SERAGLIO

Topkapi Saraya, Stamboul 1535

When should I kill my sons? Suleiman wondered.

Do I have it in me to do it?

My father did, that was his legacy and his endowment to me. Should I be less of a father to Mustapha?

Yes, he is the
shahzade
, the chosen. But if he attains to the throne he will have to kill off all other aspirants if he is to sleep easy in his bed. Selim will not be a loss. But what of poor little Çehangir? The boy can hurt no one. He is crippled and his sweet nature will be no threat to anyone. Would you toss him to the chief high executioner to strangle?

And Hürrem, my sweet Hürrem; what will happen to her? Mustapha's mother will have her thrown in the Bosphorus the moment he takes the throne. Gülbehar nearly took off her face once in the Harem. They say that now she grows fat and lazy in Manisa and rails about my little
russelana
all the time and calls her a witch.

Not much mercy there.

So what shall I do? Shall I kill them or leave the problem to my oldest son after I am dead? How will Almighty God judge me for my cowardice?

And if I do kill them, when should I do it?

And what about their mother, the only woman I ever truly loved?

***

On the other side of the Bosphorus, Ludovici Gambetto sent his concubine scurrying from the room, preferring his own company tonight. He stood on the
terrazzo
and stared at Julia Gonzaga's window. There was no light on; he imagined she was asleep.

He remembered how he had pulled her from the water that morning three years ago. The first time he had touched her she was cold as marble. She had remained that way ever since; beautiful, cold and lifeless.

He had brought her back here to the
palazzo
, wrapped in blankets, hidden her from everyone. Soon afterwards she had fallen ill with a fever and he thought she would not survive. How cruel that would have been for Abbas, who had risked a terrible death to save her. But she had lived, though for months afterwards she barely spoke.

Ever since she had dressed and behaved as a widow, grieving for the Sultan's Chief Black Eunuch. In Venice, their encounters had been perhaps no more than an adventure; after learning what he had done for her, and how much he had lost in loving her, he suspected she had now fallen in love with him too.

Well, too late, for either of them. She has passed from one gilded prison to the next, he thought. Abbas's punishment for trying to steal her from her father was to be castrated by cutthroats at her father's hire and sold as a slave; his further punishment was to have her captured by corsairs and be her gaoler in Suleiman's pretty prison there on the other side of the Horn. And now here she was confined once more; untouched, unwed, but at least unharmed.

What was he to do with her? He had preserved her life here among the gardens and gilt rooms of his
palazzo
in the Venetian quarter. He supposed at first he had hoped she might grow to like him a little and take him into her confidence, but in all this time she had only ever treated him with the forbearing respect, as if he were a kindly gaoler. He even wondered if her experiences at the hands of the corsairs and the Turke had turned her mind.

Nothing I can do, he thought, for my best friend, trapped over the water in the Sultan's harem' or for this remote and enchanting woman. But I will somehow find a way to make this right, for all of us.

The Passage of Dust

The Eski Saraya,

A
gediçli
ushered her through the apartment. Güzül was impressed, despite herself. Hürrem now had her own garden with a marble fountain and an aviary with nightingales, canaries and some birds she had never seen before, large hook-nosed creatures with feathers of red, green and royal blue. It was whispered in the
bedesten
that she had even been presented with a bed from Amoy in China, made from ivory, and inlaid with sandalwood and large pieces of pink coral. It was supposed to have cost more than ninety thousand
scudi
, a fortune in itself.

Hürrem lay face down on a slab of marble, which was warmed from below by the palace boilers, while Muomi massaged her neck and shoulders. Her private
hammam
, Güzül noted, was as large as the Grand Vizier's audience chamber.

She executed a ceremonial
sala'am
on the floor, and waited on her knees for Hürrem to acknowledge her presence.

Hürrem blinked open one eye. 'Ah, Güzül.'

'Would my lady honour me so as to examine my poor wares?'

Hürrem assented with a slight movement of her head. Güzül bent down and unknotted the green silk handkerchief that she carried in her arms and spread the assortment of ribbons and lace trinkets in front of her, repositioning each one so that it might catch the morning sun to better advantage.

