Cybele's Secret (3 page)

“Water,” Father said, seeing me staring. “He’s making a delivery to one of the houses; most folk have a cistern near their gate. Fresh supplies come in daily.”

The noise was overpowering—folk calling out to advertise their wares, donkeys braying, cart wheels rumbling on the stones of the street—as if the place could barely contain its bustling human traffic. I had heard that more than three hundred thousand people lived in Istanbul, most of them Turkish. Here in the trading district of Galata, the faces I saw around me were more of a mixture. Turbans mingled with the looser headdresses of southern regions, merchants’ velvet hats went side by side with the skullcaps of Jews. The crowd was almost exclusively male.

“The Galata Tower,” Father said, pointing up the hill. “Built by the Genoese before the Ottoman conquest. This district was once an independent city-state. Those times are long past, but a good many of the fortifications remain. Business continued to flourish under the sultanate. Very sensibly, the Ottomans saw the advantages of a tolerant approach to successful foreign traders in the city and made an arrangement with the Genoese. Our han is along this way.”

The trading center where we were to stay was an imposing building shaped in an open rectangle of two stories, set around a courtyard with trees and fountains. The ground floor was bordered by a broad cloister with arches to the court. From here, doors opened to a series of chambers in which cargoes could be safely stored. Under the covered area’s shade, traders had goods set out for inspection: carpets and fine pottery and silks. Small clusters of buyers were conducting intense conversations. On the upper level, reached by steep stone steps, were living quarters and private rooms for business meetings, along with privies and washing facilities. By the time we reached our allocated apartment, my feet were hurting and my head was reeling as I tried to absorb everything.

It was a relief to see another woman; there had been so few out in the street that I had begun to feel uncomfortably conspicuous. Giacomo’s wife, Maria, came bustling along the upstairs gallery, introduced herself, and promised to bring us coffee. She showed us the amenities of our quarters, which were not luxurious. Most of the rooms, she explained, were designed for merchants traveling alone and consisted of a small bedchamber and a slightly larger meeting room. Ours had the added feature of a closet-sized extra space with its own tiny window set with red and blue glass. This little chamber was where I would be sleeping. I eyed it dubiously but thanked her in my best Greek. I would be getting a lot of practice in this language, which we would be using for most of our business negotiations in Istanbul.

“Well, Paula,” Father said when Giacomo and Maria were gone, “here we are. A loss, a challenge, but I suppose we can do it. I’ve asked Giacomo to put the word about that we’re looking for a guard. We’ll interview the applicants first thing tomorrow.”

“First thing” apparently meant before breakfast. I had been awake since dawn anyway, roused abruptly by the ringing voice of a muezzin chanting the morning call to prayer from a nearby minaret. A motley collection of men was waiting in the courtyard below our quarters. Father called them up to the gallery one by one, and I observed from just inside the doorway of our apartment, my veil over my head. Some of them spoke only Turkish. Some could not provide names of past employers. Some balked when it was explained that they would be protecting me rather than my father. One or two looked as if they wouldn’t have the strength to fight off a stray terrier.

Father and I had a good understanding. It needed no words for us to agree on a short list of three men, whom Father asked to wait in the courtyard. We sat out on the gallery, where a small mosaic-topped table and two chairs had been placed for us. In this Genoese quarter, it was recognized that not all visitors were used to the Turkish habit of sitting cross-legged on cushions.

From our vantage point, we could look down on the would-be bodyguards standing awkwardly around a small fountain.

“You choose, Paula,” Father said. “I’m happy with any of those three. They all speak adequate Greek as well as Turkish, and they’ve got plenty of brawn.”

“Are you sure you want me to make the decision, Father?”

“The fellow’s going to be spending more time in your company than mine.” His attention was caught by movement farther along the gallery. “Excuse me, I won’t be a moment. I must catch Giacomo before he goes out.” He got to his feet and headed off in the direction of the Genoese merchant’s living quarters, leaving me to mull over the bodyguard question on my own.

