SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  Suleiman held her tighter. She was right, after his death she would be helpless, and so would his sons. Mustapha had given his word, and yet …

  He was relying on Mustapha's nobility. The boy was no butcher; he was as loyal as he was brave, there was no malice in him that he had ever discerned. His was the just hand for the banner of Mohammed. 'Mustapha is a good man.'

  'His mother still lives, and she hates me.'

  Gülbehar! When he died she would become the new Valide Sultan, head of the Harem. How hard would she press Mustapha to invoke the Kanun of the Faith? 'What would you have me do?'

  'Never die.'

  He smiled in the dark. 'We all die. It is God's path for us.'

  'Then I shall pray I have a voice in the Divan to protect me. Rüstem perhaps …'

  Yes, there was wisdom in that; Rüstem Pasha, his son in law would protect his wife and her brothers. He had proved his loyalty with Ibrahim. 'I will think about it.' '

  They had said no more about it. But soon afterwards, when Lütfi Pasha died of the pestilence, Suleiman ignored the usual laws of succession and proclaimed his own son in law the new Grand Vizier.

  The Man Who Never Smiled became the second most powerful man in the Osmanli empire.

  ***

  Abbas was ushered into the presence of the Vizier, executed his temenna and allowed his pages to lower his bulk to the carpet. The purple silk of his robe is as large as the royal tent, Rüstem thought. When he moves it's like a squadron of Yeniçeris buggering each other under a blanket.

  'May I extend my congratulations on your great fortune,' Abbas greeted him. 'God indeed smiles on you. To be Vizier of the greatest of all Osmanli sultans is a blessing almost too great to comprehend.'

  The Infinite had no hand in this, Rüstem thought. 'All thanks and praise to Him.'

  'However my mistress has asked me to remind you that though God is great there are times when his Bounty - as His vengeance - may need prompting by earthly angels.'

  What a pretty tongue you have, Rüstem thought. 'Tell your mistress I shall not forget her words and that I am exceedingly grateful for them.'

  'Well that is why I am here. To discuss the many ways you can prove your kind remembrance of her.'

  'Well, she wastes no time in calling in her favours,' Rüstem thought. He clapped his hands and the pages scurried away to fetch sherbets and halwa while they settled to their discussion.

  ***

  'You have heard the whispers in the bazaar?' Abbas asked.

  'The bazaaris do more than whisper, Abbas. They shout to each other in the bedestens how our Sultan has lost all appetite for war. What is there to be done? He finds glory now only in his rebuilding the city. He spends more times with his architects than his generals.'

  'We all worry that he is ignoring his duty to God, of course. But could there be those who seek to profit from it?'

  Please, Rüstem thought, you and your mistress care as much for his duty to God as you do for the price of melons in the fruit market.

  'You have heard these other rumours from the barracks?' Rüstem said.

  'Everyone in Stamboul has heard them.'

  The trouble has started, as always, in Persia. Shah Tamasp was once again raiding their eastern border, torturing and killing the muftis and flaunting his Sufavid heresies, growing bolder all the time while Suleiman wrote poetry and dictated laws and planned mosques in his summer yalis in Adrianople and Çamlica.

  Meanwhile his soldiers fretted behind the palace walls, hungry for action, growing more impatient day by day. All they talked of now was their adored Mustapha, waiting in the wings and sprouting the first gray in his beard. That one would not sit around drinking sherbet with his builders, they said. He would have taken us against the heretic Persian long ago. As soon as he takes the throne we will be on the march again, there will be more victories and more plunder.

  But not everyone awaited the new sultanate quite as eagerly. It will be the end for Hürrem, Rüstem thought. And when she goes, I go as well.

  From somewhere along the colonnaded gardens, a bell sounded the hour.

  'What would the Lady Hürrem have me do?'

  'Just remember where your loyalty lies.'

  Oh I shall never forget that, he thought. It lies where it always did. With myself. 'I am loyal to my Sultan above all things.'

