SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  Suleiman threw back his head and roared. Such a calculating mind was wasted on a woman. She would have made a fine Vizier. Though perhaps it was not wasted at all; not while she spoke only to him. 'One day I will make you my Grand Vizier,' he said.

  'Perhaps you should. I will have Ibrahim as my scribe.'

  'He would die first.' He grew serious. 'Do not mock him. Without Ibrahim we would not have this time together. He is the only one who can help me shoulder the burden.'

  Hürrem stroked his beard, watched the play of thoughts on his face. She chewed on her bottom lip, a sure sign that she had something else on her mind.

  'What is it little russelana?'

  'It is nothing.'

  'Tell me.'

  She looked up into his face. 'This Ibrahim. Do you not worry sometimes that .. that he might … abuse… his power?'

  'Ibrahim? Of course not.'

  'There are such rumours in the Harem. Because I never know the truth, I worry for you.'

  'What rumours?'

  'I do not wish to speak against Ibrahim. I know he doesn't like me, but that is not the reason.'

  'But what rumours?' he repeated.

  'That he mocks Islam and consorts with Gaiours. That when he meets with ambassadors he calls himself Sultan.'

  He laughed. 'Women's fantasies!'

  'All right, I'm sorry. I should not repeat the stories I hear. You're right it is almost always vicious nonsense.'

  'Ibrahim is rash and boastful but he would never betray me.'

  'Do you forgive me?'

  'What is there to forgive?'

  She got to her feet. Her hair, hands and feet had been dyed with henna and there were thick circles of kohl around her eyes. It was her plan, for that day at least, to be like any of the scores of houris in the Harem.

  Without warning she performed the three conventional sala'ams expected from any odalisque brought to his bed for the first time. Then she unfastened the pearl buttons of the silk gömlek. Her nipples had been painted with hashish, a favourite trick of the Harem girls. When he suckled her breasts he would swallow some of the drug and it would enhance his climax later.

  Bare to the waist she dropped to her knees and approached the divan like a common slave. His breath caught in his throat. Just when he thought he knew all her tricks she surprised him. This was like their first night all over again.

  She kissed his feet in the traditional act of humility. He gasped as her fingers loosened his robes for her ministrations.

  She is my Harem, he thought. She is like a thousand women.

  The black deaf mutes who guarded the doorway could not hear his moans. But a peacock, rustling among the tulips beneath the window looked up startled. The Sultan's sighs of pleasure intermingled with murmuring of water from the fountains until the moon edged below the branches of the plane trees and the flames on the candles guttered and died.

  ***

  The city was a vast mosaic of colour, below the long fingers of the minarets and the gleaming cupolas of the mosques. The Kanun of the Fatih proscribed that all houses should be painted for the religion of their inhabitants; so there were clusters of grey houses where the Armenians lived, ghettoes of yellow for the Jews, while Turks themselves had red.

  It made the Defterdar's house easier to find. It was painted black, to signify a member of the Sultan's Court.

  Abbas rarely ventured into the crowded alleys of Stamboul, and he assured his anonymity now with a black ferijde. Rüstem's house had a private courtyard at the back. A page ushered him inside. Rüstem was seated in a kiosk at the rear. A marble fountain murmured nearby.

  Rüstem executed a brief temenna and indicated that Abbas should sit opposite him on the carpet. A page brought sherbets and laid a silver platter of pastries between them.

  'I have come at the request of the lady Hürrem,' Abbas said.

  Rüstem showed not a flicker of interest.

  'It seems that you have a common interest.'

  'What might that be?'

  'Yourselves.'

  Ah, a reaction. Not much, just a lifting of the eyes, a muscle working in the cheek. But something at least.

  'Explain yourself, Kislar Aghasi.'

  Abbas knew that Rüstem was corrupt, of course, but had kept his silence. In the Harem one did not spend a valuable currency like information too freely. It was hoarded, carefully, in case one needed to lift the mortgage over one's own head at a future time.