In fact, I had not liked any of the applicants much, although I could see they were suitable. The first had looked pugnacious. The second, spotting me, had used a moment when Father’s attention was elsewhere to give me a look I did not care for. There had been something in the third’s tone of voice that suggested he was confused as to my reasons for being in Istanbul at all, let alone needing a personal guard. I glanced down to give them another look over. Now there were four men waiting on the grass by the fountain: A newcomer had joined our short-listed three. I watched him question the others and be given what was clearly a negative. A brief, intense dispute ensued, then the new arrival headed up to our floor, taking the steep external steps in three easy bounds.

I looked along the gallery, but there was no sign of Father. The man was advancing toward me in big strides. He came to a halt four paces away from where I sat. I took a deep breath and looked up at him. A long way up. He stood head and shoulders over the others Father had interviewed and was, quite frankly, the most intimidating-looking young man I had seen in my life. His eyes were of an unusual yellowish green shade and had an intensity that suggested he was poised to attack. His face was broad, with well-defined cheekbones and a strong jaw, and his complexion was winter-pale. A jagged scar ran from the outer corner of his right eye down to his chin. His dark hair was thick and wayward; an attempt to discipline it into a plait had not been entirely successful. He was of athletic build, the shoulders broad, the arms bulging with muscle. He wore loose trousers under a long white shirt with an embroidered waistcoat over it. A broad sashlike belt held an assortment of knives, and there was a curved sword in a scabbard on his back. I waited for him to ask where my father was. I wished he would get on with it; I was developing a crick in the neck.

Abruptly, the large young man dropped to one knee, taking me by surprise. Now his eyes were closer to my level. “You are the merchant seeking a personal guard?” he asked in fluent Greek.

I grinned. I couldn’t help myself. If it had been up to me to interview further applicants, I would have hired this giant on the strength of that question alone.

“You laugh?” the large young man said.

“Not at you. My father is the merchant. I am his assistant.” I glanced over my shoulder. There was still no sign of Father, and the men down in the courtyard were starting to look restless. It was against the rules of social etiquette for me to conduct an interview alone with a young man, even if, as his behavior suggested, this one was not a Muslim. Should I ask him to go back down and wait, or make a start and save Father time and effort? I was here to help, after all, to prove my worth. I gathered my composure and arranged my features into a severely capable expression. “Your name?”

“I am called Stoyan,
kyria.”
He used the polite form of address for a lady. “A Bulgar.”

“My name is Paula. My father is Master Teodor of Bra
ov.” This was the name my father used in his official dealings; the merchant town of Bra
ov was his birthplace and mine. “We come from Transylvania. Is it too much to hope you speak Turkish as well?”

“My previous employer was the merchant Salem bin Afazi, kyria. My Turkish is not that of an educated man, but I speak and understand the language adequately. I am twenty years of age and in good health. I am very familiar with the city and well trained in the skills required for a bodyguard.”

Salem bin Afazi; that was an odd coincidence. I could hardly say what sprang first to my mind: that Stoyan did not seem to have done a very good job of guarding his last employer. I hesitated. Only twenty. He looked older. Stoyan remained kneeling in front of me, his eyes fixed on the floor of the gallery. He offered nothing further. I willed Father to return, but he remained invisible along the gallery. In the end, I decided to come right out with it. “Salem bin Afazi was a friend of my father’s,” I said. “We were shocked to hear of his death. What happened?”

Stoyan addressed himself to my feet. His voice had shrunk to a murmur. “He gave me three days’ leave. I traveled away from the city. When I returned, he was dead.”

This was uncomfortable. “Look at me,” I said.

Stoyan looked up. His eyes were desolate. “If I could have that time back, Kyria Paula, believe me, I would not move a finger’s breadth from my master’s side. I would defend him with the last breath in my body. But I cannot. I was not there. He died.”

“Why have you come?” I asked him, fighting back an urge to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder, then offer him the job immediately. I was supposed to be Father’s assistant; I must behave in keeping with that. “You must realize that what you’ve told me hardly inspires confidence in your abilities as a bodyguard. And we have other suitable applicants.”

Stoyan rose to his full, towering height. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Forgive me.” Before I had time to start framing a reply, he was at the bottom of the steps.