  'Against anyone who might seek to bring him down?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then we rely on you to deal with this current threat to him.'

  There is no current threat, Rüstem thought, just the jabber of soldiers and eggplant vendors. But I see what you mean. This is our best opportunity to save our own necks. 'Assure your mistress that I remain her husband's faithful servant,' he said.

  Chapter 37

  Suleiman lay with his head in her lap, his eyes closed. Insects murmured in the garden but in the Harem it was cool, almost chill. Almost midday but the sun had not yet penetrated the plane trees and only a weak yellow light filtered through the windows.

  'You look tired, my Lord,' Hürrem said.

  'There is so much to do, little russelana, so much to do before I sleep.'

  'You should not work so hard.'

  But working hard is my duty, he thought. I have abrogated the day to day running of the Empire to Rüstem and the Divan so I can devote myself to the rebuilding of this city. Stamboul will be a worthier testimony to my reign than Rhodes, Mohacs or Buda-Pesth. When my grandfather conquered this city much of it was abandoned and derelict. Before I die it will have surpassed its former glory. I shall be able to shout: 'Justinian, I have outdone thee!'

  The focus of much of the building was the construction of imperial mosques for each one included a kulliye - a cluster of charitable institutions such as a hospital, a religious school, baths, a cemetery, a library, sometimes even a hospice and a soup kitchen. New quarters with new populations soon built up around them.

  The Sehzade Camii was already finished, as was Mehmet's tomb, and the Selimiye Camii at Fener, honouring his father. Now he had commissioned Sinan to start work on the Suleimaniye, on the site of the old harem. It would be his masterpiece; the stone cupolas and minarets Sinan had imagined would dominate the Horn and the city of the Seven Hills for a thousand years.

  He had also set himself the herculean task of drafting a complete legislature that would be the foundation of all future government. The thousands of kanuni that he was drafting would regulate the judgments of the Divans and give the Osmanlis, for the first time, a complete code of law.

  He prayed to God for hours to finish the task he had set himself.

  Hürrem stroked his cheek. 'So deep in thought, my Lord?'

  'I was thinking how quickly time slips by.'

  'Perhaps then you should not spend so much of it closeted with your scribes.'

  'I cannot rest until the work is finished. I cannot leave it to Mustapha, he is a great soldier and an able governor but he cannot apply himself to matters of law as I can. Besides other matters press on me. I must go to Persia. I cannot ignore the Shah's provocations any longer.'

  Hürrem frowned, pouting like a spoiled houri.

  'Now what is wrong?' he said.

  'Why send a professor to spank an errant child? Is Tamasp so great a king that he should warrant your individual attention?'

  'There is no choice.'

  'Of course there is. Send Mustapha. The Yeniçeris adore him; they will follow him anywhere.'

  A nerve in Suleiman's cheek twitched. 'Why do you say that?'

  'Have I offended you my Lord?'

  'What whispers have you heard concerning Mustapha?'

  'Nothing sinister my Lord. Indeed, I hear only good reports. They say he is a just good man, as you have always said. A great horseman, a brilliant commander.'

  'Too great perhaps,' Suleiman murmured.

  'Can a man be too great?'

  'I thought you were afraid of him.'

  'You assured me I had nothing to fear. You know yo
ur son and I do not. I trust your word.'

  'I do not fear him as a Sultan when I am dead. Yet sometimes I fear him when I am still alive. I fear the Yeniçeris.'

  'They will never love him as they love you. You gave them Belgrade, you gave them Rhodes, you gave them Buda-Pesth.'

  'That was a long time ago. Many of the young recruits in the army now were not even alive when we took Rhodes.'

  'But you told me yourself that Mustapha is a just man, a good man. Do you think he would intrigue against you?'

  Well do I? Suleiman wondered. It had been so long since he had seen him. He still thought of him as a lively bright-eyed boy, but he was a man now with grey in his beard. He was capable and he was ambitious; how could he not feel impatient?

