SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  The wooden houses overhung the street and the morning sun could not penetrate here. It was chill.

  Suleiman forced his aching joints up the hill. He followed a hamal, one of the porters employed by the bazaar. The man was bent double, his hands almost at his ankles, boxes of figs roped in a huge tower on his back.

  He had done this once before, leaving the palace anonymously to test the opinion in the street. He had decided it was time to do it again.

  He stopped at one of the stalls and pretended to examine the peaches while he listened in on the hawker's conversation with his neighbour.

  'They say the Sultan will ride east again, against the Shah,' he heard him saying.

  'He should have gone years ago! The Persian has mocked us enough. We have the greatest army in the world and he leaves them sitting around in their barracks!'

  'Mustapha would not have let the Shah humiliate us like this,' Suleiman said, goading them.

  Both men looked at him warily. But the merchant could not help but take the bait. 'Mustapha is a great warrior. He would have had the Shah's head mouldering on the gate long ago.'

  'Perhaps it is time for Mustapha to be our new Sultan,' Suleiman said.

  The men both looked at him as if he had gone mad. 'Keep your voice down! The Sultan has spies everywhere!'

  'I am not afraid of the Sultan,' Suleiman said.

  'He only says what everyone else is thinking,' another man chimed in. 'Suleiman is an old man. I was still drinking my mother's milk when he last won a great victory.'

  'Still, he has done many great things,' the melon seller said. 'He has built us fine mosques, to the glory of God and his navies rule the Mediterranean.'

  'What good is his navy when the Shah of Persia lives in the desert? I tell you, it is only a matter of time before Mustapha gets tired of talking to goats in Amasya and sweeps Suleiman from his throne. And everyone knows it!'

  'Be still!' the merchant said to him and then turned to Suleiman. He looked angry and obviously suspected Suleiman for a spy. 'If you want to buy some peaches let me see your money. If not stop bruising the fruit and go away and talk someone else's head off their shoulders.'

  Suleiman shrugged and walked away. He followed a donkey through the press, the wicker panniers on its flanks piled with cherries. The man's words still rang in his ears: 'It is only a matter of time before Mustapha gets tired of talking to goats in Amasya and sweeps Suleiman from his throne! And everyone knows it!'

  So everyone knew it, did they? Except him. Lost in thought he did not see the donkey lift its tail to defecate on the cobbles. Suddenly the Sultan of the Osmanlis, King of Kings, Lord of Life, Possess or Men's Necks, had shit on his shoes.

  Chapter 41

  Amasya

  A month later Rüstem arrived below the cliffs on the Green River with a squadron of Spahis of the Porte and an oda of Yeniçeris. He struck camp under the sombre walls of Mustapha's citadel, planted his four horsetail standard outside his tent, and waited.

  Rüstem heard Mustapha's approach. Unlike the camps of Christian armies, the Turks maintained order and an iron silence. There was no drinking and no gambling and except when in battle, prayers were observed five times a day. Not even a single rider could approach the camp without him hearing it.

  He heard the hoof beats first then an uproar, rolling like thunder through the lines, as if a skirmish of cavalry had broken through the lines. Rüstem went outside and waited.

  There were no more than two dozen riders, all but one wearing the scarlet silk jackets of Spahi cavalry. Mustapha was the only one in white. There were heron's feathers in his turban, held by a diamond clasp that flashed in the morning sun so that Rüstem had to raise a hand to shield his eyes.

  The Yeniçeris ran through the camp after him, blue coats flapping, letting loose a deafening ululation that echoed from the cliffs until the noise seemed to surround them on all sides. Now they milled around him and his escort, still whooping, happy to eat the dust of the Chosen. Mustapha did not acknowledge their acclaim. He kept his eyes fixed on the royal tent.

  Rüstem had his bodyguards drawn upon either side. God help me in my sorrow! he thought. Dust drifted in an orange cloud over the Vizier and his generals. Rüstem spat grit from his mouth.

  The shahzade dismounted and the cheers faded dramatically away. They waited; a savage, shuffling mass. He executed a swift temenna. 'Where is my father?'