She still retains her slim body, Güzül noted. She looks like a cat, sleek and self satisfied. Her eyes were half closed in torpor. You would not think she has had five babies. By all accounts she had a wet nurse for all of them and lost all attachment to them after the cord was cut.

The moist strands of red-gold hair clung to her cheeks. It was as if the green eyes were watching her through stalks of dry grass, a predator lying in wait.

'So how is your mistress?' Hürrem asked her.

Güzül felt the blood drain from her face. 'Mistress, my Lady?'

'Rose of Spring.'

Güzül avoided the terrible green eyes. She rearranged the baubles on the carpet in front of her. 'My Lady is mistaken.'

'My lady is never mistaken,' Hürrem said, and yawned. 'You are Gülbehar's creature. You come to Stamboul to bring messages for her and spy on the Harem. These trinkets you sell are just a ruse, are they not?'

Güzül said nothing. She waited.

'Don't be afraid. All I want is a little information from you. This is the only merchandise that you have that I am interested in.'

Hürrem scratched the calf of one leg with the big toe of the other. She stretched and Güzül watched the muscles of her buttocks tense; they were still small and hard like a boy's. While Gülbehar grows fat and lazy on sweetmeats in Manisa, Hürrem starves herself and drinks from some secret fountain of eternal youth. Or perhaps it is the potions this Muomi makes for her.

'For instance, can you tell me who is my lady Gülbehar's friend in the court?'

Güzül knew she was trembling. It was impossible to stop it.

'Look at it this way. While it is true that you serve the woman who might one day become the mother of the next Sultan, that is tomorrow and you might not live that long. Tonight I shall be whispering to the Sultan in the quiet moments and if I choose, I might tell him that a certain gypsy peddler came to the Harem and called his favourite
kadin
a witch, to her face, and insulted her beyond all imagining.'

Güzül put out a hand to steady herself. 'My Lady?'

'The choice is yours. Think about it for a moment.'

Hürrem closed her eyes and surrendered to Muomi's attentions. Güzül felt faint. How long has this witch known about me? They said she could read minds.

'Ibrahim,' she murmured, as if by speaking his name in a whisper she could pretend she had not said it at all.

'Ah, the Chief Vizier,' Hürrem said. 'Who else could it be? But I wanted to hear it from your lips. He has never liked me. He is like a jealous lover, is that not so, Güzül?'

Güzül could not find her voice.

'You have a choice to make, old woman. You cannot serve two mistresses while you have only one life.'

'My Lady, I will do anything …'

'Don't make the bargain before you know what it is. Come now, you have been a hawker all your life, you should know better than that.'

'What would you have me do?'

'Over there, on the table, is a small stoppered bottle. There is a small amount of liquid inside it. I want you to put it in your robe and take it with you to Manisa. Then you must find a way to pour the contents into Mustapha's drink. Do you think you could do that, Güzül?'

Güzül groaned.

'A difficult choice, I understand. But before you rise from your knees, you will have made it. You or Mustapha. If it is you, I shall make sure your death is not swift. Three days hanging by a steel hook in the
bostanji-bashi's
yard should not be overlong. So, what is it to be?'

'It is impossible, my Lady, the food tasters sample everything …'

'Ah, I see. You are stalling now, thinking that the Chief Vizier will save you. It is true that he also has the Sultan's ear. But there are other parts of the Sultan that are more desirable to possess and whoever holds them leaves him open to the greater persuasion. Who would you gamble on, in your situation?'

'My Lady, please, anything else …'

'There is nothing else. What do you decide?'

She means it, Güzül thought. What am I to her? I have heard the Chief High Executioner can be very creative in his methods. They say three days in considered a quick death if he really puts his mind to it. 'I will do what I can, my Lady.'

'No, not quite good enough. You will do this for me or you will die. Do we understand each other?'

'But …'

'It is a simple bargain, Güzül. I shall not be there to hear your screams and I shall sleep soundly in my bed.'

Güzül watched as a string of saliva spilled from her mouth onto the carpet. God help me in my sorrow!

'Thank you for showing me your trinkets, but I am adequately provided for.'

Güzül gathered up her jewels with trembling fingers and wrapped them inside a large handkerchief, carefully knotting the corners. Then she went to the marble table and picked up the pretty blue and white Iznik bottle. She left the room a much older woman than she was when she entered.

