Saturday, December 25, 1683
Ahmed
Belgrade
The messengers from the sultan arrived in Belgrade on a cold Christmas morning. Ahmed followed, just in case there was trouble, as the new aga of the janissaries led the men to the Grand Vizier’s quarters.
After the long retreat following the disaster at Vienna, the Christians had pursued. The Grand Vizier’s campaign had failed to take the Hapsburg capital, and now the Christians threatened all of Ottoman Hungary. Kara Mustafa Pasha had blamed the debacle on others, beheading or strangling some fifty agas, pashas, and officers. But Ahmed and those who had been a part of the campaign knew the truth: the failure could be blamed on one man alone.
It was to have been the campaign of a lifetime, something that would bring glory, honor, and riches to all who had joined in. Instead, Ahmed had lost most of his brother janissaries. They’d gained no plunder and certainly no glory. War left behind a bitter taste when it ended in defeat, death, and disappointment.
The Grand Vizier’s palace was stuffed with luxury. Thick rugs. Ornate tapestries. Exotic pets. The first time Ahmed had seen it, he’d prickled with resentment. But now he had a suspicion of what was to come, and satisfaction was the dominant emotion as he strode through the halls.
Kara Mustafa Pasha stiffened when the delegation arrived.
After the normal greetings, the messenger cleared his throat. “You are to hand over the decree of command, your seal of office, the key to the Kaaba, and the holy banner of the prophet.”
The Grand Vizier swallowed. A flash of defiance showed in his eyes, but a glimpse of the armed men who surrounded him made it disappear as quickly as it had come. Carefully, he walked to a trunk and removed a bundle of cloth. He unwrapped the silk covering to reveal the green banner it protected. The aga motioned Ahmed forward, and he took the sacred flag. The pasha handed over his decree, seal, and key as well and, with them, the tremendous power he’d been given by the sultan.
“Am I to die?” he asked.
The messenger motioned to two men, who unrolled a carpet. “Yes, it must be so.”
The pasha exhaled slowly as he glanced around the room, perhaps seeking allies. He found none. “As Allah pleases.”
An imam said a short prayer. Then Kara Mustafa Pasha knelt on the rug and pulled his thick beard to the side so the executioner could slip the silk bowstring around the former Grand Vizier’s neck.
He had once been among the most powerful men in the world. His obsession with taking Vienna had almost succeeded. Had the city fallen, the sultan would have lauded Kara Mustafa Pasha with praise. Instead, the pasha had squandered the best troops of the Ottoman Empire, and the only things he had to show for his efforts were defeat and a loss that would cripple the empire for a long time to come.
Once the pasha was dead, the executioner drew out a long, heavy blade. The sultan wanted proof that his orders had been carried out, so Kara Mustafa Pasha’s head would journey to Constantinople.
And Ahmed, what would he do? Would he too return to Constantinople? He’d once planned to serve this campaign, retire in glory, and woo Hadice. But he had earned no glory, no wealth. His friends were all dead. He’d done nothing to win the affections or respect of a well-to-do widow. Becoming a pensioner now would be lonely and bitter, every day a reminder of failure.
He glanced at the banner he cradled in his arms. His task was to defend Islam now that the Christians threatened the sultan’s lands in Hungary. They were far more formidable than he’d given them credit for. Truly, they were an adversary worthy of a last, desperate struggle. That would be his purpose—war until the end.