The Harem Midwife

by Roberta Rich

  Hannah was a kindly simpleton who could easily be forced out of her home. Let her go and live in the Imperial Harem where she seemed to have found favour. When all Isaac’s property and equipment was sold, Cesca and Foscari would take Matteo to Venice to claim his fortune. Cesca was a good sailor, reefing her sails as the winds of fortune blew new opportunities in her direction.

  Now, as she approached the embassy steps, she fumbled open the drawstring of her pink shot-silk purse and from a ceramic box took out a bit of red powder. She smiled, then dabbed some on the fullest part of her cheeks.

  A tall, fierce-looking Nubian slave opened the door. He bowed. “I am Kamet. Follow me. The ambassador is expecting you.” He ushered her through the house, past marble statues of Minerva and Apollo, past the huge reception room hung with paintings, past wall sconces of Murano glass flickering with candles. She would not let the grandeur overwhelm her. She would act as though coffered ceilings and paintings of the Seven Hills of Constantinople and beeswax candles instead of humble rush lights were commonplace for her.

  As she followed Kamet through the mansion, Cesca rehearsed what she would say to Foscari. No, she could not linger, she must get back home. No, she would not stop for a mug of wine, and no, she would not let him have his way with her as he had on the Aphrodite.

  Kamet swept open the wrought-iron doors set with glass panels that led into the garden. Foscari was bent over, tearing at a loaf of bread and casting crumbs into a pond. The garden should have been dark. It was not. The flower beds were so well lit that Cesca could see every petal on the nodding heads of tulips. Even the stamens were visible, rather like queens encircled by her ladies-in-waiting. Kamet wore a yellow turban. He held out a chair for her under the arbour, but Cesca remained on her feet, gathering her skirts around her, transfixed. The lawn glowed with light so bright it appeared as though the world had turned topsy-turvy. Instead of the stars being in the heavens, they were a carpet of illumination undulating on the grass.

  As her eyes adjusted, she realized she was looking at the glow from scores of candles, but they were moving. Under a rose bush, in front of a pomegranate tree, hidden behind the fountain, behind the wisteria arbour, in the distance near the stream, dots of light flickered in the night.

  Cesca expected to see party guests gathered in knots, talking and drinking, but there was only Foscari striding briskly toward her, arms outstretched, a smile on his face.

  “Do you like my army of tortoises?” he asked.

  She bent over the closest source of light, surprised to see a tortoise, large as a serving platter, at her feet. Her hands flew to her face to stifle a cry of astonishment. On its back was a beeswax candle pressed into the shape of a yellow rosette. Now she understood. All those pricks of light were tortoises with candles attached to their shells. She hoped her awe was not too apparent.

  Foscari reached her side. “How lovely to see you, my dear. I was thrilled when your messenger announced you were coming to pay me a visit tonight.”

  She glimpsed her reflection in his silver nose, but she could not make out her own features, just a wan face with a dusting of cochineal on the cheeks. “Even more delightful it is to see you, Foscari,” Cesca said.

  He bowed low and swept an imaginary hat off his head.

  Cesca offered her cheek for a kiss but he pulled her into an embrace. For an instant, she relaxed against him, enjoying the muscular feel of his arms and chest. Foscari never smelled of sweat. To sweat, one must labour. But he did smell of something pungent. She was trying to identify the scent when he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a tiny ivory box. He dipped his little finger into it, then dotted a substance under and around his silver nose. There was that peculiar odour again. Not snuff. But what? Something fishy. Roe? Fish oil? The answer came to her—fish bladder glue to keep his nose secure on his face. Gone were the silk threads that had previously held it in place.

  There was a squealing, chirping noise from behind her. From the pond in the back of the garden, five cygnets, fuzzy balls of white and grey down, waddled out of the water and stretched their necks for the crumbs Foscari had scattered on the ground.

  “Join me in a glass of brandy.” He turned to Kamet, who was a few paces away. “In the cellars, there is a fine cask, a gift from the French ambassador. A drop or two would be lovely.” The servant bowed and then withdrew.

