SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  'The Suleiman you knew was a boy who simply did what his father did. I am my own man now.'

  Ibrahim knew he had already pushed too far, but he could not hold his tongue any longer. He heard the blood drumming in his ears. 'She wants Mustapha dead so one of her sons will be Sultan!'

  Suleiman did not answer for a long time. When he did, his voice was devoid of emotion. 'You have been my friend a long time, Ibrahim. Do not make me hate you.'

  'My Lord …'

  ' … Go now. I must think.'

  Ibrahim rose to his feet and left the room. Damn her! Perhaps he had already left it too late. If Suleiman's mother, the Valide, was still alive, she would have known how to bring him back from the edge. But there were no more restraints on his character now.

  ***

  The Enderun was the inner school of the palace, where the princes were groomed for lives of leadership along with the cream of the devshirme. Aside from the princes, whose blood had been diluted by generations of concubines, none of the other boys were Turks. The young Christian slaves who were brought there were taught that they no longer possessed any family, any country, or any future outside of the Sultan.

  They learned the Qu'ran in Turkish, Arabic and Persian; they were trained in pike and lance throwing as well as music, embroidery and the care and training of falcons and dogs. They were taught good manners, leatherwork and weapon making as well as manicuring, haircutting and turban dressing.

  Their lives were strictly regulated; they had a bath daily, and a manicure and pedicure every week. They were given a fresh handkerchief each day and a haircut once a month. Discipline was strict. The white eunuchs who were charged with their education looked for all the world to Selim like mummified old women.

  Graduates of the Enderun learned not only how to become soldiers but were taught also all the principles of statecraft and courtly behaviour. For six years they would not leave the palace, undergoing a constant process of culling. The best would be inducted into the Palace system, as treasury clerks or masters of the wardrobe and might become pashas or governors in time. Others would become officers in the Spahis of the Porte, the Imperial Cavalry.

  Only Selim and Bayezid and Çehangir attended the Enderun through hereditary right and not through merit, a distinction that was only painless for Bayezid, whose easygoing charm and proficiency on horseback had earned him the respect and affection of his tutors and classmates.

  For Selim, every day was a nightmare. He longed for the day when power would disguise his shortcomings. His only consolation for life's disfavour was Çehangir. He was seven years younger, a hunchback and a cripple. If God had been cruel to Selim He had been entirely vicious to Çehangir.

  His crippled brother had been sent to the Enderun when he was eight years old. For amusement Selim had taken to following him across the courtyard every morning, trailing one leg, shoulder hunched, head bowed, imitating his curious lopsided walk. It won him some grudging laughter from his classmates and finding a softer target was the best means of deflecting ridicule from himself. Besides, Çehangir never complained. How could he? He already knew he was an embarrassment.

  One day Bayezid saw him doing it. He was aping Çehangir as he went across the yard, lapping up the laughter from his audience, when suddenly everyone went quiet. Someone tripped him up and he found himself lying on his back, his younger brother standing over him, fists clenched.

  Bayezid cuffed him smartly across the face. 'That's our brother! What do you think you're doing?'

  Selim scrambled to his feet, aware that every eye was on him. His cheeks burned with humiliation. He could not let his younger brother best him. He charged.

  Bayezid stepped easily aside and tripped him again, throwing him headlong on the hard cobblestones. Selim yelled in pain. He thought he had broken his knee. He lay there sobbing.

  'If I see you mocking our little brother again I'll break your head!' Bayezid hissed.

  The other boys moved away, whispering and laughing, this time at him. After a while the pain eased and he sat up. He could barely straighten his leg and his elbow was bleeding. He wiped the bitter tears from his eyes.

  The courtyard was empty now; only Çehangir remained., He shuffled over and offered Selim his hand. Selim ignored him and got to his feet by himself. He turned his back on him and limped away.

  ***

  Mohammed Dürgün had heard what they called him: The Man Who Never Smiled.

  Yet there was nothing remarkable, or even fearsome, about him. He looked like any one of the hundred clerks in the palace.

  He did not look up as Mohammed entered. He stared at the document on the table in front of him.

  'You are Muhammad Dürgün?'

  'I am.'

  'You are from Kirklareli?'

  'Yes.'

  'Your father served at Mohaçs and the siege of Buda-Pesth?'

  'He did.' Mohammed hesitated, unsure what to do or say next. He hoped that what he had heard about this man was true or he had come all this way for nothing. 'He died last year, from the pestilence.'

  'If so, then by law the lands return to the Sultan.' Rüstem Defterdar took a quill from the desk and made a notation on the parchment in front of him.

  'Is there …' He paused not knowing how to say it. He rode two days to get here, just to try and save the lands Selim the Grim had given his father after the siege of Belgrade. 'Is there not some way?'

  Rüstem paused. 'Your father's name was Hakim Dürgün?'

  'Yes.'

  'According to my records you are mistaken. He is not dead. It says here he still lives. He should return to the Treasury the equivalent of one asper per sheep per year. Do you have any questions?'

  'No, Defterdar.'

  'Then that is all.'

  He left the Defterdar's office, stunned at the simplicity of what had just happened. The Fatih's laws strictly forbade any fiefdom passing from father to son. Yet in the few moments he had been with the Defterdar, he had become the owner of his father's land - for a price. His father had been taxed at one asper per two head of sheep. Rüstem had doubled the tax in order to mislay the record of his father's death. Mohammed knew where that extra money would go.

  Still, it was worth it.

  He only wished Rüstem had looked up. He would have liked to have seen the colour of his eyes.

  Chapter 4

  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,'

  Chapter 5

  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 odalisques, 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'ams 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 Gaiours.'

  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.'

&nbs
p; 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.'

  Chapter 6

  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?'