SERAGLIO (2 page)

A path of coloured pebbles wound through the dappled shadows under the black cypress trees to a six-sided kiosk behind the Gate of Felicity. It dominated the selamlik gardens. The marble dazzled the eyes; even the windows were fretted with gold. The walls were inlaid with a faience of feathery leaves inhabited by fearsome
chillins
, their eyes set with rubies and majolica stones. The floor had been so carefully crafted by Suleiman's artisans that it appeared to be made from a single piece of rock crystal, instead of thousands.

A garland of honeysuckle dripped from the trellis. It was a paradise within a paradise.

Suleiman rested on a gold-embroidered mattress watching the sunlight dance from the damascened lantern hanging from the cupola above him. Hürrem lay beside him. He should have been at ease here but all he could think about was the news from Baghdad. Duty, he heard his mother whisper. Duty.

But where was his duty? To his
Yeniçeris
or to his people? Going to war was like feeding raw meat to the dogs. Could his duty not rather be in laying the foundations for the future?

From the moment he had settled on the throne all eyes had turned to Mustapha to judge if he was capable of the succession. From the very moment of making you Sultan they are preparing you for death.

Hürrem reached up and stroked his cheek. 'You are frowning again. What are you thinking about?'

'About Mustapha.'

The smile flickered, like wind brushing a flame. 'What is wrong, my lord?'

'I have distressing news. Someone tried to poison my son.'

She stared back at him, eyes wide and candid. 'He is all right?'

'Praise be to God, yes.'

'Who did this?'

'We don't know.' He watched her, looking for some clue. 'Ibrahim accuses you.'

'Of course he does. He thinks all the evil in the world comes through me.'

'He thinks you want one of your sons to be Sultan.'

'Well of course I do! Do you think Gülbehar will be gentle with me when Mustapha sits on the throne? Do you think I want all my boys throttled and end up there in the Horn, tied in a sack? I pray every day that God will be merciful and spare us. But Ibrahim flatters me if he thinks that I have the power, here in your Harem, to harm a great prince five days ride from Stamboul. And for all that I fear Mustapha, I could not harm him. He is your son and I could not cause you such pain. I would rather die first.'

Suleiman said nothing.

Hürrem snatched the ceremonial dagger from the scabbard at his waist. She held it against the soft flesh of her wrist. The rubies studded in the handle glittered in the yellow afternoon sun.

'If you believe it of me, tell me to open my veins and I will do it. I would rather die than have you suspect it me of such a crime. If there is even a grain of doubt, say the word and I will save your
bostanji
from blunting his sword.'

Suleiman hesitated. He wanted to believe, with every fibre of his being he wanted to ...

Hürrem slashed downwards and blood spurted onto the pure white of her chemise and down her arm. Suleiman wrenched the dagger from her hand before she could cut herself again. 'Hürrem!'

'No, I don't want to live anymore! Let me do it!'

He ripped the rich brocade of his own pelisse to bind the wound. Hürrem struggled in his arm, crying hysterically. He held her tight, rocking her in his arms, startled by what she had done. She would have bled to death if I had not stopped her! I wish Ibrahim had been here to see this. His pages ran to assist him and he carried her, still weeping and bleeding, back to the palace.

***

By the flickering light of the candle Muomi carefully unwound the brocade around Hürrem's wrist and examined the wound. Hürrem watched her, her face shining with sweat.

'Is it bad?'

'The blade missed the main vein, my lady. If you had cut there, it would have been much worse.' She redressed the wound with a poultice of herbs and put on a fresh linen bandage. 'You must have cut very carefully.'

Hürrem smiled weakly. I think I got carried away in the moment,' she said. 'But it was the only thing I could think of to do to convince him,'

Hürrem smiled as the Kislar Aghasi - the Chief Black Eunuch - was ushered into her presence. Abbas knew that could be a good thing or a bad thing. The fact that she was laughing might mean anything. He imagined she would be in excellent spirits the day she ordered his execution.

Since the death of Hafise Sultan, Suleiman's mother, Hürrem had assumed the position of Valide. It meant that he was now her chief servant, and subject to her caprices. It was an impossible position. She had the ear of the Sultan while he was captain of three hundred increasingly restive
oda
lisques, a harem in name only. Girls complained to him on a daily basis that they had cobwebs growing between their legs.

He executed the three ceremonial
sala'am
s that were required and allowed two pages to help him back to his feet. Hürrem watched this performance with amusement.

'My Abbas,' she murmured.