  A moment later, Cesca sat across from Foscari under a rose arbour at a tulipwood table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She arranged her skirts to keep them clear of the tortoises and their candles. Kamet returned with goblets of Murano crystal filled with brandy, which he placed before them. That such fragile glassware could have survived the voyage from Venice was a marvel.

  Raising her glass, she said, “Salute, Foscari.”

  “To your health, Cesca,” he responded. After enjoying a sip of brandy, he launched into business. “So, you have news for me?”

  “I do. You will be fascinated to learn Safiye’s bewitchment has come to an end. Last week, the Sultan bedded a Circassian slave girl. I heard it from one of Hannah’s neighbours, a pedlar at the harem. The Sultan was as ravenous for the girl as these swans are for your bread. The other odalisques, to say nothing of his wife, are wild with jealousy.”

  Foscari looked amused. “I could not be more surprised if you told me the Sultan had joined the Holy Mother Church and instead of facing Mecca to pray was turning toward Rome.” Foscari raised his glass. “Let us drink to the virility of God’s Shadow on Earth. May he sire a legion of sons.” He clinked her glass so forcefully that a drop of brandy splashed over the side and landed in her lap.

  “Now, what else do you have for me?” There was impatience in his voice.

  Foscari picked up a tortoise by his feet. Giving a faint hiss, the creature withdrew its head, tail, and feet into its shell. Foscari straightened the crooked candle on its back and set it down again. A moment later, the head, tail, and feet reappeared, and the creature ambled away.

  It was time to turn to the true reason for her visit. “There is no doubt Matteo is the child you seek.” Cesca reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a scrap of vellum folded into a rectangle with the edges laced tightly together with a strip of hide.

  Foscari’s eyes lit up. “How lovely to have my research confirmed! Such a tragedy when rich noble families die out. I would hate to think of the di Padovani dynasty coming to an end.”

  No one gave a tinker’s dam when poor families died out, Cesca thought. “With my evidence, you will have no difficulty convincing a judge to appoint you Matteo’s guardian.”

  She handed him the vellum. He unlaced it, turning it this way and that in the light, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as it often did when he concentrated. “This is the di Padovani crest, is it not? I copied it from the child’s blanket.”

  “Yes,” Foscari said. Holding the vellum in the manner of someone holding a valuable painting, he moved the brandy glasses to one side and placed the parchment carefully in the centre of the table. “Can you bring me the blanket?”

  Cesca picked up the drawing. Hand over the blanket before they had come to an agreement? Did he take her for an im be cile? “The boy is deeply attached to it. To deprive him of it would cause his screams to be heard all the way to Büyükada.”

  Foscari studied the brandy in his glass, then took a sip, rolling it around in his mouth, swirling and swilling and swallowing.

  Cesca said, “I have given you what you wanted—proof that Matteo is the di Padovani heir. I want your word, Foscari, that if our scheme succeeds, I shall be rewarded. I want the di Padovani villa in Maser.”

  Foscari choked. He rose and made a great performance of bending double and coughing. “You are mad!” he managed, before sitting back down in his chair. “Living with Israelites has not only made you greedy, it has given you thoughts above your station.”

  This constant jibing of Jews. Cesca had never taken the slightest notice until sh
e began to pass herself off as one. From the lokum sellers in the bazaar to the simit vendors, everyone had some insult to offer. “When it comes to money, Foscari, all of us—Jews or Christians—are of the same religion,” she said.

  Foscari took another sip of brandy.

  “You may be a marquis but you bargain as fiercely as a ten-scudi whore. It is dealing with you that has forced me to be cunning,” said Cesca.

  Foscari leaned forward, his silver nose riding up ever so slightly. “Tell me your plan for handing the boy over to me.”

  Of course Cesca had thought it through and was prepared for this question. “I shall do it during the Circumcision Parade. The Sultan, as you know, has ordered a wonderful celebration. His only son, Mehmet, has recovered from fever, so the event will take place soon. For fifty-three days, the entire city will pay him honour. Every guild will have a float, every soldier will be on the streets in full regalia. Confusion and chaos will reign. Thousands of people will travel from as far away as Edirne and Amasia to behold the splendour. It will be easy for me and the boy to get lost in the crowds. Before Hannah realizes the child is gone, he shall be on board the ship bound for Venice.”