  But no, it was his own Yeniçeris that kept him awake at night. They were the elite of the army; full time professionals who had made them masters of Europe and Asia. Most of the armies they fought against were made up of noblemen who had brought their peasants along with them as infantry. Whoever ruled the Yeniçeris ruled the world.

  They owed their allegiance to the same man; it was the Sultan who fed them each day and this was reflected in their battle standards - a soup kettle was emblazoned on all on their standards - and command structures. Their general was the Chorbaji-bashi - the Head Soup Ladler. His second command was the Ashçi-Bashi, or head cook. Each man had a spoon in a brass socket sewn in front of his cap.

  Their ranks were replenished from the devshirme; recruits they were toughened with manual labour in the palace gardens or in the shipyards. They were taught unquestioning obedience to their generals and lived harsh celibate lives in Spartan barracks on poor pay; the only way they could hope to enrich themselves was by the plunder they took in battle. It was why the loved Selim the Grim so much; they were never short of loot in those days.

  But it was also the Yeniçeris who had forced his grandfather form the throne; and Suleiman had never forgotten how once, early in his reign, they had over turned their kettles outside their barracks as a symbol of revolt. Even though the rebellion had been quashed he had been forced to increase their wages. Even twenty years later he still glanced uneasily at their cook-kettles each Friday as he rode through their barracks in the First Court on the way to the mosque.

  In theory they were his slaves; but with their constant demands for war and loot, and the continuing threat they posed to security, he wondered sometimes if he was not theirs.

  He tried to explain this to Hürrem. 'There have been times when I have gone to war just to satisfy them, even though I deemed it unwise. If they can rule me, perhaps they can rule him.'

  'How far is Manisa from Stamboul?'

  'When my father died I rode here in five days to claim the throne.'

  'Then if you fear him, Lord, give Bayezid his seat. Send Mustapha east to Amasya or Karamania.'

  'Manisa is the traditional seat of the chosen shahzade. He will think I have abandoned him in favour of your son.'

  'He knows you cannot give him guarantees.'

  'I cannot do it to him.'

  'Then let us speak no more of it then. If Mustapha is a good and just man, what do you have to fear? He will not try to manipulate the Yeniçeris against you.'

  Manipulate them against me? Could he do that? If he did, I would lose not only my sultanate, but everything I have worked all my life to build. I have dreamed of an Osmanli Empire outside of tents and warring. Soon my nomad tribesmen will have a capital boasting the finest architecture in the Orient. Literature, painting and music are flourishing. We have left behind the barbarity of the past; the peaceful succession from myself to Mustapha is to be proof of that.

  The next day he spoke to Rüstem in private audience. He set his seal on a letter commanding Mustapha to leave Manisa and take his family and court to Amasya, in the east, twenty six days ride from Stamboul.

  Pera.

  Ludovici Gambetto knocked softly before entering Julia's bedroom. She was sitting up in the bed, waiting for him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. There was something he wanted badly to say to her, but he could not find the right words.

  While he hesitated she reached up and pulled out one of the hairs at his temple. 'Gray hair!' she said.

  He pulled away from her. 'Nonsense!'

  She was laughing. 'At last! I thought you would never grow old!'

  'I was in the kitchen. The cook threw flour at me.'

  'It's a gray hair. There must be others. Do you want me to look?'

  'It is just a trick of the light.'

  'Well, I have them. Look!' She pulled back her widow's peak and pointed them out. 'See. With my hair so black you cannot mistake them.'

  'You still look beautiful to me.'

  'Good,' she said. She took his face in his hands and kissed him.

  It was the first time she had ever done anything like that. It took his breath away. He let her pull him onto the bed. 'Oh, Julia,' he whispered.

  ***

  Afterwards he lay beside her while she slept, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breast in the candlelight. He traced the contours of her cheek with his fingers. She was just exquisite, a work of art; and until tonight, like a beautiful painting or a faience in one of Suleiman's mosques, that was all she had been to him. Something wonderful to look at, even when they were joined.