  As Defterdar, Rüstem was responsible for collecting taxes from the timariots, the feudal cavalrymen given small fiefdoms in return for their service in wars. On their death it was supposed to return to the Sultan. It was one of the basic tenets of the Osmanli system; only the Sultan could accrue hereditary wealth.

  Well, that was supposed to be how it worked.

  Abbas leaned forward: 'The Veil of Crowned heads has asked me to tell you about a man named Hakim Dürgün. It seems that last year he died of the pestilence. Yet he still farms his timar near Adrianople. A remarkably diligent ghost, do you not agree?'

  'Remarkable. I will look into it.'

  'You should also look into the case of another timariot in Rumelia who died four years ago. About the time you became treasurer, in fact. Since then he has taxed the farmers on his land eight aspers per sheep. And yet you have done nothing about this avaricious spirit. Is it because you are afraid of the dead or because his ghost passes you two aspers per sheep for yourself?'

  'How do you know so much about ghosts?'

  'Wherever there is a black man, I have a pair of ears. And there is not a palace or a treasury in the entire kingdom that does not have a supposedly deaf mute who hears everything.'

  Rüstem selected a pastry and chewed slowly. 'What is it you want? A cut of the business?'

  Abbas admired his calm. 'Nothing so common. Please. I have not come here to line my own pockets. The Lady Hürrem sent me.'

  'She does not need money.'

  'Of course not.'

  'A favour then?'

  'More than a favour. I think we are talking about an alliance.'

  For the first time he raised his eyes and looked directly at Abbas. They were November eyes, Abbas thought. Not cold, just grey and empty. 'That would be an interesting arrangement. Does she realize that Ibrahim is my patron?'

  'Of course. You did not think I would keep it from her?'

  'I think you only tell anyone what they need to know and no more.'

  'I understand you are to accompany the Vizier on the campaign in the east.'

  'What interest could the second kadin possibly have in a military expedition to Persia?'

  'None. Her interest is Ibrahim.'

  Rüstem frowned. 'What does she want from him?'

  'She is concerned for him. She worries that if he has become too besotted with his own power. His boasting is already the scandal of the court and the bazaars.'

  Why should she be concerned about it? I have heard she does not care for him overmuch but surely his arrogance cannot touch her in there.'

  'Her reasons are not your affair. But it seems the Vizier is heading for a fall, and she would like it very much if you hurried his downfall along. She would like evidence of his treachery.'

  'He is hardly a traitor.'

  'It does not matter to my mistress if he is or he isn't. Just that you collect evidence of it.'

  Rüstem selected another pastry while he thought this over. 'That might be difficult to do.'

  'Not too difficult, I hope. Or one night, when the Sultan is wrapped in the embrace of his second kadin., she will whisper to him how you have embezzled taxes from the timariots and corrupted the fiefs.'

  Rüstem did not look afraid. All that registered was a frown of disappointment, as if he had been outmanoeuvred at chess. 'And what reward should I hope for, should I prove a resourceful ally?'

  Abbas was surprised by the question. 'Your life?'

  'If we are bargaining, Kislar Aghasi, as you say we are, then I should like to count
er offer. Tell her that should I give her Ibrahim, I would like to enter into a more permanent arrangement with her. We might be very good for each other.'

  Abbas grunted in surprise. 'I will tell her,' he said.

  The Man Who Never Smiled almost did. But he restrained himself at the last.

  Later, as he made his way back to the palace, Abbas passed a dead horse that had been left in the gutter. The dogs had been at work on it and had dragged its entrails out through a hole they had torn in its stomach. Try never to fall, he reminded himself. Once your belly is supposed, even for a moment, they will rip out your guts without a second thought.

  Chapter 7

  Galata

  Galata was built on one of Stamboul's seven hills, just across the Horn from Seraglio Point. It was dominated by the Galata Kulesi, a round tower built by the Genoese as part of the city's fortifications. Tiny houses and shops clustered at its foot, next to the harbor, and this was where the Jewish and Genoese commission agents kept their homes. Berbers and Red Sea Arabs had warehouses here also, and filled them with spices, ivory, silks, glass and pearls. There were even small shops where wine and arak were served.

