SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  Mustapha wondered if she should tell her about the letter and his conversation with Rüstem. He decided against it. 'The Yeniçeris already laud me as their leader. Where can I be safer than among them?'

  'Here! You will be safer here, in your fortress, far away from Suleiman and Rüstem!'

  'I must above all things obey my father. He has summoned me, I will go.'

  'And what if only his bostanji are waiting?'

  'He gave me my life. He has the right to take it back.'

  'No! He has no right! I gave you that life also, I suckled you at my breast and raised you from an infant! He has no right to take you from me!' Gülbehar doubled over, sobbing. Mustapha leaped up to stop her from falling. He cradled her in his arms and led her to the divan.

  He rocked her in his arms.

  Finally he whispered. 'I have to go.'

  Gülbehar gripped his arms, as if she could squeeze his defiance out of him. 'Take the sultanate. You have waited long enough. You have only to say the word and the Yeniçeris will rise with you. There is no need for bloodshed. Your own grandfather removed Bayezid from the throne and exiled him. It is within the law.'

  'It is against the law of Heaven. Suleiman taught me that.'

  'Of course he did!'

  'I cannot do it. It is impossible. I would rather die than dishonour my name before all the princes of the world and stain my soul before God.'

  Nothing would move him on this, she knew. They had had this same argument now for years. The minx had won. She could imagine her sprawled on her divan, laughing. Life was so simple if you believed in nothing but your own preservation.

  'My honour is worth more than any empire this world may give me. What sort of king shall I be if I give up my very soul to attain it? I shall rule without shame or I shall not rule at all.'

  'You are a fool.'

  'You know you do not mean that,' Mustapha said.

  'You let her win so easily!'

  He pretended not to hear her. 'He will not harm me, Mother. He is a man of honour, as I am.'

  No, she thought. He is not a man of honour, he is a man of law. They are spurs of quite different metal.

  'I will leave at dawn.'

  'Very well,' Gülbehar whispered. ' Go with God.' She let him kiss her hand. Her eyes followed him to the door, believing she would never see him again.

  When he had gone there were no more tears to weep. She sat by the window, watching the stars wheel across the face of the earth to new tomorrows, helpless in her prison, defeated by her own destiny, and her son's..

  Aktepe

  The camp was in silence.

  The smoke of damp fir wood clung to the air. Water carts creaked between the rows of tents, sheep scurried in choking clouds of dust to the butchers' tents. A group of blue-jacketed Yeniçeris played fortune dice by a charcoal brazier.

  When they saw Mustapha they jumped to their feet and crowded around his horse, as they had done at Amasya. Word quickly spread through the camp; the shahzade had come to lead them against the Persians! The shouts became a roar and carried through the camp to Suleiman's pavilion. He was in consultation with Rüstem and when they heard it they both fell silent and listened.

  'Padishah, Padishah! Emperor!'

  'Here comes the ghost of my father,' Suleiman murmured.

  The cheering continued for a long time, long after Mustapha had disappeared inside the pavilion he erected close to Suleiman's, waiting for the summons to appear and make his case against his accusers.

  But that night his accusers came to Suleiman first. The ghost of his Selim appeared at the foot of his bed. He held out his hands and in them he held the heads of his entire family, like so many bushel of apples.

  'Here, my son,' he said. 'Here is your future.'

  Chapter 47

  Dawn.

  All the previous afternoon and evening Mustapha had received the salutes of his generals in his tent, and now the camp was once again silent. The muezzin called the army to prayers; thousands of turbans were drawn up in rows, bobbing against a mauve sky.

  When Mustapha finished his prayers he made himself ready. He dressed all in white, as a token of innocence and put his letters of farewell inside his robe close to his bosom, as was customary for any Turk when facing danger.

  He mounted his Arab stallion and prepared to ride the few yards separating his tent from his father's pavilion, as demanded by tradition. His Aga and his equerry, Abdul Sahine, accompanied him.

  Mustapha knew the entire army was watching him. They all knew what was about to take place and why he had been summoned. Would they reconcile or would Mustapha stake his claim to the throne?

  Mustapha slid down from his saddle and removed the dagger at his waist. He handed it to Abdul Sahine. He saluted the solak guards who stood outside and went unarmed to his father.

  With this the Yeniçeris went back to their duties in orderly silence but not one of them had a mind for it. They all prepared to hail a new Sultan before sunset.

