Before long she even learned not to jump and scream at the almost daily earth tremors.
Only in matters of religion did she remain ill at ease. The Muslims neither criticised the Hawkwoods for not attending the mosque or obeying the thrice-daily call to prayers, nor did they attempt to coerce them into conforming. But there was no Christian church at all, and even more than in Constantinople Mary became aware of existing in the midst of a heathen community — and one in which the Christian virtues of charity and mildness — seldom observed in the West to be sure — were conspicuously absent.
John Hawkwood was certainly happy in his new life. There seemed a total absence of the overt hostility that had followed himself and his family everywhere in Constantinople: the Turks might pity someone who had not the sense to recognise the Prophet Mahomet as the final and only true messenger of God, but they did not hate him for revering instead the earlier prophet, Jesus Christ. In Brusa, too, everything he required was given to him, including the men to labour for him, and to be trained as gunners, so he immediately began forming his own company of soldiers who would obey his orders in the field. Anthony was of great assistance here, and was able to drill these men, resplendent in his new uniform of green tunic and white breeches, helmet and breastplate.
More and more Anthony found himself summoned to the presence of the Emir: to converse, to play chess or backgammon, or merely to stand at his side.
“He is powerfully fond of you,” John Hawkwood remarked.
“He will seek to make you his,” the Emir Valideh had earlier warned. “Between us we will resist him.”
But the Emir Valideh had disappeared into the recesses of the palace in Brusa, although Anthony did not doubt that she watched all that was happening through her trelliswork screens.
A crisis occurred for Anthony on a morning soon after the ending of Ramadan — the holy month in which the entire community did nothing but fast and pray. As he was being bathed, the doors were suddenly thrown open by two Janissaries. The Emir himself entered the bath chamber, and stood gazing at Anthony’s naked body.
Anthony instantly dropped to his knees and gestured the eunuch attending him to fetch his robe. Since Anthony had naturally applied himself to learning Turkish, he was now dumbfounded to overhear Mahomet instructing one of his retinue to commence a painting of the naked body in front of him.
The artist thus addressed was positively trembling. “It cannot be, O Padishah. Is it not written that eternal hell awaits him who reproduces the human form?”
“There is no such law in the Anyi,” Mahomet retorted.
“That is true,” intervened the Grand Mufti, “but it is the law of the Prophet, and is found in the Koran.”
“The Law of the Prophet applies to true believers,” Mahomet pointed out, clearly incensed by this unexpected opposition. “It has no relation to gaiours. Young Hawk is an infidel. He can be reproduced. I will have him painted.”
The eunuch, also listening to the altercation, remained standing some distance away, holding the robe. Anthony dared not move, however hard his heart was pounding.
The painter had fallen to his knees. “Know that I will always carry out your bidding, O Padishah, but…here I am not competent. I know nothing of the human body.”
Mahomet pointed. “Have you no eyes? Paint what you see?”
The man was now grasping at straws to avoid having to commit what he clearly supposed was a mortal sin. “It is not so simple. To paint such a body I must need to know how it works, how the muscles and the tendons are connected, where one begins and the other ends. O Padishah, believe me…”
Mahomet lost his temper. “You are a prevaricating rogue,” he shouted, arm outstretched, finger pointing. “You seek to defy your Emir. Be careful I do not have you flayed. Then we will see how your muscles work, eh? You wish to discover these things? Then you shall.” His pointing finger swung and settled on one of his black pageboys. “He will suffice. You and you,” he shouted at his appalled guards, “take that boy. Slit him from neck to crotch. Lay him out before this coward and let him study how his muscles and tendons are joined.” His finger swung back to the painter. “Then paint me that picture.”
The entire entourage seemed unable to move for a moment, then the soldiers ran forward to carry out their master’s command. The pageboy screamed, but was stripped and dead in an instant, his blood and entrails splattered across the floor, his muscles certainly exposed as they quivered for the last time. Anthony opened his mouth to scream as well — some kind of protest — but the Emir had already stalked from the bathing chamber…and the dissection of the still bleeding corpse proceeded.
“Stay,” Halil warned him, “and be painted. There are times when our master will not be crossed.”
*
There were times, Anthony supposed, when Mahomet was not quite sane. But that very evening he found himself playing chess with the Emir in the Ottoman palace, in a small room off the main council chamber, where there were but two divans and utter privacy. He sipped at a sherbet while his master mused.
“It was not until I spoke the words that I became aware of their true import,” he said. “Do you know I love thee, young Hawk?”
“I am the most honoured of men, O Padishah,” Anthony said cautiously.
“And yet you are indeed an infidel. This makes me unhappy.”
“A man who would change his religion is surely not worth the handful of earth on which he stands,” Anthony said, feeling the hairs at the nape of his neck rising.
“You are right,” Mahomet said, to both Anthony’s surprise and relief. “And besides, I have important duties in store for you, which I believe you will best carry out as a gaiour. I would not importune you to change your religion, young Hawk. But it offends me that your body should remain that of a beardless youth, not yet grown to manhood. I consider it time for you to take a woman. But how can I expose you to her contempt? Besides, how may a man enter heaven in such a state? It is not possible. I would have you be as one of us. You will not refuse me this.”