  The smell of fish and salt from the Bosphorus overlaid the dank urban stink.

  Ludovici also kept a house in the quarter, although no one ever lived in it. Its purpose was a safe house where he might receive his spies and pay baksheesh to palace officials. Endless comings and goings at his palazzo in Pera by government pashas might excite too much comment.

  The house was painted yellow, the colour of the Jews. It was sparsely finished. Most of the rooms were empty; the only room that was furnished was an upstairs audience chamber; there was a low cedar table and some cushions scattered about a rich Persian silk carpet. They belied the humble surroundings.

  It had taken four servants to ease Abbas' enormous bulk to the floor. He now concentrated his attention on the pastries piled on the silver plate in front of him. When they were gone he dipped his fingers daintily into a silver bowl proffered by another of Ludovici's servants. He belched politely into a silk handkerchief.

  He came once a month now, disguised in his black ferijde. Ludovici had tried at first to speak to him as he did in the old days, but the Abbas he had once known was gone. Aside from discussing politics he seemed to gain no pleasure from his visits, though he provided invaluable insights into the workings of the Topkapi. He never took baksheesh for his information. Ludovici wondered why he still came.

  There could only be one reason.

  'How is Julia?' he said, breaking the silence. It was always his first question.

  'She is well.'

  'Business is good?'

  'Thanks to your help.'

  Abbas nodded. That side of things did not interest him overmuch. 'You know she cannot stay in Stamboul much longer. It is no longer safe here. Not even in the Comunità Magnifica.'

  'What has happened?'

  'I cannot tell you that.'

  "But Abbas …'

  "Please. Get her out of Stamboul. As soon as you can.'

  'Where could she go?'

  'It doesn't matter as long as it is not Stamboul. I have done all I can to protect her, but the situation is impossible now. Do you understand?'

  'I will do what I can.'

  Abbas gripped his arm with one massive fist. 'No, that is not good enough. You have to get her out! Now!'

  'All right,' Ludovici said. What on earth could this be? 'Has someone found out about her?'

  'Just promise me that you will get her out of Stamboul.'

  Ludovici frowned. 'I promise,' he said. 'But ,,,'

  'Let us go to other business,' Abbas said and would talk no more about it.

  The Hippodrome

  Suleiman sat on a pure white Cappadocian horse, watching his march through the Atmeydani. Ferries were waiting to take them across to Üsküdar and Asia. Behind him, veiled and hidden behind a lattice grill, he could feel Hürrem watching him. The knowledge of her presence helped still his nagging doubts.

  The Hippodrome shook to the rumble of supply wagons and siege engines. Choking clouds of dust swept across the square whipped up by the horse's hoofs and the iron spiked shoes of his infantry.

  Ibrahim appeared through the haze, resplendent in a white cloak. 'Your blessing on our endeavour, my Lord. Would that you were with us!'

  'You must defend Baghdad against the devil.'

  'I will crush the Shah as you have commanded me!' He reined in his horse to review the army at Suleiman's side.

  First came the azabs; irregular infantry, criminals and jailbirds and cutthroats come to fight for loot or else die and go straight to Paradise. They had nothing to lose and were sent in first at every charge; 'moat fillers', Ibrahim called them.

  The regular cavalry - the Spahis of the Porte - thundered by, their horses caparisoned in gold and silver cloth, saddles studded with jewels, their conical helmets and burnished steel chain mail gleaming. They were spectacular in purple, royal blue and scarlet according to rank and regiment.

  Next came the Yeniçeris, enormous Bird of Paradise plumes waving in the wind like a moving forest, blue skirted cloaks swinging with every stride, muskets slung over their shoulders. The huge copper cauldrons that served as each regiment's standard went with them. A white banner emblazoned with the flaming sword of Mohammed fluttered in the wind, embroidered with gold text from the Qu'ran.

