The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (27 page)

Heart pounding, the boy laid himself down flat on the rock where he would be invisible from the shore. Then, carefully lowering himself over the ledge, he looked down.

What he saw was not one figure but two, impossible to identify without the aid of moonlight. Who were these wraiths wrapped in black? What brought them to this unlikely spot? And what could he do to prevent them from seeing the caique that his princess was sending to collect him?

Cheerful, lighthearted, even amused by the absurd sight they presented but — as far as they knew — visible to no one but themselves, the two men advancing toward the pier, their billowing garments flapping around their ankles, taunted each other playfully for their clumsiness.

Just then the curved prow of a caique
slipped around the bend of the cove. Danilo waited for his signal: two long flashes followed by two short. But no signal came. Had Narcissus forgotten to instruct the captain? Was the signaling lantern disabled? Nothing like this had ever happened before.

“There it is!” He heard a Greek-accented voice from below. “I instructed them to douse the lights. One cannot be too careful.”

The voice resembled that of the Grand Vizier, but Danilo could not be certain.
Speak again
, he implored the voice.

Instead, what he heard was a thump accompanied by a cry of pain. Then a second voice, cursing. Then the first voice — the Greek voice — again: “Are you all right, sire?” It was the voice of the Grand Vizier for sure.

Then came the reply. “Nothing serious. Just a scratch.” This was the voice that had questioned him that very afternoon about the Gonzaga stud. Unquestionably he was hearing the voice of the Sultan himself.

Suleiman was not an especially cruel or vengeful man. It was simply in the nature of things Oriental that when a forbidden line is crossed, punishment is swift, silent, and inexorable. Had the Sultan gotten there a moment later and discovered his page on his private dock; worse, had the princess’s caique
given its signal and a plot to dishonor the Sultan’s daughter been unearthed . . . Danilo could envision his own head on a pike outside the Gate of Felicity. But he could not will himself to imagine Saida’s body sinking into the inky depths of the Bosphorus, weighted down by a sack of stones. And he vowed there and then that if they escaped discovery this time, this must be their last rendezvous. He made this vow in all sincerity, fully believing that the next time Narcissus brought him a summons, he would be able to resist the siren call.

But for now, there was still this night to get through. At any moment, Saida’s caique
would round the point and begin to signal with its lantern. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Peering over the ledge, he could make out the two black-swathed men preparing to board their craft, each tossing his cloak onto the dock as he stepped down and disappeared behind the curtained cabin in the center of the craft. Then, smooth and silent, the caique
slid away from the dock.

No voices now. No light. It was impossible, from Danilo’s perch, to follow the course of the Sultan’s caique. But he could hear the faint sound of droplets falling onto the surface each time the eight paddles were lifted out of the water in unison. Not until that sound faded into the darkness was he assured that with each passing minute the odds were rising in his favor. But he cautioned himself to stay still and silent until he could be absolutely certain that the Sultan’s caique
was well on its way across open water to wherever it was headed.

He decided to count to one hundred — slowly — before showing his head above the ledge. When he reached that number, he added another hundred just to be safe. They might have forgotten something and decided to come back for it. Or changed their minds about discarding the cloaks they had left behind on the pier. He pressed his cheek against the cold stone and waited. One hundred and eighty-six, one hundred and eight-seven . . .

At one hundred and ninety-two, he saw a blob of light in the distance and rose to his feet. Two long. Two short. He stretched, bowed his head, and thanked all the gods for his narrow escape. By the time Saida’s caique
slid up to the dock, he was there to take his accustomed seat at the stern. But instead, the captain motioned him toward the curtained compartment in the center of the craft.

As he stepped forward to pull back the drape, it began slowly to part of its own accord and a veiled head appeared. Had he been tricked? Were these the Sultan’s men playing games with him? A gloved hand reached around and slowly drew up the veil, revealing a pair of rosy lips. This was no man.

Next, a slightly tilted nose. Then those eyes he knew so well, velvet brown with hazel lights that twinkled in the soft light of the lantern.

“As you see,” she whispered, “I have managed to escape from my tower.” She cocked her head to one side and patted the cushion beside her invitingly. “Care to join me for a midnight sail?”

But her bravado dissolved as soon as she felt his arms around her. Pulling the curtains tight around them, she buried her head in his neck and clung to him like a frightened child. What had happened to his fearless princess? Had she encountered her father on the Bosphorus? Perhaps narrowly escaped an encounter?

“I feel so wretched,” she sobbed. “I am so . . . afraid.”

His first instinct was to hug her and kiss her and jolly her out of her despair. But some inchoate impulse led him to stay quiet and let her talk.

“Tell me,” he heard himself saying. “Tell me.”

And, after some nose blowing and sniffing, it all came out: Hürrem’s plan to move from the harem to Topkapi and her grandmother’s refusal to heed the consequences. “I keep thinking that she will soon be dead and I will be alone. There will be no one to take care of me.”

“What about me, Princess?” he asked lightly.

“You? How can you help me?”

“I’m strong. I do care for you. I
am
your knight.”

At this, she smiled for the first time. “Of course you are. But we both know . . .” She looked away. “I was proud of you today at the
gerit
. You were very brave, my knight.”

“You were there, at the hippodrome?”

“On the Grand Vizier’s balcony. I saw everything.”

“Did you see me fall?”

She nodded.

“And get up?”

She nodded again.

“Did you wonder why I was not stabbed through the heart when the
gerit
hit me?”

No, she had not wondered. “I thanked Allah.”

“What if I told you that Allah had nothing to do with it.”

She drew away from him. “That would be disrespectful.”

“Even if I told you that it was you who saved my life?”

“Me?”