  'He is unwell. He has appointed me as Seraskier for the campaign.'

  Rüstem tried to hide the play of emotion on his face. 'How ill is he?'

  'His physicians say his malady is not mortal. But he could not bear the rigors of a long campaign.' Rüstem looked beyond Mustapha. Thousands of his men were watching this exchange, some just a few paces away. 'I have never heard such loud cheers. Not even for the Sultan.'

  'They cheer me because I am his son.'

  'Of course. Let us withdraw inside. The dust has parched my throat.'

  Rüstem led the way inside his pavilion. Pages brought halwa and rosewater and then Rüstem produced a letter from inside his robe. He handed it, without comment, to Mustapha.

  It was the letter offering marriage to the Shah's daughter, under Mustapha's tugra. 'This is monstrous,' Mustapha murmured.

  'You deny it?'

  'Deny that I would offer an alliance to an enemy of our Empire and of Islam? What do you think?'

  'It bears your seal.'

  'It is a forgery, of course. Has my father seen this?'

  'Of course.'

  'And what does he say?'

  'I am not privy to his deliberations. What is your reply?'

  'I smell your stink on this!' he said and threw the letter in Mustapha's lap.

  'I am not your enemy, Mustapha. Those soldier outside are your enemy. They cheer too loud for you.'

  'I have never and will never say or do anything against my father. He knows that.'

  'He awaits your reply.'

  'He shall have it.'

  'First I have orders from the Sultan himself. You are to assemble your troops and accompany me on the campaign against the Persian heretics. Under my command.'

  'I shall do as he orders,' Mustapha said with disgust and got to his feet. He left without speaking another word.

  After he had gone Rüstem sent for the Aga of the Yeniçeris. He was a fair haired wiry man, a Slav, the left side of his jaw gone where he had taken grapeshot during the siege of Rhodes. The Bird of Paradise plumes on his cap rustled as he performed his sala'am. He stood to receive his orders.

  'You should prepare a squadron of your best men. Mustapha is to be taken from the Palace tonight and returned to Stamboul in chains.'

  The Aga hesitated. For a soldier trained from a child to unquestioning obedience, it was a startling reaction. Finally: 'As you command,' he said.

  'The men should be ready at dawn. That is all.'

  The Aga was so easy to read. His true intentions lit his face like an illuminated page of the Qu'ran. This would be so simple. As simple as Hürrem had promised it would be.

  Topkapi Saraya

  The Golden Road led from the Harem mosque past the Sultan's apartments and through the haremlik to a tower. Hürrem's silk kaftan rustled on the cobbles. She threw open a small door and followed a darkened staircase up to the Dangerous Window. When she got there, she sat down close to the taffeta curtain and peered through a small chink in the curtains. Through the latticework, she could just glimpse the marble pillars of the Divan. She could not see much, but she could hear everything.

  'You are sure of this?' she heard a man say. It was Suleiman. He had returned to his duties in the Divan in Rüstem's absence.

  'My information is utterly reliable.' She did not recognize this other man; one of Rüstem's army of bureaucrats, no doubt.

  'There is no chance that your spy has made a mistake?'

  She heard the man cough with embarrassment. She imagined the Sultan's use of the word 'spy' had distressed him. 'I have my inform
ation from several sources. The Venetians in Pera are convinced that Mustapha is about to launch a rebellion. The bailo himself has sent a chaush in secret to Amasya with a letter. We do not know the contents, but we may surmise with some accuracy that they are making accommodations with him.'

  How satisfying, Hürrem thought, to hear one's own rumour repeated in the Hall of the Divan as a hard truth! Abbas had done his work well. For years she had given him little titbits of the truth to feed the Italians. Now they had swallowed the big lie whole.

  Suleiman could not see the Lord of Life but she could imagine his face. It would be as if he were straining to break wind. She almost giggled aloud and put her knuckles into her mouth to restrain herself. I am brilliant, she thought.

  'I still do not believe this,' she heard him say.