“Curse it,” I muttered as at last Father came along the gallery to join me in gazing down to the courtyard. At the rate this young man was able to travel, there would be no calling him back. “Why did I say that?”

As I spoke, the Bulgar paused for the briefest moment to glance back over his shoulder, straight up toward where I was leaning on the rail. The piercing yellow eyes met mine. Shouting would be unseemly. I framed one word with my lips, making it quite clear:
Wait.

I had thought Stoyan might march right on out the gate, but he moved to stand by the fountain, brawny arms folded. One look at him would be enough to scare off a small army of assailants; surely I’d be safe with him. I looked at Father, and he looked back with a question in his eyes.

“That one,” I said.

Father smiled. “He’s certainly the best-looking,” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have left the choice to you, Paula.”

“Don’t be silly, Father.” There was no doubt it was true; Stoyan was a very fine specimen of manhood. Not that I had any interest at all in that as long as he was fit to guard me. “Such a thing never entered my head.”

Stoyan was a man of few words. On hearing that he had been hired for the duration of our stay in Istanbul, subject to satisfactory performance, he went off briefly and returned with a small bundle of possessions, announcing that he would sleep across the doorway of our quarters, on a blanket. Neither Father nor I raised any objection. There was, in fact, nowhere else for him to go. The apartment was sparsely furnished, with a bed and a chest in Father’s chamber, a pallet and a smaller storage box in mine, and a low table and cushions in the central chamber, which also had a narrow hearth capped with a chimneypiece like a pointed hood. There was no spare bed, and, as Stoyan explained concisely, it was best that he stay close at night. I had not considered there might be any risk here in the han, which had a pair of regular guards on the gate and was used only for trading, but he looked so grim and serious that I said nothing at all.

We were both a little in awe of the way the young Bulgar immediately took efficient control of our personal arrangements. I was soon convinced that Stoyan’s passionate words about his previous employer had been true, for he carried out every aspect of his duties with dedicated efficiency. I wondered what his own story was. It did not seem likely he would ever tell it. He spoke only when he had to as part of his duties. His idea of what those duties entailed proved to be far wider than ours had been.

There were vendors of food and drink close by the han, and Stoyan made arrangements to collect our meals regularly. Within our courtyard, an enterprising man had set up a tea and coffee business, evidently realizing a constant supply of these beverages was essential to the smooth conduct of trade negotiations. We purchased a hanging brass tray and a set of glasses. We had not intended using our bodyguard to fetch and carry, but we learned quickly that there were many things Stoyan did without being asked.

I was an early riser but not as early as he was. Every morning when I emerged from my closet, he had already fetched warm water for washing and hung a curtain across the main doorway. He stood watch outside while I performed my ablutions. By the time I was clean and dressed, my hair neatly plaited and the veil loosely around my neck, ready to be slipped on as required, Father would be stirring. Stoyan would take away the buckets and bring me back a little pot of coffee. I would sit out on the gallery to drink it while Stoyan escorted Father to the nearby
hamam,
the public bathhouse. He had made an arrangement with the gate guard to keep an eye on me in their absence. This was unnecessary, for I was perfectly capable of looking after myself for an hour or so. My life in Transylvania had not been that of a sheltered young girl, even though our home was isolated and quiet. But I found that I was quite enjoying being looked after. This reaction shamed me. It seemed unworthy of an independent woman.

The accommodation was full to bursting—I wondered what influence Giacomo had brought to bear to secure our apartment for us at such short notice—and the day’s trading saw many visitors come and go. At one end of the building was a place for horses and camels, which added another rich set of smells to the mix. The courtyard was accessed from the street outside through an arched way with double gates. The gate guards, one for day and one for night, were each armed with a serious-looking curved sword. Nobody was admitted without appropriate credentials of one kind or another.

Introducing a young female as his official assistant must have been awkward for Father, despite the fact that I was his daughter, but he took a pragmatic approach. When folk came upstairs to speak with him, they would find me seated cross-legged on the floor in a corner, my skirt modestly arranged, my veil in place, a quill, ink, and a bound notebook on the low table before me. Father would explain my role briefly. I would offer a nod and a smile, then apply myself to taking notes.