  “Brilliant. Of course, you will bring me the blanket and then sail with me and the boy. I cannot be expected to tend to a young child, and I can’t think of a more suitable role for you.”

  Foscari thought her innocent as a cabbage. “Of course I will join you—eventually.” She remained silent for a long time. “And the estate?”

  Foscari began tossing crumbs to the swans. Cesca rose to her feet, as if she were about to leave. Finally, Foscari surrendered.

  “Fine, we have a deal, but under one condition: that you not complain to me when your grapes in the Maser estate rot on the vine and your newborn calves die from the scours. Your talents, my dear, are in the bedchamber, not in the fields. Let us finish our brandy and go into the house, where you can prove your talents to me once again.”

  Cesca had not counted on his quick capitulation on the matter of the estate. Yes, she would hand over the boy to Foscari, but she would keep the blanket. Without this well-worn scrap of wool, Foscari had no evidence, just an adorable little red-haired trot who could be anybody’s child. She would deal with Isaac and his estate. When that was sorted out, she would follow Foscari on the next ship to Venice, the blanket and her future snug in her valise.

  CHAPTER 15

  District of Eminönü Constantinople

  MUCH HAD HAPPENED since that night over a month ago in the Hall of the Sultan’s Divan—none of it good.

  Isaac had not been able to borrow the money to pay Grazia. The price of silk continued to fall. Everyone and his dog had bolts for sale. Even the finest material went for half of what it had sold for last year. Hannah could have wept. Grazia had agreed to give them a little more time to come up with her ducats—until the Circumcision Parade for Mehmet, the Sultan’s son, which was only a few weeks away.

  A fortnight ago, as Hannah was drinking her evening tea under the wisteria arbour, Ezster had knocked on the back door. She would not come in but said that Leah needed to see Hannah as soon as possible.

  “I should not be passing messages like this,” said Ezster. “The Valide would not like it. But, Hannah, Leah looked so worried. I pitied her. You must go to her.” Ezster held out a folded piece of paper. “She asked me to give you this.”

  Hannah’s first thought was that she was astonished Leah, a simple peasant girl, could write. Hannah walked over to a candle and by twisting the parchment to and fro, managed to make out the few shakily written words, in Hebrew, the gist of which was that their ruse had succeeded and Leah was now “a girl in the eye of the Sultan.” But the message went on to say that Leah must get out of the palace before it was too late.

  Too late for what? Was she worried she’d be called to the divan again?

  Hannah tossed the note into the fire so that neither Isaac nor Grazia would find it. Leah did not understand that Hannah could not come and go from the Imperial Harem whenever she liked as Ezster did. Hannah had to wait to be sent for.

  Tonight, at last, her patience was rewarded. Without warning, Suat and his royal carriage appeared in front of her house. She was being summoned by the Valide, who wished an immediate audience with Hannah. For what purpose? Suat grumbled that the Valide did not deign to give reasons. Was it too much for Hannah to hope that she might be rewarded for her help with the couching?

  Imperial Palace

  Constantinople

  After the long carriage ride, Hannah found herself once more walking past the tall Janissaries guarding the Gate of Felicity. She entered the harem where Mustafa, gold quill in his black turban, was waiting. He smiled and gave her a hug, as was his custom.

  “May I have a word with Leah before I see the Valide?”

  “I will navigate the way to Leah’s splendid new apartments. No more humble dormitory for her.”

  Hannah followed Mustafa’s comforting bulk as he explained that Leah was now so much in favour in the Imperial Harem that she had her own quarters complete with a separate kitchen, slave girls, and even a private garden.

  “She is well?” Hannah asked.

  “Never better,” said Mustafa, bowing and taking his leave in front of the open door of Leah’s apartment.

  Dressed in a pair of fine silk trousers and a pelisse that reached her knees, Leah was standing at the window, an embroidery hoop in her hand. She raced over to embrace Hannah.