Hürrem closed her eyes and groaned softly as Muomi worked her strong hands into her neck muscles. I will have to settle with the Grand Vizier very soon, she thought. He wants Suleiman for his own.

But he is mine. I will share him with no one.

***

The Divan was a long rectangular room, with low sofas round the walls. A wickerwork grilled window bulged from the end wall, hung with a curtain of black taffeta. It was known as 'the dangerous window' for this was the place the Sultan might come to listen secretly to the proceedings of the Divan.

It meant that when the pashas came to report to him at the end of the day, they could hold back nothing for they could not know whether he had listened at the window that day or not.

Today he watched as Ibrahim listened to an Armenian trader's long complaint of some minor usury against a Jewish merchant. He wondered at his Vizier's endless capacity for detail. Thank God for men like him, he thought.

How far we ghazis have come! My ancestors spent their lives on the great plains of Anatolia, carrying everything with them and sleeping in goat-hide tents. Now the sons of Osman live in palaces, pray in the great church of the Aya Sofia that the Christians built and where the Emperor Justinian had prayed. Now he, their greatest son, was rebuilding this great city that stood at the gateway of Europe and Asia. He dreamed of a marble city that would establish Muslim civilization for all of time.

It was the task that God had intended for him. But fifteen years now he had been Sultan and he was tired of destruction; tired of jihad, tired of the endless wars demanded by his generals and his soldiers, tired of seeing bodies piled like windrows in the moats of enemy forts.

Let his Vizier guard the Empire from now on. Instead of warring he would give his people a civilization that would last a thousand years. He would rebuild Stamboul to the glory of Islam, give the Turks laws that would guarantee them peace and order, and bring these restless nomads home.

That was where greatness lay.

Topkapi Saraya

To dine with Suleiman in his private apartments was a privilege that had been granted to no other man, but Ibrahim no longer anticipated the honour as he once did. Suleiman had become a tiresome companion, talking endlessly about the plans he had made with his builder, Sinan, for some new mosque. It seemed to him that his Sultan had forgotten that the lifeblood of the Empire was conquest. Why should he have to remind him of this? When a warrior forgot to saddle his horse and sharpen his sword, he became the prey and not the hunter.

After the
killerji-bashi
had removed the plates Ibrahim filled two crystal goblets with Cyprian wine and began to read aloud from the history of Alexander. He recited his march into Persia, the defeat of the Persian king Darius at Gaugamela, and the capture of Babylon.

Ibrahim paused in his reading and looked up at Suleiman. 'We must go to Babylon too, my Lord.'

Suleiman nodded. They had received news in the Divan just that day; the Persian Shah Tamasp had recaptured Babylon and killed or captured his entire garrison. As Defender of the Faith Suleiman could not ignore such a challenge to his authority.

Tamasp was a Shi'a, a heretic, who protected the rebel mullahs and allowed them to preach their ungodly doctrine in Mesopotamia and even into Armenia. They dared preach the infallibility of their own imams who in turn claimed a mystical interpretation of the Qu'ran. They offended him as no
Gaiour
ever could. After all, the only sin of a Christian was ignorance.

To have them now preaching their evil in the holy city of Baghdad was not to be borne.

'Why so solemn, my Lord?'

Suleiman sighed. 'Must we always be rushing to the gates, Ibrahim? We subdue one attack, there is the sound of trumpets from another wall.'

'It is the way of it for emperors and kings. It is what you were born for.' How is it that I understand it so much better than he does?

'There is more to Empire than fighting wars. I want to leave behind something that will endure after the dust of armies has vanished over the horizon.'

'There will always be armies, my Lord. Always.' And thank God for it. What was a man if he did not have a saddle under him and the smell of leather and dust in his nostrils? Suleiman was getting too soft, too fond of his Harem.

No, too fond of Hürrem.

'I am tired of it Ibrahim.'

'My Lord a man cannot be Sultan and live his life without conflict. He must subdue others or be subdued himself. It can never be otherwise.'

'Then we are no better than dogs in the street.'

'It was Mohammed who urged us to jihad, my Lord. When we go to the Lands of War we take the green banner of Islam with us.'

