by Roberta Rich
She pressed a handkerchief across her nose and mouth against the stench. She could have been blind and still able to tell from the odour of sheep’s urine used to tan hides that they were now on the Street of the Tanners. The tanners were a wretched group of artisans who defiled the quarter by pouring their filthy water into the open sewers. They should have put it in barrels and disposed of it outside the city walls as ordered by the authorities, but few of them ever went to the trouble.
When the carriage reached the district of Sirkeci, the street grew so narrow—it was no more than an alley—that neither the moonlight nor Suat’s torch could penetrate the darkness. Suat, who exhibited a propensity for driving too fast on the winding streets to demonstrate he was accustomed only to the wide boulevards of Seraglio Point, was forced to slow down. The horse stumbled and then refused to budge despite the crack of the whip on her back and Suat’s urging. Grumbling, Suat climbed down from his seat and, one hand on the horse’s bridle, the other flat-palmed on the rough stone walls, moved forward, feeling his way along the narrow street. After several minutes of slow progress, they neared the water. Breezes from the sea greeted them as they swept along the south shore of the Horn. It had been about an hour since Hannah had climbed into the carriage and still the giant fortress of the Imperial Palace loomed in the distance, high on a hillside overlooking the Bosporus.
As they neared the port, Hannah heard the squeak of ropes on restless boats and the drunken shouts of sailors. At the harbour, the smell of the salt-ladened sea air and fish from the markets filled her nostrils. A few moments later, they drew nearer to Seraglio Point, which jutted like a rhinoceros horn into the Bosporus. The Sea of Marmara lay to the south and the Golden Horn to the north. Only as they approached the palace, set high on the bluff, did the air turn sweet and fresh.
On the right they passed the Hagia Sophia mosque. To Hannah’s left, moonlight cast a silvery wash over the high palace walls. The Sublime Porte, the main entry into the palace, with its twin turrets and gatekeepers’ quarters of large octagonal towers with pointed roofs on either side came into view, rearing up like a creature rising from the sea. The carriage passed through the Gate of Salutation, entered the First Courtyard, the wheels gliding on the marble paving. Hannah replaced her veil.
During the day, this central courtyard of the palace was open to all the Sultan’s subjects. It seethed with crowds of people seeking redress for grievances. Several hundred agitated Ottomans usually surrounded the pavilions while busy scribes wrote out their complaints. Empty now, the vast space echoed with the clatter of the mare’s hooves. Five heads were displayed on spikes on either side of the Gate, a warning to all who passed of the Sultan’s absolute power and the consequences of not yielding to it. The heads were stuffed with cotton if the executed man had been high-born or with straw if he had been of low station. The carriage passed numerous armouries, the buildings of the Imperial Mint, and stables housing three thousand horses.
Hannah averted her eyes from the Fountain of the Executioner, where the executioner washed the blood from his hands after beheadings. At the entrance to the harem, the carriage finally halted. Craning her neck, Hannah could see a gigantic, formless shadow against the white and blue Iznik wall. To her surprise, as her eyes adjusted she recognized Mustafa himself waiting for her rather than one of his minions. Mustafa, the Chief Black Eunuch, the guardian of the harem, wore a black sash, black tunic, and a towering black turban with a gold quill on top. A girdle of diamonds encircled his hips as befit one of the richest men in the palace. Only the Sultan and the Grand Vizier were more powerful than Mustafa.
Though she had met him many times, his inky blackness continued to astound her. She had not encountered Nubians in Venice and she could not help but study the man every time she saw him. How was it possible for skin to be so dark? Had Mustafa been standing in front of a black basalt wall, she would not have seen him. Hannah had been frightened of him the first time she met him, but had come to admire his brilliant eyes, satiny skin, and gentle nature.
Mustafa was a master of self-control. Only his occasional gruffness and his halting steps revealed that he was frequently in pain. For the Arab slavers to remove what God had intended a man to have was an appalling crime. Perhaps he still had the desires of a man, yet there had never been a whisper of scandal about him regarding the girls of the harem. To Hannah it seemed as though his joy came from his chest of jewels and his political power. There were those who claimed he owned a magnificent yali, an estate on one of the Princes’ Islands, with a huge house overlooking the Sea of Marmara, where he retreated when the pain rendered him unfit for human companionship. It was the kind of story one hears in the harem, a place where idleness and boredom incite tongues to wag.