“Even in the more liberal Genoese or Venetian circles, it’s unusual for a young woman to take such responsibility,” he told me. “On the other hand, they like novelty, and they do want to do business with me. If any of them decides to take issue with the situation, I expect his opinion will come back to us via the tea shops or the hamam. If that occurs, we may need to revise our strategy.”

Several days passed. I recorded business conversations and kept a ledger of sales. I did not mention that I was itching to get out of the trading center and see something of the city. The weather was perfect for walking, the spring far warmer than ours at home. The sudden, drenching showers that came from time to time were soon over, leaving the air fresh and damp. Each day I grew more weary of figures and more desperate to be let out. Stoyan knew his way around; I was sure he could take me to look at the riverside parks and the great church of Aya Sofia, which was now a mosque surrounded by tall minarets, and the Sultan’s walled palace down by the Bosphorus…. Perhaps not. To reach those places would require crossing the Golden Horn by boat. But at least he could walk up with me to the Galata Tower. From there, I could get a good view of the city. Or we could go to the docks, or the fish market, or just about anywhere as long as it was not within these walls. Despite my fondness for books and scholarship, I was used to regular exercise. I wondered if I should remind Father about Irene of Volos and her library. He had been too busy since our arrival to do anything but attend to commercial matters. Perhaps if I could get outside the trading center, I might see the woman in black once again. I might hear that voice, the one that sounded like my lost sister’s.

While the men were at the bathhouse or otherwise occupied, I got into the habit of walking around the han with my ears open for useful information. Gossip around the tea stall one morning told me the Portuguese, Duarte da Costa Aguiar, had been making inquiries about antiquities and had visited a certain Armenian twice since the
Esperança
had docked in the Golden Horn. Thus far, Father’s covert inquiries about the rare item we were seeking had proven fruitless. The death of Salem bin Afazi had set the trading community on edge, and folk were reluctant to talk.

We sat over a tray of tea, indoors this time, Father and I on the cushions, Stoyan standing by the door with a tiny ruby-red glass in his big hands. I was feeling quite awkward, for I wanted to pass on this information quickly, but with Stoyan present, I hesitated.

“Father?”

“Yes, Paula?”

I glanced at Stoyan, trying not to be too obvious about it. “I heard something just now that could be useful,” I said. “It relates to our business here. Our principal business, I mean.”

“Stoyan, could you leave us for a little?” Father’s tone was courteous.

Stoyan hesitated, then added, “I will wait on the gallery, if you wish. I should tell you, however, that I know already what business has brought you here. I worked for Salem for some time. I was fully in his confidence—necessary, in view of the risks he took in his line of work. He spoke of you and of how he had sent you word that this item was coming to the city. I must tell you also that I believe Salem lost his life because of his involvement with the trading of this particular artifact. If I am to keep Kyria Paula safe, it may be better if you allow me to be present when you speak of your plans.”

We stared at him. I felt a trickle of unease go down my spine. This was the longest speech I’d ever heard Stoyan make, and he sounded as if he knew what he was talking about.

“Why didn’t you tell us all this right at the start?” I asked him. “When you first spoke to me? Didn’t you realize this would have been very useful information for us?”

Stoyan looked down at his hands, still holding the little glass. He was avoiding my eye. “This matter is not only confidential, it is fraught with risk,” he said. “To pursue this artifact is to step amongst dangerous men, powerful men who will stop at nothing to achieve their ends. It seemed too soon to tell you what I knew.”

“You veil your true meaning, Stoyan,” Father said. “But I understand you. You waited until you were convinced we were trustworthy.”

“I intended no insult, Master Teodor. Salem bin Afazi had a high regard for you. He spoke of your integrity. But experience has made me cautious. It is a matter of profound regret to me that I let that caution slip at the time of Salem’s death. I made a grievous error.”

“I find it hard to believe that my old friend was killed over this artifact,” said Father. “Salem made it clear in his note to me that he did not intend to bid for the piece himself.”

“It is complicated, Master Teodor. Even if I had proof, there are reasons why I could not make my suspicions public. And there is no proof, only my instincts.”