  Next came the dervishes, naked except for green aprons fringed with ebony beads, wearing towering hats of brown camelhair, chanting from the Qu'ran. Madcaps rode up and down the lines, long hair straggling from under their leopard skin caps, horses festooned with feathers. They were the crazy scouts, the religious fanatics who carried out the suicide raids no one else would attempt.

  At the rear came the Divan, judges in green turbans, viziers on horseback glittering with jewels. With them came the camels bearing a sacred fragment of the holy Ka'aba, lumbering under the brilliant green folds of the standard of Islam. A metal sanchak Qu'ran, in miniature and inscribed in bronze, jangled at the top of the standard.

  Finally there were the supply wagons, camels bowed under the weight of powder and lead, rumbling bronze siege cannon.

  I should be with them, Suleiman thought.

  'I will bring you back the Shah's head!' Ibrahim shouted.

  What was it Hürrem had said? Do you not worry sometimes that he might abuse his power?

  'We must regain Baghdad. As Defender of the Faith, I am sworn to protect it!' He felt a stirring of unease. I have put all my faith in you, Ibrahim. God grant that I have not trusted you too much.

  Pera.

  Julia was sitting on the terrazzo. Ludovici stopped on the steps on the way from the garden to admire her. Abbas was right, he thought. She is so beautiful. If only I could make her feel about me the way she felt about him.

  She is mine, but only because she has no choice. She is virtually a prisoner. She cannot leave my protection for fear of her life; having once been a concubine she may not return to Venice, for they would treat her like a whore. Serena would send her away to a convent.

  There is nowhere else for her to go.

  She looked up from her book. Ovid. So remote, like an angel carved from ice. She saw him watching her. 'Ludovici,' she said. He was wearing a rust-coloured kaftan, like a Turk. 'You enjoy playing the renegade, don't you?'

  'It has nothing to do with it. It's cooler in such hot weather.'

  'What is wrong? You look worried about something.'

  'We must talk,' he said to her.

  She fixed him with those ice blue eyes. A vision, as Abbas had once described her.

  He sat down, fidgeted, wondered how to start. Finally: 'Julia, you have been here under my protection for almost three years.'

  'And I have always been grateful to you for all you do for me.'

  'Are you happy here?'

  'Happy? What is happiness?'

  He shrugged. Well, I don't know, he thought. Meat and wine on the t
able, a silk doublet, a woman to warm the bed. 'You should be married.'

  'I am married. If Serena is still alive.'

  'I don't know if he is. You said he was sick the last you heard of him. He was an old man when you married him. I could make enquiries, find out.'

  'I don’t' really care about him.' She picked up her book.

  He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Their conversations always went this way. It was as if she had been scooped hollow with a spoon. She was broken. How to find repair?

  He felt like a father with a disgraced and unmarriageable daughter. What was he going to do about this?

  'What is wrong?' she said. 'You are staring.' He looked away, flustered. I wonder what she thinks about all the time? What goes on behind those ice blue eyes? Perhaps she read his mind, for she said, unexpectedly: 'Do you ever see him?'

  'Yes, sometimes.'

  'Does he ever ask after me?'

  'Always.'

  Her eyes glistened. 'Poor Abbas.'

  He reached across the table and took her hand. It was warm. 'I want you to be happy,' he said.

  'You have kept me safe. Isn't that enough?'

  ***

  The door was slightly ajar and the flickering candlelight danced on the marble floor. Ludovici paused in the shadows, deafened by his own heartbeat. His mouth went dry.

  He pushed open the door. Julia sat at her dressing table, combing out her hair. The silk of her nightgown shimmered in the light. A small cross glimmered between her breasts. She saw him in the mirror and froze. She set down the brush. 'Ludovici?'

  He imagined bunching her gown in his fists and tearing it side. 'Goodnight, Julia,' he said and gently shut the door.

  Chapter 8

  Azerbaijan.

  Rüstem had already calculated that, provided he did not commit himself too soon, he could profit from the Kislar Aghasi, regardless of how the dice fell. It was plain that there would soon be a confrontation between the Harem and the Divan; it was politic then to have a foot in both camps.