  Tonight, something in her seemed to have shifted.

  It was not that she was incapable of great emotion, of course. Her relationship with Sirhane, for instance. A few months ago the Syrian had left for Amasya with her husband, who had been appointed to the shahzade Mustapha's bodyguard. Julia had pretended to be ill; she did not eat for days nor did she leave her room.

  He was not a fool.

  He tried to understand; Sirhane had been the only real friend she had perhaps ever had. After all, with Abbas and Sirhane she had had a choice. He had been forced on her and she had been obliged to be grateful to him.

  Another man might have felt betrayed, or furious, or both. But instead it gave Ludovici hope. Be patient, he told himself. One day she might feel this same way about you.

  Her door had been locked to him for week, but he had not tried to force himself on her, and one night she had left the door to her bedroom open and he had gone in as if nothing had ever happened. You cannot make someone love you, he thought. You just have to give them the opportunity.

  Amasya

  Clumps of cobalt forget-me-nots pushed through the patches of hard snow. Wild ducks rose from the grass, their wings whirring as they flapped away, panicked by their approach.

  Mustapha turned his horse away from his escort and waited for Çehangir. Out here with only the wind for company he knew they would not be overheard.

  'A fine day's hunting,' he said.

  Çehangir looked flushed and physically tired. 'Yes, a wonderful day.' They rode together for a short while in silence while Mustapha decided how to best broach the subject on his mind. 'How is our father?' he said, finally.

  'He suffers badly with the gout. It gives him a foul temper. I stay out of the way best I can.'

  'Does he seem troubled?'

  Çehangir seemed ill at ease with the question. 'I see him only rarely. I don't know.'

  'Does he speak to you of me?'

  'Is something wrong between you?'

  'Is there? I do not know.'

  'You are the shahzade,' Çehangir said, as if this was the talisman to all his troubles.

  'One can be shahzade for too long,' he said. The sun had retreated behind the mountains and there was ice in the air.

  'Suleiman loves you,' Çehangir said.

  Does he? Mustapha wondered. Then why did he send me out here? Why have I not seen him in so long?

  He could smell snow on the wind. 'We must hurry,' he said. 'The mountains are bitter here at night, even in spring.'

  Mustapha patted his half-brother on the shoulder and together they rode back to join their escort. He wondered what his half brother
was not telling him. Or perhaps no one except the Hasseki Hürrem knew what Suleiman was thinking any more.

  ***

  The fortress was perched high in the mountains overlooking the Green River. In the courtyard the Yeniçeri guards stood motionless in their leather winter cloaks. Torches set in the walls set their shadows dancing over the cobbles.

  In a room high above them, a page in a turban of apricot silk set a silver jug of steaming black coffee on the low table beside Gülbehar's divan. She warmed herself by the charcoal brazier as she waited for her son.

  He burst in, his face bronzed by the cold wind. He has been hunting, she thought, and has ridden hone in the dark, even though he knows the dangers of ice and swollen rivers this time of year.

  He kissed her hand and settled on the divan beside her. Nearly forty years old now, and he still has the energy of a raw youth. Which is just as well because he will be an old man by the time he is Sultan. If only Suleiman would spend more time on the battlefield, in harm's way..

  'How are you, Mother?'

  'I am well. Here, I have had the kiaya fetch us coffee.' She clapped her hands and one of her gediçli stepped forward and poured the coffee into two silver cups.

  It was scalding and laced with honey. She disliked its bitter taste but she had heard that it was now the fashion in Stamboul to drink it. 'So, now I hear Rüstem has reduced your allowance.'

  Mustapha grinned. 'Does the shahzade have no secrets?'

  'Not from his mother.'

  'Do not upset yourself. It is nothing.'

  'Nothing! It is an insult!'

  'Her is trying to provoke me into doing something that would benefit him far more than it would benefit me. He will regret it when I am Sultan.'