'Mohammed, Ibrahim? What do you care for Islam?'

'It is my religion, my Lord.'

'Religion is a convenience for you. You use it to justify what you love to do, which is go to war. Don't you think I know that, old friend?'

Yes all right, religion is for hypocrites and dusty old scholars, Ibrahim thought. But if you know this about me why do you entrust me with so much? 'I am a faithful soldier of Islam.'

'You are a good soldier and a loyal Vizier. That is enough for me. The rest is between you and God.'

'You mock me, my Lord.'

'You mock all of us.'

No, you're wrong. I don't mock you. You I love like a brother. You enrage me but those things that anger me about you are also what I love. I love you for your gentleness and I love you because you need me. I have laid my dreams at your feet and you have allowed me to live every one of them.

'In a few days we will ride together under the green banner once more. The cool wind will blow away all your misgivings.'

'No, Ibrahim, I did not wish to go to Vienna three years ago, and I was persuaded. Time proved me right in my estimations. For five months I watched our cannon sinking deeper into the mud under the walls of a fortress whose name even now I cannot remember. The Roman Emperor did not come to fight us as I said he would not. This time I will not be swayed. You will take my army to Persia alone.'

Ibrahim stared at the floor in stony silence.

'Is this such a terrible burden? Other men would weep at such an honour.'

'A Sultan's place is with his army.'

'Do not lecture me on my duty!' And then, more gently: 'Can you crush this Shah Tamasp and rid me of this meddlesome mosquito?'

'Of course.'

'Then do it, Ibrahim. From now on, you will be my guardian at the gate.'

'I wish that you would not do this.'

'I have decided.'

Ibrahim hesitated. It was time he was told; he had delayed the news long enough. 'My Lord there is a matter you should know of … a messenger came to me t
oda
y from Manisa. There has been an attempt on the life of your son, Mustapha.'

A sharp intake of breath. 'Who brought you this news?'

'It was one of Gülbehar's couriers, my Lord. There is no mistake.'

'What happened?'

'He sat down to dine with the captain of his personal bodyguard. The man drank some wine and fell ill abruptly. He died in agony an hour later.'

'And Mustapha?'

'He had not yet drunk from his cup, praise be to God.'

'Who did this?'

'There is no proof,' Ibrahim said.

'That means you know. Who was it, Ibrahim?'

He avoided Suleiman's eyes. Let us see if he is so blind that he cannot see what stares the rest of us in the face. Suleiman reached over and grabbed his wrist. Ibrahim winced, he had forgotten how strong he was. 'You are wrong,' Suleiman hissed.

'My Lord, who else could it be?'

'It is another of Gülbehar's fantasies! Bring me one shred of proof!'

'My Lord, you have given her too much power! How often do I see you now? We no longer hunt, we eat together like this but rarely, she occupies your every waking minute.'

'I see,' Suleiman said. 'So you are jealous.'

'I am afraid of what is happening to you. The Suleiman I knew would never let his army go to battle without him.'

'The Suleiman you knew was a boy who simply did what his father did. I am my own man now.'

Ibrahim knew he had already pushed too far, but he could not hold his tongue any longer. He heard the blood drumming in his ears. 'She wants Mustapha dead so one of her sons will be Sultan!'

Suleiman did not answer for a long time. When he did, his voice was devoid of emotion. 'You have been my friend a long time, Ibrahim. Do not make me hate you.'

'My Lord …'

' … Go now. I must think.'

Ibrahim rose to his feet and left the room. Damn her! Perhaps he had already left it too late. If Suleiman's mother, the Valide, was still alive, she would have known how to bring him back from the edge. But there were no more restraints on his character now.

***

The
Enderun
was the inner school of the palace, where the princes were groomed for lives of leadership along with the cream of the
devshirme
. Aside from the princes, whose blood had been diluted by generations of concubines, none of the other boys were Turks. The young Christian slaves who were brought there were taught that they no longer possessed any family, any country, or any future outside of the Sultan.

They learned the Qu'ran in Turkish, Arabic and Persian; they were trained in pike and lance throwing as well as music, embroidery and the care and training of falcons and dogs. They were taught good manners, leatherwork and weapon making as well as manicuring, haircutting and turban dressing.