'Your servant, Veil of Crowned Heads.'

Hürrem dismissed the pages with an almost imperceptible nod of the head. The fountains that bubbled from the golden spigots on the walls would disguise their conversation from eavesdroppers. Abbas experienced a shiver of dread. He never enjoyed Hürrem's secrets.

'You're trembling. Is something the matter?'

'I am simply overcome in the presence of your beauty.'

Hürrem threw back her head and laughed aloud. 'Abbas, you are pathetic.'

What is the point of being otherwise, he thought, since I am no longer a man and for some reason I do not wish to die.

'You suspect that the palace executioner is standing behind you with his cord.'

Abbas felt sweat erupt on his face. He did not dare turn around and look for himself but now he could not get the thought out of his mind. It was just like this witch to do something like that.

'Poor Abbas. There is no
bostanji
. Look for yourself.'

He stared at her.

'I mean it. Go on, look.'

He did as he was told. The chamber was empty. Relieved he turned around to face her again, smiling, hating her with such intensity that he felt his teeth ache. She is killing me, this woman. She wishes me never to have peace again.

'The information you gave me about Güzül was true. I compliment you.' She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. 'As the Lord of Life seems to have little use for his Harem, you are largely redundant, are you not, Abbas?'

'As My Lady says.' What was this leading up to?

'Since the death of Hafise Sultan, may God bless her and keep her in Paradise, your main function has been heading my household, Our fortunes seem to be interwoven.'

'I am much blessed.'

'Yes you are. But am I blessed with an obedient servant?'

'Veil of Crowned Heads, I live to serve you.'

'Perhaps.'

Abbas felt dread settle in his chest like cold lead.

'Do you remember Julia Gonzaga?'

Abbas swayed slightly on his feet. 'One of the Harem girls perhaps?'

Hürrem laughed again.

'Ah, I remember now. She did not please the Lord of Life. She sleeps in the Bosphorus.'

'She sleeps in Pera, with the
Gaiour
s.'

Oh well, that's it, she knows. It was as if something had snapped inside him. All the tension went out of him. If she knows, she knows. I am at her mercy now, damn her.

'Why did you do it, Abbas?'

You think I would tell you the truth, and allow you to mock the only thing of dignity I still cling to? 'She paid me.'

'You defied the Sultan for money?'

'Wouldn't you?'

Hürrem clapped her hands, delighted with this answer. 'Ah I like it so much better when you are honest with me and do not pretend to be servile. You are a snake pretending to be a sheep. I like it when you show your fangs.'

'Am I to die?'

'Do you want to die, Abbas?'

'A part of me wants to die.'

'I would not try to stop you. But you know the punishment for disobeying the Sultan in this way. They hang you on a sharpened spike and leave you to turn black in the sun. I am still not sure where they insert the hook but they tell me the effect is not pleasant. They say it can take three days to die, sometimes longer.'

'Please, my Lady.'

'I do not expect you to beg, Abbas. You know that is not my way.'

'What is it you want?'

'Your obedience. That is all. Your obedience until the day I die.'

Abbas stared at the rug at his feet. 'I am already a slave. It does not matter to me who the master is.'

'Then you will find me someone who can bring me Ibrahim's head?'

The very notion took his breath away. 'Ibrahim?'

'You think escaping the Sultan's bright shiny hook is worth nothing? I will not trade your three days of mortal agony lightly, my Abbas.'

Oh I would like to take a whip to you, little
ziadi
, little witch, and whip you till you lie begging at my feet.

But that is never going to happen. Until then I must make the best I can of my life. 'I will help you,' he said.

***

Abbas sat on the sleeping mattress he had unrolled from its niche in the wall, a white cat curled on his lap. He believed, as Mohammad had, that cats had souls like men and he spoke to it as he would another man.

'What can I do, little
Ziadi
? She has held a mirror up to my face and I have looked into it and I see nothing there. Once I thought I had courage. But it one kind of courage to risk death, quite another to embrace it, even after all I have suffered in this life.'

The cat purred and the big green eyes blinked slowly in the darkness.

'If she wishes to destroy Ibrahim, then I will help her. What does it matter to me now? I will give the Laughing One her perfect foil; the Man Who Never Smiles.'

They lay on the divan, in the candlelight, the crescent moon framed by the pen window.

'Stay here forever,' Hürrem whispered.

'He smiled. 'And what would happen to the Osmanlis if I did?'

'The Empire would crumble into dust. I don't care.'