Anthony swallowed. As if he could refuse such a request! “I am yours to command,” he said.
Mahomet smiled. “I will speak to your father, of course. But I shall myself sponsor you.”
*
That night, for the first time in four months, Anthony was summoned by the Kislar Agha, to meet him at midnight in an alleyway outside his father’s house.
This time it was a matter of secret corridors and whispered voices, as he was taken, again totally concealed in a jibbah and this time with his face covered as well, into the presence of the Emir Valideh.
Tonight she wore pale blue, and was more beautiful even than he remembered her.
“You prosper, young Hawk,” she said.
“I am in daily fear,” he confessed.
She smiled. “I doubt that. You are apprehensive of being made a catamite. It will never happen to you, my Hawk, even if my son forces you to submit to his caresses. You are too much your own man.”
“He wishes me circumcised, Highness.”
Mara inclined her head. “So I am informed.”
Anthony wondered which — or indeed how many — of the men and eunuchs who surrounded the Emir were her spies.
“Are you afraid?” the Emir Valideh asked. “It has the merit of improving cleanliness. Nor does it dull sensation; indeed it improves it.” She loosed his pants and put her hands inside. “I may regret it, because you are strange to me. But I doubt not that you will perform as well when pulled back. As for the pain, you are not a coward, my Hawk, and it is a trifling thing in any event.” She smiled. “I do not, of course, speak from personal experience. Do you then feel shame at such a public operation? It befalls all men, at least in the East.”
“Perhaps I feel all of those things, Highness.”
She laughed. “Yet are you twitching at the thought. Come, young Hawk, let us enjoy him for the last time, in his present state.”
She was as irresisti
ble as he remembered. Yet the thought of what lay before him hung at the back of his mind. He had no sooner climaxed than it occupied him fully again. He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at the lovely face below him, more serene than ever as Mara’s eyes were closed and her own passion spent.
“The operation is performed in public, Highness?”
Mara’s eyes opened slowly and languorously, and she stretched her body beneath his. “Oh yes,” she said. “Even the ladies of the harem are present.” Her smile became a laugh. “Behind a trellis, of course.”
*
“What must be, must be,” John Hawkwood decided grimly. “We must face it boldly. Only in that way lies survival.”
Mary was prostrate with anxiety, and Anthony was increasingly terrified himself, although he refused to admit it to his father. He was not sure where his fear really lay. A cut with the knife he supposed he could stand. What then? Only the childish fear of total exposure, perhaps.
The Emir declared an “evening of joy” the day before the ceremony, culminating in a great feast in the palace, when Anthony was ritually presented with a suit of new clothes, both tunic and breeches of soft white silk decorated with gold thread.
Wearing these, he was next morning led in procession around the town, to be applauded by men and women alike. He could not help but recall the parading of that unfortunate man immediately before his impalement.
Having been shown to the people, he was led into the council chamber which was absolutely crowded with officers and muftis and imams; it was not every day that the Emir himself presided at a circumcision. Anthony looked up quickly at the trelliswork high on the wall. It remained as dark and impenetrable as that in the castle on the Bosphorus, yet he could make out a fluttering of colours. The entire harem, no doubt. As if it mattered. He would never see any of them, except the Emir Valideh.
Anthony was escorted by his father and Halil. In the chamber itself, three cushions had been placed upon the very centre of the floor, and standing before them waited the Emir and the Grand Mufti, together with the two surgeons. Anthony was led up to them and officially given into their keeping, John Hawkwood having been carefully rehearsed for his part in the proceedings.
Anthony then sat on the middle cushion, while Mahomet sat on this right, and the chief surgeon on his left. For this occasion he was wearing special trousers, secured with a string which could be easily released.
The assistant surgeon now laid on the floor before them a silver bowl, in which was a knife which somewhat resembled a razor — and presumably as sharp — a little cap of white paper shaped like a hood, and another paper filled with a red powder. To these was added a small silver instrument with a cleft in it, as well as several linen bandages.
Meanwhile one of the imams was burning incense in a censer, and soon the pungent odour filled even the large room.
The Mufti stood before them and recited several appropriate verses of the Koran, then indicated that the ceremony could begin. Anthony was not supposed to move at all, but keeping still was intensely difficult when Mahomet knelt before him and unfastened the trousers, then caressed him.
“It is best when stiffened,” he explained.
Anthony could not avoid staring into Mahomet’s eyes, but as soon as the Emir resumed his seat, he raised his head to gaze at the trelliswork. If she was there, he wished to gaze at her during this vital moment.
The silver instrument was now used by the chief surgeon, kneeling before him, to gather up as much of the prepuce as possible. Once this was done he cut it away, sawing rather than slicing. The pain was sudden, but also brief. Anthony started, and felt Mahomet’s hand on his arm, holding him still. To cry out, or even to move, would be a sign of weakness. He continued staring at the trellis as, to his consternation, the surgeon lay down to take the bleeding penis into his mouth and suck it clean; the blood he spat into a basin held by his assistant.