“I hope you will tell us more in time, Stoyan. Meanwhile, please stay and let us hear what Paula has heard.”

I passed on my information as accurately as I could: the Armenian merchant, whose name had been mentioned in the message Salem bin Afazi had sent Father; the fact that the Portuguese had visited him twice, asking about antiquities. “I heard the man say something about a blue house,” I said. “The Armenian was staying there. Near the Arab Mosque, I think that was what he said. It’s up a lot of steps and apparently very hard to find.”

“Interesting.” Father set his glass down on the tray. “Your sharp ears have served us well, Paula. This is the first indication we’ve had that the item we seek is already here in Istanbul, and the seller with it. However, we cannot march over to this blue house and knock on the front door. We’d best send a discreet message. If we can locate the place.” He glanced at Stoyan.

“It sounds as if the pirate was prepared to knock on the door, Father,” I pointed out. “As a result, he has the advantage right now.”

“And has therefore put himself in the path of danger, where we, thus far, have avoided it. Stoyan, is it possible someone believed my old friend Salem was actually in possession of the item we are discussing? That he was done to death in a bungled attempt at robbery?”

“I cannot say,” Stoyan said. I could see on his face that the subject was raw and painful for him, even though he had raised it himself earlier. “The house of Salem bin Afazi is in the same quarter of the city as the mosque Kyria Paula mentioned, and he was close to home when…when it happened.” His voice fell to a murmur. “This artifact…a myriad of tales surrounds it, tales certain parties find deeply unsettling. For some time there have been rumors….” Hefell silent, clearly uncomfortable under two sets of shrewdly assessing eyes.

“Go on,” Father said.

“I accompanied Salem on many missions and into many houses and places of trade. I am not a man of learning, but I have learned how to listen. This piece, Cybele’s Gift, has a long history. For some time now, since before we heard it had been found and would be offered for sale, there have been stories circulating in the city. Stories that have made the imams uneasy.”

“I have wondered why Salem did not want to deal with Cybele’s Gift himself,” Father said. Now that Stoyan had said its name, there seemed no reason to hold it back, but he, too, spoke quietly. In a trading center such as this, there were ears everywhere. “It was exceptionally generous of him to allow me the opportunity to bid for it. There must be many collectors in Istanbul and the regions nearby who would pay handsomely for such an artifact. Salem could have made a big profit.”

Stoyan seemed about to speak, then thought better of it.

“What is it, Stoyan?” I asked him.

The strange eyes lifted to meet mine. “He would not have done so, kyria. Salem was a Muslim. He made his devotions daily; he lived his life in accordance with the principles of his faith. As a trader, he took risks. One such risk was to alert your father to the probable arrival of this rare piece in the city. To handle it himself would have been…ill advised.”

I was missing something. “I don’t understand,” I said.

“You mentioned the imams.” Father was several steps ahead of me. “Are you saying the Islamic religious leaders didn’t approve of the sale? Why should it trouble them? Cybele’s Gift may be a pagan artifact, but it’s extremely old. The cult it related to died out hundreds of years ago. Of course, there is a great deal of superstition attached to it, but…”

“There was a story.” Stoyan seemed reluctant to say more, but in the face of our expectant silence, he went on. “A rumor. That somehow the cult of Cybele had been revived, here in Istanbul. An ancient ritual, idolatrous, shocking, and violent. The idea sparked outrage amongst those in positions of influence at the mosques. Salem never found out if it was true.”

“But if it was,” I said, thinking out loud, “that would give other people reasons for wanting the piece, apart from pursuing it for profit or because it’s supposed to confer good fortune.”

“If there were such a cult, possession of Cybele’s Gift would strengthen it,” said Father. “A pagan revival of that kind must be seen as a threat by Islamic leaders. That’s if the story is true.”

“What do you know about Cybele’s Gift, Stoyan?” I asked him. “What did Salem tell you about it?”

“That it holds the last words of an ancient goddess. This Cybele, it is said her feet were like the roots of the deepest tree and her hair a nesting place for birds and insects of a thousand kinds. To touch this piece would be to touch the power of the earth itself.”