'Sometimes…' He left the sentence unfinished. 'There have never been enough hours, Hürrem.'

'Will there be another war drum and another campaign this year?'

'The Shah of Persia has become impudent. It is time to swat the mosquito.'

Hürrem frowned, petulant as a little girl. He picked up her hand and studied the linen bandage around her wrist.

'Will you go with them?'

'All the way to Persia for one troublesome insect? I shall leave that to Ibrahim.'

Hürrem put her arms around his neck. 'You really mean it this time? What about the Roman Emperor, Charles?'

'The Pope has called for an alliance against us. He wants Naples and Venice to join with him to secure the Mediterranean. Ibrahim is delighted, of course. He would fight all year long if he could.'

'So we will fight two wars this summer?'

'No, it will be years before they agree on who will lead their crusade and when, if at all. Ibrahim says the Christians could not agree on which direction the sun comes up. They will have to wait for another time.'

'He is sure of that?'

'No one is always sure what a
Gaiour
might do next. Five years ago Charles sacked Rome, and they call him the Roman Emperor. Such men have no honour. Who can tell what they will do? But I trust Ibrahim's judgment.'

'My Lord, forgive my impudence but last night I had a dream. I dreamed you treated with the King of Naples and the Doge of Venice for peace. You offered them sanctions and a treaty in return for securing the ocean against Charles. You said that if they did not agree, it would give your admirals an excuse to raid their coasts all summer long. Do you think that a fine dream?'

Suleiman threw back his head and roared. Such a calculating mind was wasted on a woman. She would have made a fine Vizier. Though perhaps it was not wasted at all; not while she spoke only to him. 'One day I will make you my Grand Vizier,' he said.

'Perhaps you should. I will have Ibrahim as my scribe.'

'He would die first.' He grew serious. 'Do not mock him. Without Ibrahim we would not have this time together. He is the only one who can help me shoulder the burden.'

Hürrem stroked his beard, watched the play of thoughts on his face. She chewed on her bottom lip, a sure sign that she had something else on her mind.

'What is it little
russelana
?'

'It is nothing.'

'Tell me.'

She looked up into his face. 'This Ibrahim. Do you not worry sometimes that .. that he might … abuse… his power?'

'Ibrahim? Of course not.'

'There are such rumours in the Harem. Because I never know the truth, I worry for you.'

'What rumours?'

'I do not wish to speak against Ibrahim. I know he doesn't like me, but that is not the reason.'

'But what rumours?' he repeated.

'That he mocks Islam and consorts with
Gaiour
s. That when he meets with ambassadors he calls himself Sultan.'

He laughed. 'Women's fantasies!'

'All right, I'm sorry. I should not repeat the stories I hear. You're right it is almost always vicious nonsense.'

'Ibrahim is rash and boastful but he would never betray me.'

'Do you forgive me?'

'What is there to forgive?'

She got to her feet. Her hair, hands and feet had been dyed with henna and there were thick circles of kohl around her eyes. It was her plan, for that day at least, to be like any of the scores of
houris
in the Harem.

Without warning she performed the three conventional
sala'am
s expected from any
oda
lisque brought to his bed for the first time. Then she unfastened the pearl buttons of the silk
gömlek
. Her nipples had been painted with hashish, a favourite trick of the Harem girls. When he suckled her breasts he would swallow some of the drug and it would enhance his climax later.

Bare to the waist she dropped to her knees and approached the divan like a common slave. His breath caught in his throat. Just when he thought he knew all her tricks she surprised him. This was like their first night all over again.

She kissed his feet in the traditional act of humility. He gasped as her fingers loosened his robes for her ministrations.

She is my Harem, he thought. She is like a thousand women.

The black deaf mutes who guarded the doorway could not hear his moans. But a peacock, rustling among the tulips beneath the window looked up startled. The Sultan's sighs of pleasure intermingled with murmuring of water from the fountains until the moon edged below the branches of the plane trees and the flames on the candles guttered and died.

***

The city was a vast mosaic of colour, below the long fingers of the minarets and the gleaming cupolas of the mosques. The
Kanun
of the Fatih proscribed that all houses should be painted for the religion of their inhabitants; so there were clusters of grey houses where the Armenians lived, ghettoes of yellow for the Jews, while Turks themselves had red.

It made the Defterdar's house easier to find. It was painted black, to signify a member of the Sultan's Court.