  'My Lord, my inform-'

  'Enough! I do not want to hear any more about your spies!' Suleiman stamped out of the hall.

  Hürrem hurried away as well. Her Sultan would surely summon her for his solace for this latest blow. She must be there to comfort him.

  Chapter 42

  Amasya.

  An angry murmur rose from the camp. Where was the discipline now? Rüstem thought. It was like the drone of bees disturbed by a foraging bear. The two solaks on guard outside the pavilion shuffled nervously at their posts.

  The discharge of the harquebus sounded like cannon fire and the echo resounded from the cliffs long after the man had fallen, clutching his chest. The second drew his sword in a futile effort to defend himself and his post. There were more flashes, like sheet lightning, and he screamed and fell, clutching his face.

  Their assailants rushed from the shadows. They paused to deliver the finishing blows to the two men thrashing in pain on the ground and then rushed inside the tent. Rüstem recognized only one of the men, the Aga with the scar on his face, though it was plain from their uniforms that they were all his Yeniçeris.

  Rüstem mounted his horse and turned to the captain of the Spahis, who waited alongside on the ridge above the camp. 'It seems we are faced with a rebellion.'

  'So it appears.'

  'It is fortunate I am not in my pavilion. I imagine those butchers are about to fire their harquebuses into my mattress.'

  On cue, there was a loud bang, followed by another.

  'We must ride hard back to Stamboul and report this to the Sultan. Ley us hurry, in case Mustapha comes after us.' He spurred his horse and disappeared into the darkness with his escort. They circled the encampment and headed west.

  ***

  Gülbehar had been woken from her sleep with the news of the rebellion in Rüstem's camp. She sat shivering in her ermine robe, huddled around the glowing coals of a brazier. Sirhane entered and performed her sala'am. She looked dazed still from sleep and her hair was unkempt.

  Her husband was Mustapha's equerry. She thinks she is a widow, Gülbehar thought, believes that is why I have summoned her.

  'Your husband is safe,' she said.

  Sirhane's shoulders sagged with relief. 'Thanks be to God …'

  'But there is danger, for all of us now.'

  'We will leave Amasya?'

  Gülbehar shook her head. 'There is nowhere to run.' She stared into the coals. 'There was a rebellion at the royal camp tonight. The Yeniçeris tried to murder Rüstem Pasha.'

  Sirhane gaped at her, not understanding.

  'Mustapha did not incite them to this. If only he had, there would be no danger. But when Suleiman hears of this, he will certainly blame him for it. I need your help.'

  'My help?'

  'If Suleiman moves against my son, he will move against his household too. Your husband will be executed, his property confiscated and you will be exiled. You will end your days as a beggar. Is that what you want?'

  Sirhane shook her head.

  'Your fortunes are tied to ours now. So you will have to act quickly. You remember the Kislar Aghasi, do you not?'

  'A good man, as I remember him.'

  'I want you to go to Stamboul and find him.' She leaned forward. 'I want Hürrem dead. Offer him anything. Anything! If he can do this for me my son will become Sultan and Abbas may have anything he desires. Persuade him, Sirhane. For my sake - and for yours, persuade him to do it!'

  Chapter 43

  Topkapi Saraya

  Suleiman was hunched on his throne, as if his chest had collapsed inwards and his chin and shoulders no longer had anything to support them. He stared at Rüstem without speaking. The only movement was the flaring of his nostrils as he breathed.

  'It grieves my heart to bring you this news,' Rüstem said. 'I rode here in fear of my life. Yet it was not my life that I held so dear, but yours.'

  Suleiman moaned deep in his chest. 'Did Mustapha order this?'

  'I do not know, my Lord. The Yeniçeris came in the middle of the night and killed my guards hoping to find me defenceless in my tent. I was forewarned and was thus able to escape.'

  'How many?'

  'I do not know. But the Aga led them.'

  Suleiman shook his head.

  'What about Mustapha? You met with him?'

