh. His first sip hit his tongue too richly, and he suppressed a grimace.
“We need to talk of your battalion.”
Val choked and set his cup down. “Mywhat?”
“Battalion.” Mehmet unrolled the parchment and weighted it at either end with their heavy gold cups. On it, a scribe had drawn a diagram of army companies, names labeled in an elegant hand. “Here. These are your men. I’m giving you a company of janissaries, and the rest are shock troops. You’ll be behind one of the gun crews, on the land wall side, and you’ll be intercepting whatever Roman forces come out to attack the guns. We’ll undoubtedly lose some of Orban’s big ones to explosion, but they can’t risk a true shot. You will–”
“Mehmet.” Val had been trying to catch his attention for the entirety of his explanation, growing frantic. When the sultan lifted his head, Val said, “Why in heaven’s name are you putting me in charge of an entire battalion?”
Mehmet blinked at him a moment, surprised by the question. Then he grinned. “It’s high time you earned your keep, Radu. You’re a knight, with all the training and education of a proper prince. Everyone here” – a sweeping gesture seemed to indicate the entire camp – “is well-acquainted with you. How could I ask them to fight while you sit in total comfort inside a tent? You’re a prince, yes, as I said, and you should act the part. You will lead a battalion for me. I think you’ll do quite well with it.”
It was Val’s turn to blink, blank-faced a moment, before that grin made sense. “Oh,” he said, unpleasant prickling sensation crawling across his skin. When he swallowed, he felt his silver collar press at his throat. “I see.”
Mehmet’s smile froze; doubt touched his eyes. “You do?”
“Yes. You think if I lead troops into battle, I won’t look quite so much like your favorite concubine.”
The sultan’s expression hardened. “That isn’t what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.” Val reached for his cup, and drained it off, though his stomach rolled at first. The parchment rolled, too, satisfyingly; it snapped up with a crisp sound, hiding the battalion from view. “Your men are loyal, but they do talk, you know. You can have as many wives as you want, but everyone knows who shares your bed every night. What better way to make me look more like a man, and a valuable one at that, than to put a sword in my hand and throw me at your enemy.”
Mehmet stared at him a moment, uncharacteristically closed-off and hard to read, then eased back in his chair. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “they do talk. It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid. But I am their sultan, and they obey me. You, on the other hand.” He pointed at Val. “You are foreign, and golden, and my favorite besides, yes. Do you think their talking bothers me? Or does it bother you?”
Again, Val was struck by the sense of being wrong-footed. He was too tired, he guessed, from the day’s long march.
“I don’t care what they think,” he said, aiming for haughty, offering a little wave for emphasis. “They aren’tmypeople, after all.”
“No? And who are your people?”
Val found he couldn’t look at his face, that satisfied upward tick at the corners of his mouth, so he didn’t; let his gaze land somewhere along the canvas wall of the tent. He shrugged. “Who could know? I’ve been nothing but a bedwarmer my entire life.”
“And a talented one at that,” Mehmet agreed easily. Sometimes he was led to provocation with the slightest comment, and sometimes, like now, he was maddeningly calm. “But, as I’ve said, you’re also a knight, and a scholar trained in the art of ruling.”
“Which I will never do.”
“I have to putsomeoneon your brother’s throne after I kill him. It might as well be an actual Wallachian prince.”
Val looked back to him, unbidden, and felt his lips part. Shock pushed the breath out of him. “What?”
Mehmet lifted his cup. “What exactly did you think I intended to do with you?”
A dozen possibilities came to mind, none of them worth speaking aloud.
“Vlad was supposed to go and be a good little vassal,” Mehmet said, finally, rolling his eyes. “But, as usual, he fucked everything up. That leaves you, my golden one. You’re intelligent, crafty, loyal, and beautiful enough to make anyone fall in love with you. You’ll do far better than your brother could ever hope to. So, yes, you will rule someday. You will rulefor me.” The last he stressed heavily. “So it’s time you gained a reputation for something besides lolling about and eating fruit lasciviously, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Val said faintly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Besides,” Mehmet added, winking,“I shall so enjoy throwing a Western prince at the walls of Constantinople.”