Abbas rarely ventured into the crowded alleys of Stamboul, and he assured his anonymity now with a black
ferijde
. Rüstem's house had a private courtyard at the back. A page ushered him inside. Rüstem was seated in a kiosk at the rear. A marble fountain murmured nearby.

Rüstem executed a brief temenna and indicated that Abbas should sit opposite him on the carpet. A page brought sherbets and laid a silver platter of pastries between them.

'I have come at the request of the lady Hürrem,' Abbas said.

Rüstem showed not a flicker of interest.

'It seems that you have a common interest.'

'What might that be?'

'Yourselves.'

Ah, a reaction. Not much, just a lifting of the eyes, a muscle working in the cheek. But something at least.

'Explain yourself, Kislar Aghasi.'

Abbas knew that Rüstem was corrupt, of course, but had kept his silence. In the Harem one did not spend a valuable currency like information too freely. It was hoarded, carefully, in case one needed to lift the mortgage over one's own head at a future time.

As Defterdar, Rüstem was responsible for collecting taxes from the
timariot
s, the feudal cavalrymen given small fiefdoms in return for their service in wars. On their death it was supposed to return to the Sultan. It was one of the basic tenets of the Osmanli system; only the Sultan could accrue hereditary wealth.

Well, that was supposed to be how it worked.

Abbas leaned forward: 'The Veil of Crowned heads has asked me to tell you about a man named Hakim Dürgün. It seems that last year he died of the pestilence. Yet he still farms his
timar
near Adrianople. A remarkably diligent ghost, do you not agree?'

'Remarkable. I will look into it.'

'You should also look into the case of another
timariot
in Rumelia who died four years ago. About the time you became treasurer, in fact. Since then he has taxed the farmers on his land eight aspers per sheep. And yet you have done nothing about this avaricious spirit. Is it because you are afraid of the dead or because his ghost passes you two aspers per sheep for yourself?'

'How do you know so much about ghosts?'

'Wherever there is a black man, I have a pair of ears. And there is not a palace or a treasury in the entire kingdom that does not have a supposedly deaf mute who hears everything.'

Rüstem selected a pastry and chewed slowly. 'What is it you want? A cut of the business?'

Abbas admired his calm. 'Nothing so common. Please. I have not come here to line my own pockets. The Lady Hürrem sent me.'

'She does not need money.'

'Of course not.'

'A favour then?'

'More than a favour. I think we are talking about an alliance.'

For the first time he raised his eyes and looked directly at Abbas. They were November eyes, Abbas thought. Not cold, just grey and empty. 'That would be an interesting arrangement. Does she realize that Ibrahim is my patron?'

'Of course. You did not think I would keep it from her?'

'I think you only tell anyone what they need to know and no more.'

'I understand you are to accompany the Vizier on the campaign in the east.'

'What interest could the second
kadin
possibly have in a military expedition to Persia?'

'None. Her interest is Ibrahim.'

Rüstem frowned. 'What does she want from him?'

'She is concerned for him. She worries that if he has become too besotted with his own power. His boasting is already the scandal of the court and the bazaars.'

Why should she be concerned about it? I have heard she does not care for him overmuch but surely his arrogance cannot touch her in there.'

'Her reasons are not your affair. But it seems the Vizier is heading for a fall, and she would like it very much if you hurried his downfall along. She would like evidence of his treachery.'

'He is hardly a traitor.'

'It does not matter to my mistress if he is or he isn't. Just that you collect evidence of it.'

Rüstem selected another pastry while he thought this over. 'That might be difficult to do.'

'Not too difficult, I hope. Or one night, when the Sultan is wrapped in the embrace of his second
kadin
., she will whisper to him how you have embezzled taxes from the
timariot
s and corrupted the fiefs.'

Rüstem did not look afraid. All that registered was a frown of disappointment, as if he had been outmanoeuvred at chess. 'And what reward should I hope for, should I prove a resourceful ally?'

Abbas was surprised by the question. 'Your life?'

'If we are bargaining, Kislar Aghasi, as you say we are, then I should like to counter offer. Tell her that should I give her Ibrahim, I would like to enter into a more permanent arrangement with her. We might be very good for each other.'

Abbas grunted in surprise. 'I will tell her,' he said.

The Man Who Never Smiled almost did. But he restrained himself at the last.

Later, as he made his way back to the palace, Abbas passed a dead horse that had been left in the gutter. The dogs had been at work on it and had dragged its entrails out through a hole they had torn in its stomach. Try never to fall, he reminded himself. Once your belly is supposed, even for a moment, they will rip out your guts without a second thought.