“The amulet you gave me to wear against the evil eye, I was wearing it over my breast. And the point of his
gerit
shattered the jewel to bits, instead of shattering my heart.”

“A miracle,” she murmured softly.

“It is more than that. Don’t you see? It is a sign.”

She shook her head.

“Saida . . .” He laid his hands lightly on her shoulders to emphasize what he was about to tell her. “When I came here tonight, I meant to end everything between us. For your sake. Because it was too risky for you. I almost collided with the Sultan at the Grand Vizier’s dock tonight; I only missed him by seconds. But I did miss him. And this afternoon, the
gerit
did miss my heart. That has to mean something.”

“I don’t understand any of this . . .”

“It means that we are meant to be together forever. In my religion we call it
besheert
, foreordained. The pagans would have said that you and I are favored by fortune.”

“No.” She held up her hand to stop him. “We agreed not to talk about the future.”

“Well, maybe it’s time we did talk about it.”

“There is nothing to talk about. I cannot live on false hopes. My religion tells me to trust in Allah’s will and accept what cannot be changed. Don’t you see that everything between us depends on my grandmother? Narcissus is her slave. He issues my orders in her name. He is my lifeline. Once she is gone, he will be manumitted, no longer a slave. There will be no safe contact for us.”

She was on the verge of tears; still, he could not let go. His religion had not taught him acceptance. And his upbringing had taught him to use his brains. There had to be a way.

“Where will the slave go?” he asked.

“He will be manumitted, free. Her death frees him.”

“But if he is her slave, she can bequeath him to you, can she not?”

She looked at him uncomprehending.

“Before the Valide dies,” he continued, “she can will him to you. You can ask her to do that.”

“I couldn’t. We never talk of such things.”

“That only means that you never have, not that you cannot. She is a clear-sighted woman and she loves you very much. Now that she knows the end is near, she may even ask you if there is anything of hers you want.”

“And if she does not?”

“Then you must ask her. For your own sake — for our sake. Remember this, we need Narcissus. Narcissus is the link between us.” Danilo paused to let this sink in, then continued: “You can ask. Remember,
Audentes fortuna iuvat.
Fortune favors the bold.
Say it. Say it with me.”

“
Audentes fortuna iuvat
,” she repeated. “Fortune favors the bold. I will do it. I will ask her to will me Narcissus.”

23

THE DEATH OF
THE VALIDE

The Valide Sultan spent the last days of her life at peace, drifting in and out of a painless sleep with the two people she loved most in constant attendance.

When the doctors began to count the days, her granddaughter Princess Saida ordered a rolled-up pallet to be placed at the foot of the Valide’s bed so that, after spending the day holding the pale hand, mopping the feverish brow, offering spoonfuls of nourishment, and whispering words of comfort, the girl could retire to the pallet rather than leave her grandmother’s side.

In this vigil she was frequently joined by her father, the Sultan, who put aside all but te most pressing imperial business to spend most of his time seated at the bedside between his mother and his daughter, some of it in prayer, some of it in conversation. In a sense, this unexpected intimacy turned out to be the most valuable gift that the Valide could have left her beloved granddaughter. Although the Sultan had always been punctilious in his harem visits, he owed attention to all of his children living in the harem with their mothers, not to mention his concubines and, of course, his mother. So although the princess had spent many hours in the company of her father, they were seldom alone together and rarely had the opportunity for close conversation.

Now, in the enforced intimacy at the Valide’s bedside, he began to talk to his daughter, quite formally at first, but gradually taking up a familiar tone. She asked after his health. He complained about his gout. They explored their mutual passion for high-bred horses, and most importantly they prayed together, just the two of them, five times a day.

One day, as he bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, Saida said, “You will miss her.” It was an intrusion into his inviolate privacy that she would never have thought to presume a week earlier.

And she was greeted with a revealing dab at his eyes and a softly murmured, “More than anything in the world.”

The doctors had prepared them for what to expect in the final moments — a shortness of breath, choking, possibly a seizure. But Saida was certain, and reassured her father as they sat side by side waiting, that Allah would be kinder than that, knowing that the end was near.

Everything that could be done had been done. On the previous day the Lady Hafsa had dictated the terms of her will to a scribe. At her request Princess Saida and the Sultan were present, and as she dictated, she turned to him from time to time to ask, “Does this conform to your wishes, my lion?”

To which he invariably replied, “Perfectly, honored mother,” and patted her hand to reassure her that all was well with the will.

To her much loved granddaughter, the Valide bequeathed a sum of three thousand ducats, a sizeable fortune. That noted, she turned to Saida and asked, as Danilo had foretold she might, if there was anything else the girl particularly wanted. Were it not for the conversation with Danilo, Saida would likely have lowered her eyes modestly and denied any worldly wants. But now his words came back to her and she replied that yes, there was one thing. Even so, she hesitated to make the request specific, fearing to profane the solemnity of the moment, until her father intervened by whispering in her ear, “Speed it up, daughter. Every one of these seconds is precious.”

So in the end she did ask for possession of the slave Narcissus, who, she told her grandmother, “has been so faithful to you and will stand as a reminder and a comfort to me.”

“Only a slave? That is all? Not my pearl necklace that you so admire or my emerald coronet?”

Saida could only shake her head in reply.

The old woman reached over with some effort to pat the girl’s cheek. “I am touched by your modest request,” she said in a slightly faltering voice. “But then, you have never been grasping or avaricious, my child. And for that you will be rewarded. You will have my slave and my jewels as well. All of them.” At which the Sultan gasped. By custom, all the jewels he had given to his mother, as well as those bestowed upon her by his father as bridal gifts, would return to the royal treasury on her death. But he had never denied his mother anything in her lifetime and he did not intend to do so at her deathbed.