Mustafa approached the carriage and bowed his head low, the golden quill in his turban glinting in the shadow of the Gate of Salutation. As always when Hannah noticed the quill and thought of its purpose, she did not know whether to wince or to blush.
She stood as Suat dismounted from the driver’s seat, opened the carriage door, and placed a small set of steps in front of the carriage. She held out her hand to Mustafa, who took it in his plump one. It was scented with attar of rose. His skin was as soft as a girl’s. He steadied her, helping her to alight. As she bent toward him, her velvet pouch swung forward and grazed his chest. Mustafa also wore a velvet pouch around his neck. While hers contained silkworm eggs, his, it was rumoured, contained that shrivelled part of his body that had been taken from him as a young boy, a part he kept with him at all times so that when he died, he could be buried whole.
She released Mustafa’s hand once her feet touched the marble paving stones. Was it right that Hannah permitted Mustafa to touch her? It was a riddle she had not solved. Jewish law was strict: unrelated men and women were forbidden from having physical contact. Did the law include someone like Mustafa, not entirely a man, yet certainly not a woman? His voice was high, his torso thick, his hips almost womanly. His hand was warm and comforting in hers. Whether right or wrong, Hannah had not the heart to avoid contact.
Mustafa smiled, his lips as fleshy and pink as a conch shell, his generous cheeks creasing, flashing teeth as white as the Chinese porcelain in the new palace kitchens. Was his smile heart-felt? He beckoned her to follow him into the Imperial Harem.
Hannah was naive, as Isaac had told her often enough. She was no wiser than a child when it came to the politics of the palace—a place of conspiracy, intrigue, sudden deaths, disappearances, and poisonings. Not a dish of food passed the Sultan’s lips without the Chief Taster trying it first. People in the palace whom Hannah met and laughed with one day were gone without a trace the next time she inquired.
As they walked, Mustafa’s shadow leapt against the tiled walls like a puppet in Karagöz, the popular marionette theatre. His shadow appeared more graceful and lively than he did, swaying on his pattens, high shoes designed to be worn in the steam baths. Clearly, she was not here to prepare a girl for a couching. Mustafa was not carrying his red volume, The Book of Couchings, in which he recorded all of the Sultan’s trysts.
Mustafa asked, “How is the best midwife in Constantinople tonight?”
“You mean the best in the entire Empire?” They always bantered like this.
“You are right. I stand corrected.”
“I am very well, thank you,” she said, wishing he would hurry up and tell her why he had sent for her.
They made their way past the gardens, with their beds of tulips with names like Glitter of Prosperity, Beloved’s Face, Rose Arrow, and Increaser of Joy. In truth, she disliked these Ottoman tulips with their etiolated petals, which looked as though they had been trimmed to dagger points. How much lovelier the rounded, chalice-shaped tulips of Venice, their glossy pink petals as inviting as the palm of a baby’s hand.
Hannah’s penchant for all things Venetian, nay, her aversion to all things Turkish, was a characteristic against which she struggled. The tulips were a perfect exam
ple of what Isaac referred to as her “failure to appreciate the splendours of the Ottoman Empire.”
They walked past the menagerie of elephants, tigers, and monkeys. The odour of what the jungles of Afrika must smell like pervaded the gardens, a musk-heavy but not unpleasant smell, disguised in part by the spicy scent of carnations and fresh white bread baking in the ovens nearby. Night air was known to be unhealthy but Hannah took a mouthful anyway, enjoying the coolness. On the other side of the menagerie, Hannah saw a familiar sight. The spider monkeys awoke inside their gilded cages, shrieking and rubbing their genitals in that disgusting way of theirs, then spitting like the wizened old carpet sellers in the bazaar. Hannah would have giggled had she not been so preoccupied.