  “I am happy to see you, Leah.” Hannah kissed the girl on the cheek. Leah looked well. Her green eyes glowed. Her body was rounder than when Hannah had first met her two months ago. Her face had lost the sharp angles, her jaw had softened. “Ezster brought me your message. I came as soon as I could.”

  “You must help me, Hannah. You must transform me into a puff of smoke so I can drift out through the holes in the ceiling of the hamam and be free.”

  “But whatever for?” Hannah made a sweeping gesture. “What of your marvellous new apartments?” But she felt like a hypocrite for her words of enthusiasm. To be a prisoner in this golden cage was not a life she would envy.

  “It worked, you know. Your ruse. The opium. The egg,” Leah said.

  “I am so happy for that,” said Hannah as she held the girl’s hand. She did not feel Leah relax. “But?” she asked, knowing Leah had more to say.

  “Hannah, it was easy, as easy as slipping a pill down the throat of a child. I inserted the opium into the bite of apple, and I fed it to the Sultan. He was so transfixed, he hardly noticed the bitter taste. After Mustafa closed the curtains, the opium worked its magic. He was in a dreamlike trance, hardly aware I was there. I climbed on top of him, fully clothed, and wriggled back and forth to make the divan tremble.” She grimaced. “I did not forget your partridge egg filled with hen’s blood. When I reached the end of my performance, I cracked it open on the sheets and the Sultan in his daze was none the wiser. The coverlet was bloody, proof of my virginity when the curtains were opened the next morning.” Leah reached into the pocket of her trousers and took out her blue amulet, rubbed it against her cheek.

  “You have accomplished a feat that other girls could not. I congratulate you.”

  “I could not have done it without you, Hannah.” She kissed Hannah’s hand and pressed it to her forehead. “I was born into the harsh life of the mountains, raised on whatever is left over in the pot after the men have eaten. For my mother and grandmother and all the women before them, existence was work and pain. They survived using whatever resources they had. So have I.” Leah took a deep breath. “But Hannah, I must get out of this palace.”

  “It is impossible,” Hannah said.

  “There is something you don’t know.”

  “If the Sultan calls you to his divan again, do not worry. You can repeat your performance. I have brought more opium.” Leah shook her head, waiting impatiently for Hannah to finish talking.

  “I am with child.”

  Hannah
felt as though she had fallen from a great height and all of the air had been knocked from her. With child? “But you just said our ruse worked, that you didn’t have to—”

  Leah grabbed Hannah’s hands in both of her own. “I was betrothed to Eliezer, the boy from the neighbouring village. He is the father of my child. He was murdered by the same savages who killed my family.” She stumbled against Hannah’s linen bag, making the birthing spoons clatter. “We loved each other. This child is the last of a long line of Jews from our part of the mountain.”

  The image came to Hannah of holding Leah on the birthing stool, rubbing her back, wiping her brow, and finally cutting the birth cord of her child.

  Leah pleaded, “Help me escape. I am in grave danger. I have to disappear fast before the truth becomes obvious.” Leah pointed to her belly and pulled the cloth of her pelisse tight. Hannah saw what would be abundantly clear to everyone in the palace if much more time passed—that the child Leah was carrying could not possibly be the Sultan’s because she was several months pregnant. It was only the narrowness of her pelvis and the loose clothing of the harem that had allowed her condition to pass unnoticed thus far.

  “You knew from the first time we met that you were pregnant?”

  “Yes,” Leah admitted.

  Hannah thought back to Leah on the window ledge, her see-through shift, her distended belly—so, a pregnancy, not malnourishment.

  “Hannah, I could not bear the thought of ending up in a brothel, giving birth to Eliezer’s son on a pile of rags, dying before I had a chance to give suck to the child.”

  In the face of such a statement God Himself would be struck dumb. What was Hannah to do? She had a duty to help this girl and now her unborn child. But did she not also have a duty to protect herself and her own family?

  “Let us think about what can be done.” Hannah sat down on the divan, feeling angry with Leah’s deception.