  'When he rode into camp the Yeniçeris cheered him till they were hoarse. They shouted that he would lead their standards to the House of War. I heard many of them say you were now too old to lead them and that I was just a clerk with no skill as a general. They clamoured for the shahzade.'

  'You showed him the letter?'

  'He said he was not answerable before any but God. And since I was not the Divine he had nothing to say to me. He also said … he also said that I should write my final letters to my family. He said that the next time I saw Stamboul it would be from a pike on the Ba'ab-i-Sa'adet.'

  'Those were his words?'

  'They were, my Lord.'

  The cry of anguish startled the Vizier as no sudden act of violence ever could. The Sultan threw back his head and wept.

  He dismissed his Vizier. Rüstem hurried out of the audience hall, astonished and delighted that his lie had worked so well. It had been a great risk, of course, but he had always been confident that Hürrem knew her man.

  ***

  The summer garden was heavy with the scents of herbs and roses and the rhythm of the cicadas was hypnotic. It would be so easy just to lie here in Hürrem's arms and forget that the careful tapestry of the future that he had woven was unravelling in his hands.

  Every law he had made, every foundation stone he had laid, every campaign he had fought had been with one intention; that one day he could pass the banner to Mustapha, knowing all he had achieved was in safe hands. Sedition would undo everything. The Osmanlis would return to the blood and barbarity of the past.

  Perhaps the Yeniçeris were right, perhaps he was too old to lead them. But the burden of the sultanate was his until death, that was the law, and to allow Mustapha to usurp it would be to bathe his grandchildren and their grandchildren in blood.

  'Do not listen to any of them,' Hürrem whispered. 'Be proud that you have a son the Yeniçeris love so dearly. You are his father. His sense of duty will stop him making use of this uncanny power he has over them.'

  'If you are wrong about this, you and your sons are in mortal danger.'

  'You yourself are the source of my esteem for him. Yes, it terrifies me if these reports are true. I would rather believe the Yeniçeris acted alone without his knowledge. If they did not …'

  They heard a great sigh above them and they both looked up, through the open shutters of the kiosk. The city's population of storks, who nested each year on the domes and roofs and minarets, had all taken to the air over Stamboul, flying south for their first reconnaissance ahead of the winter migration. Thousands of them trailed across the sky.

  'Time is running out,' he said. 'Summer is nearly over. I must ride east with the army or I will lose the throne.'

  'What will you do?'

  'I do not know. Who might guide me in this?'

  'Abu Sa'ad, perhaps?'

  Suleiman
considered. 'Perhaps,' he said.

  ***

  Abu Sa'ad watched the Kislar Aghasi devour almost the entire tray of halwa the pages had put in front of him. He ate slowly and with great determination but with the utmost delicacy. He wore an expression of ecstasy on his face like a dervish when they first went into trance. When he had finished he washed down the honeyed cakes with a little iced sherbet.

  He settled back on the cushions. 'I have a message from the Lady Hürrem,' he said.

  'May God preserve her,' Abu Sa'ad murmured.

  'It seems she has found great comfort in the Faith.'

  'She has been most diligent in her studies of the Qu'ran.'

  'It now appears she wishes to glorify God in a way that will endure beyond mortal clay and preserve the Faith through the centuries.'

  'God shall smile upon her.'

  'She intends shortly to make over a great part of her personal fortune in the form of a waqf - that is, she will place it in trust, so that more mosques may be built and maintained in the city.'

  The mufti bowed his head in acknowledgment. 'Her generosity becomes such a great lady.'

  'She says it is your inspiration that has persuaded her to do this. She says it is you that has led her to the one true faith and she sees, too, how you comforted the Sultan in his hours of trouble. She asks only that you continue to do your work with all wisdom.'

  It was some moments before the mullah understood what was required of him. He stroked his beard in thought. 'The troubles in the East weigh heavily on the Lord of Life at the moment.'

  'Oh, were that his troubles were resolved!' Abbas said. 'The Lady Hürrem has prayed night and day for God to help him resolve his heart ache. She would give anything to have these burdens lifted from her lord's shoulders.'