There is no need to worry, she told herself. The worst that had ever befallen her in the palace was a nibble from the giraffe in the menagerie. The creature had an unsettling habit of arcing its long neck and reaching over to nuzzle her, which made her want to bathe. The first time it had occurred, she jumped and gave a scream, not out of fear—there was little about the gentle beast to frighten her—but out of surprise at the touch of its flabby, prehensile lips. Now, instinctively, she made a wide circle around its low enclosure.
A careless worker had left a pile of bricks in the path and Mustafa took her arm to guide her. “Building, always building,” he said. “This time it is ten new kitchens with lead-domed roofs to replace those destroyed by fire last year. The ovens will be large enough to roast an entire herd of oxen.”
Hannah said, “A sultan never dies when he is building.” She had heard the expression often and decided to try it out herself.
Mustafa paused for a moment and turned to look at her. Had she offended him by referring, however obliquely, to the Sultan’s death? Mustafa’s face revealed nothing. This was the way of Ottomans. Venetians were direct and never shrank from telling you what they thought about family, religion, and politics. Ottomans, especially around foreigners like Hannah, kept their own counsel.
“How many people live in the Imperial Palace?” Hannah hoped it was not a rude question.
“Five thousand, from the Sultan to the lowliest pot scrubber in the scullery to the odalisques to the Valide herself. All must be fed.” Odalisques were taught to play instruments, to embroider, to sing and dance, to learn the erotic arts—all in the hope of one day becoming concubines for the Sultan. They were lovely girls, some purchased at the slave market near the Hippodrome, some sent as gifts for the Sultan from governors of the far-flung provinces of the Empire.
Hannah and Mustafa skirted a small apricot tree where a peacock wearing a gold necklace roosted, crushing the young boughs with its weight. They arrived at the outer entrance to the harem, the Arabalar Kapısı, where beeswax candles flickered in onyx sconces affixed to the high walls.
Hoping to prompt the usually voluble Mustafa to reveal more, Hannah said, “It is late. Suat had difficulty passing through the streets.”
Mustafa offered no comment.
Unable to restrain herself, she asked, “It must be an urgent matter for the Valide to call me out at this time of night. A birth, perhaps?”
“Not a birth, unfortunately. I have a different task for you.” He stood in front of the Gate of Felicity, the entrance to the harem, making no move to reach for the collection of keys that dangled at his side. “Do not look so apprehensive. You will know what is required. It involves that orifice you are so familiar with.”
At last, Mustafa took an ebony key from the chain at his waist. Even then he hesitated, looking as though he were weighing what to say, before speaking. “A new slave girl has arrived,” he ventured, as he fitted the key into the lock and gave it a turn. “This girl you are about to meet is the Valide’s gift to her son. Leah is—how to put it—rebellious? She is a tough little thing, filthy and evil-tempered. You must excuse her appearance. We have not managed to tame her sufficiently to bathe her or comb the knots from her hair.”
This was very odd. The harem had scores of slave girls to wash, scrub and render presentable any new arrivals, even intractable peasants. In any case, most girls from the slave market were only too happy to find themselves in this earthly paradise of marble and gold cloth and jewels and savoury foods. Why would Hannah be called to help with such a matter? They walked through the Gate, passing by the open door of the guard room of the black eunuchs’ living quarters where they ate and slept when not on duty guarding the ladies of the harem.
“What is it you wish me to do?” Hannah asked as they walked through the courtyard, the mosque of the black eunuchs on her left.
Mustafa made no reply.
“If she is so difficult, why was she purchased?” As soon as the remark passed her lips, Hannah realized it was not only far too direct but also a criticism of Mustafa, who had no doubt purchased the slave girl on behalf of the Valide. Isaac often cautioned her to be more circumspect in her dealings with those in the harem.
“Meet her,” Mustafa said, “and you shall have your answer.”