Next he rolled the prepuce back as far as he could, leaving a dreadfully raw section of flesh. This he now smothered in the red powder, which he then covered with the paper cap, before binding the wound in the linen.
The Grand Mufti was reading more verses from the Koran while Anthony was assisted to his feet. His legs felt weak, but Mahomet was there to guide him forward to some clean cushions, where again he sat, this time facing back into the room towards the assembly. Mahomet clapped his hands and everyone sat down, while eunuchs hurried forward with the bowls of food. The feast commenced.
“I feel about to faint, O Padishah,” Anthony muttered.
“You will not faint; you are a man,” Mahomet urged him.
“Certainly I cannot eat,” Anthony protested, as couscous was placed in front of him.
“You must eat,” Mahomet told him. “No one else may until you have taken a mouthful.”
Anthony hesitated, then pushed his sleeve back and thrust his hand into the pot. He located a piece of meat, rolled it in the semolina, and conveyed it to his mouth. It was hot and tasty, and suddenly he was hungry.
Mahomet smiled. “It is good,” he said. “Within a few hours the pain will have stopped. Within three days you will be strong again. And then…I will give you a wife.”
*
Mahmun Pasha bowed low. “Her name is Laila, O Padishah.” He trembled from the honour of having the Emir inside his house. This day might make his fortune.
“Bring her to us,” Mahomet commanded.
Mahmun Pasha bowed again, and signalled to the eunuchs guarding the door of the chamber. This was a small, private room, the mabeyin, which connected Mahmun’s harem with the selamlik, the larger part of the house reserved for men. Only the Emir and Anthony were present, but now into the room there came two young men, brothers of the girl, walking on either side of a white-clad, heavily veiled figure.
“Her age?” Mahomet asked.
“She is sixteen, O Padishah.”
Mahomet nodded, and glanced at Anthony. “Is she too old?”
Anthony gulped. They were speaking Turkish, and the girl would know what was being said. “By no means.”
“Sixteen is old,” Mahomet said. “Is there not a saying that there are but three things in life a man must do quickly? Those are to bury the dead, serve a guest, and marry off a marriageable daughter. You have been remiss, Mahmun. Uncover yourself, girl.”
The girl turned her head to look at her father, and received a quick nod. Her brothers stepped away from her.
The girl took the veil from her head, slowly and with some coquetry. It had completely encased her hair as well. Now the hair, long and black, fell about her shoulders, and Anthony gazed above the yashmak at the high white forehead, the luminous dark eyes.
“Why was she not presented to the Emir Valideh two years ago?” Mahomet asked.
“She was presented, O Padishah, but the Emir Valideh refused her.”
“Has she some blemish?”
“None, save…” Mahmun hesitated.
“Speak.”
“The Emir Valideh was displeased with her answer to a question, O Padishah. She commanded my daughter to be whipped for levity.”
Mahomet smiled. “I had heard of that, but I did not know it was this girl.” He glanced at Anthony. “Does this displease you, young Hawk? You can always whip her.”
“It does not displease me,” Anthony said. “If she can please me in other ways.”
His heart was beginning to pound. If he was going to be a Muslim, in all but actual belief, then he must live as one. And they took their pleasures as men who were lords of all they beheld…saving only that their own lives were at the mercy of the man who beheld them in turn. But he was close to that fount of power…and this looked like a very pretty girl. He did not suppose she could ever replace Mara Brankovich in his memory, but this girl he would possess. If there was a certain air of the slave market about this transaction, that made him even more eager.
“Well said, young Hawk,” Mahomet agreed, and looked at Mahmun Pasha. “Tell her to
remove the yashmak.”
The pasha looked astounded, the brothers angry.
“She is to marry a man from the West,” Mahomet told them. “He would look upon her face. This is his will. And mine.”
“But if he then refuses her…”
“It will be because she is unmarriageable. She is all but unmarriageable now. She is too old.”
Mahmun Pasha gulped and looked at his sons.
“And would you, also, look upon another man’s wife, O Padishah?” the girl suddenly asked in a low voice.
Mahomet’s head jerked, as he gazed at her. She did not lower her eyes.
Mahomet gave a shout of laughter. “I can see how easily you angered my mother, Laila,” he said. “No, I would not look upon another man’s wife. Unveil yourself to young Hawk alone.”
He turned his back on her.
Anthony could not help holding his breath as the girl looked towards him. Then she reached up and unfastened one side of her veil, allowing it to fall beside her cheek.
He found himself staring at pert, pretty features, softly rounded and yet possessing a determined little chin.
The lips were parted and were moist, as she had deliberately licked them immediately before. The nose was a shade too large for her face, but was not unattractive. And the eyes beckoned him down endless corridors of pleasure.
“Am I displeasing to you, my lord Hawk?” she asked.
Anthony had to lick his own lips.
“No,” he said. “No, you are very pleasing.”
Laila refastened her veil.
“I am pleased, too,” Mahomet said, turning round again. “You understand, lord Mahmun, that this irregular proceeding was necessary. But since young Hawk is pleased, you will benefit greatly.”
“I understand, O Padishah.” The pasha was now beaming.
“The ceremony will take place one week from today. I wish you joy, Laila.”
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