Their lives were strictly regulated; they had a bath daily, and a manicure and pedicure every week. They were given a fresh handkerchief each day and a haircut once a month. Discipline was strict. The white eunuchs who were charged with their education looked for all the world to Selim like mummified old women.

Graduates of the
Enderun
learned not only how to become soldiers but were taught also all the principles of statecraft and courtly behaviour. For six years they would not leave the palace, undergoing a constant process of culling. The best would be inducted into the Palace system, as treasury clerks or masters of the wardrobe and might become pashas or governors in time. Others would become officers in the Spahis of the Porte, the Imperial Cavalry.

Only Selim and Bayezid and Çehangir attended the
Enderun
through hereditary right and not through merit, a distinction that was only painless for Bayezid, whose easygoing charm and proficiency on horseback had earned him the respect and affection of his tutors and classmates.

For Selim, every day was a nightmare. He longed for the day when power would disguise his shortcomings. His only consolation for life's disfavour was Çehangir. He was seven years younger, a hunchback and a cripple. If God had been cruel to Selim He had been entirely vicious to Çehangir.

His crippled brother had been sent to the
Enderun
when he was eight years old. For amusement Selim had taken to following him across the courtyard every morning, trailing one leg, shoulder hunched, head bowed, imitating his curious lopsided walk. It won him some grudging laughter from his classmates and finding a softer target was the best means of deflecting ridicule from himself. Besides, Çehangir never complained. How could he? He already knew he was an embarrassment.

One day Bayezid saw him doing it. He was aping Çehangir as he went across the yard, lapping up the laughter from his audience, when suddenly everyone went quiet. Someone tripped him up and he found himself lying on his back, his younger brother standing over him, fists clenched.

Bayezid cuffed him smartly across the face. 'That's our brother! What do you think you're doing?'

Selim scrambled to his feet, aware that every eye was on him. His cheeks burned with humiliation. He could not let his younger brother best him. He charged.

Bayezid stepped easily aside and tripped him again, throwing him headlong on the hard cobblestones. Selim yelled in pain. He thought he had broken his knee. He lay there sobbing.

'If I see you mocking our little brother again I'll break your head!' Bayezid hissed.

The other boys moved away, whispering and laughing, this time at him. After a while the pain eased and he sat up. He could barely straighten his leg and his elbow was bleeding. He wiped the bitter tears from his eyes.

The courtyard was empty now; only Çehangir remained., He shuffled over and offered Selim his hand. Selim ignored him and got to his feet by himself. He turned his back on him and limped away.

***

Mohammed Dürgün had heard what they called him: The Man Who Never Smiled.

Yet there was nothing remarkable, or even fearsome, about him. He looked like any one of the hundred clerks in the palace.

He did not look up as Mohammed entered. He stared at the document on the table in front of him.

'You are Muhammad Dürgün?'

'I am.'

'You are from Kirklareli?'

'Yes.'

'Your father served at Mohaçs and the siege of Buda-Pesth?'

'He did.' Mohammed hesitated, unsure what to do or say next. He hoped that what he had heard about this man was true or he had come all this way for nothing. 'He died last year, from the pestilence.'

'If so, then by law the lands return to the Sultan.' Rüstem Defterdar took a quill from the desk and made a notation on the parchment in front of him.

'Is there …' He paused not knowing how to say it. He rode two days to get here, just to try and save the lands Selim the Grim had given his father after the siege of Belgrade. 'Is there not some way?'

Rüstem paused. 'Your father's name was Hakim Dürgün?'

'Yes.'

'According to my records you are mistaken. He is not dead. It says here he still lives. He should return to the Treasury the equivalent of one asper per sheep per year. Do you have any questions?'

'No, Defterdar.'

'Then that is all.'

He left the Defterdar's office, stunned at the simplicity of what had just happened. The Fatih's laws strictly forbade any fiefdom passing from father to son. Yet in the few moments he had been with the Defterdar, he had become the owner of his father's land - for a price. His father had been taxed at one asper per two head of sheep. Rüstem had doubled the tax in order to mislay the record of his father's death. Mohammed knew where that extra money would go.

Still, it was worth it.

He only wished Rüstem had looked up. He would have liked to have seen the colour of his eyes.