They arrived at the inner gate of the harem, which was framed with a black-and-white stone arch and gold calligraphy adorned with quotes from the Qur’an. Mustafa’s slow gait and the way he nervously felt for the clanging keys on his girdle betrayed his uncharacteristic anxiety. Hannah tried to see past the gate but saw only a yawning maw of blackness. Many slave girls had passed through these portals, but none had left—at least not alive. There were only two ways to depart: in the mourning shroud of the dead, or in a burlap sack snugly tied at the neck and weighted down with river stones, to be hurled into the Bosporus by the palace death squad, the deaf mutes. Just as the eunuchs in the harem had had their private parts cut off, the deaf mutes had been rendered deaf by spikes rammed in their ears and mute by having their tongues cut out. In the dark of the night, these thuggish brutes drew silken cords around tender young throats, thrust their bodies into sacks and tipped them into the waters.
Mustafa’s torch sizzled and spit shadows against the walls of the corridor. Trying to see past him was like trying to see past a giant, swaying cart rumbling down a narrow, rutted road. He wobbled in his pattens. They were crafted of inlaid silver and mother-of-pearl. They reminded Hannah of chopine, the high, elegant shoes the grand ladies of Venice favoured to keep them elevated from the mud of the streets. Her own feet, in leather slippers turned up at the toes, made a shushing noise on the hard marble, a counterpoint to his staccato clatter.
Mustafa addressed her in a hushed tone. “She will not speak, nor eat. She does nothing but sob and moan and act as though she had arrived in the worst prison in the world instead of heaven on earth.” He put a hand out to steady himself against the wall. “You remember Nilia, the Nubian slave girl who works in the baths? This vixen you are about to meet scratched Nilia’s face when she tried to bathe her.”
There were robust eunuchs to hold the girls for the sometimes harsh beauty procedures, or discipline them when they violated one of the many rules of the harem. Why not use one of them? Hannah twisted the velvet pouch around her neck. The ceiling felt lower, the air mustier, and the walls closer. When would Mustafa disclose her task?
Suddenly Mustafa’s torch burned out, but he continued walking. His voice seemed to come from far ahead of her. “Before we waste any more time on this girl, I must know for certain whether she is a virgin. Otherwise, I will be only too happy to sell her to the Arab brothel-keeper down by the docks. Let him try to civilize her.”
Hannah leaned to one side, feeling Mustafa’s presence only because of the shift in the air and the sound of his fumbling with the enormous ring of keys. She heard him insert a key into the lock of a small door. She heard the creak of rusty hinges and felt the cold metal of the door as she groped her way in behind him.
Fate has a way of making us accomplices to evil, Hannah thought, while Mustafa struck at a tinderbox and lit a candle in a wall sconce which lent a flickering light. Pinpricks of light drew attention to the golden quill jutting from his tur
ban and the gemstone on his thumb.
I have learned my lesson, Hannah thought. I want no part of whatever cruel scenario is about to unfold. She remembered another night long ago in Venice and what had flowed from her reckless decision to disobey her rabbi and accompany the Conte, her son Matteo’s natural father, to his home. She and Isaac were not, in fact, Matteo’s real parents, though they kept this a secret from everyone in Constantinople. On that night, the Conte’s gondola took her to the palazzo on the Grand Canal where the screams of Matteo’s mother greeted her. Hannah had been called to help the Conte’s wife give birth. And she had saved both mother and child. Afterwards, there had been nothing but the silent, lonely ride back to the Jewish ghetto.
The events of that night had turned her life to chaos. When the Conte and his wife died of the plague, Hannah rescued the boy from his uncles, who wanted him dead so that he would never inherit his father’s estate. From this experience, Hannah had learned that one ill-considered act could propel her on a dangerous course from which there was no escape. She was grateful to have Matteo, of course, whom she and Isaac had adopted as their own. But still, her folly haunted her, and a small voice inside her wondered if tonight, yet again, she was taking a path she might later regret.
The flickering light from the sconces on the wall reflected on Mustafa’s skin, oiled with butter as he peered into the small room.
“Where is the girl from?” Hannah asked.
“She comes from some horrid place in the Circassian Mountains. I expect one village is much like the next.” Mustafa gave a wave of his plump, ring-covered hand. “The Valide admires these Circassian girls, but some are as wild as the mountains from which they spring. Although I must admit they can be lovely. And this one is as remarkable in her looks as she is in her—what shall we call it—spiritedness?”