  ***

  The pavilion was enormous, divided into rooms by walls of billowing gold silk. The entrance had peacock blue and ruby red carpets and there were divans against each wall. A small silver topped table stood in the centre.

  'Father?'

  Mustapha pushed aside a curtain and stepped into the Audience Chamber. Empty. The tent whipped in the wind with a sound like a whip crack.

  Not quite empty. A black bostanji stepped from the shadows behind him. And another. Three more came from behind the curtain in front of him. One held a silken bowstring.

  He saw a shadow move behind the silk. 'Father?'

  The bostanji moved swiftly, barefoot. Mustapha was not afraid, just angry. He dodged the eunuch and stepped into the centre of the room. 'Father, listen to me first! Let me face my accusers before you condemn me! This is not just!'

  Outside he heard the rasp of steel, followed by shouting. He realized his Aga and Abdul Sahine were being attacked. His only chance was to slip past the bostanji. A prince could only be dispatched with a bowstring, his blood could not be spilled on the ground. If he could get back out of the pavilion, no one else could harm him. If he could reach the Yeniçeris he would be safe.

  But he would not demean himself that way. He had never run away from a fight before, he would not run now. 'Father, listen to me!'

  The bostanji-bashi tried to throw the silken noose over his head but Mustapha read his attention and squirmed away. He barrelled into one of the others and wrestled him to the ground. Another came from him but he jumped back and the man's impetus sent him sprawling across the silver table.

  'Father, I never once betrayed you! Why do you betray me now! Come out and speak to me!'

  'Will you never dispatch that which I bid you!' Suleiman wailed from behind the curtain.

  But the deaf-mutes could not hear him. Mustapha was his only audience. 'Call off your idiot assassins and let us speak like men! I am innocent! You stain your honour before the Empire and before God!'

  'Get it done!' Suleiman moaned.

  'Father, listen to what I'm saying!'

  ***

  Suleiman put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, willing it to be over. No, no, no! There could be no excuse for treason! The evidence was clear. Mustapha might try to mesmerize him with his candied words but he had seen and heard reason enough.

  If I let him speak, he will sway me. Then as soon as I am compliant again he will rally the Yeniçeris to him, as they had rallied to his grandfather. I will not let you take my throne, Mustapha. I have still so much to do.

  Yet you were my first son, the hopes of my youth.

  All my dreams lay with you.

  Now all my dreams rest with Selim.

  He tore aside the curtain. 'NO!' he shouted. 'Stop!'

  Too late.

  Mustapha lay at his feet, eyes open, the bowstring around his neck. Suleiman closed his eyes and turned away. He signalled to the mutes: 'Wrap him in the carpet and throw him outside the tent
.'

  He stood alone in the middle of the pavilion and waited. A soft moan, like the rushing of wind, passed through the camp. It rose to a keening of despair as the Yeniçeris approached the tent and saw what had become of their champion.

  There, he thought, there is your shahzade now! See what you have done. This is your doing, not mine! You wanted blood, all of you. Now you have it.

  Chapter 48

  'Give us Rüstem's head or we'll come and take it!'

  Strange how even now he seems so unruffled, Suleiman thought. I believe he is already calculating odds, measuring risk. The Yeniçeris swarm around my tent baying for his blood and it is like there are stone walls three feet thick between him and that mob, not just a few strips of gold and purple silk.

  'They blame you, Rüstem,' Suleiman said.

  'My lord, Mustapha was his own undoing.'

  The tumult was deafening. The entire complement of Yeniçeris, led by their Aga, milled at the entrance, their killiç drawn. All that held them back was two solaks and the sanctity of the Osmanlis.

  Yet if just one man should have the courage to stare down centuries of awe, he thought, then the tide would sweep them all up and swallow them.

  'They want a scapegoat,' Suleiman said. 'Since they do not dare lay a hand on their Sultan, they have decided that you will do.'

  Was there a flicker of uncertainty in Rüstem's grey eyes? I might do it, too, he thought and wondered at himself. Now I have done the worst thing I could imagine, I believe I am capable of anything.

  'Have you dispatched a chaush for Amasya, my lord?'

  Suleiman was impressed. Even facing death Rüstem kept a practical turn of mind. 'Yes. His wife and sons will shortly follow him to Paradise.'

  'Then we have nothing further to fear from him.'

  'Not from Mustapha, no.' Suleiman had to shout to raise his voice above the shouts of the soldiers outside. 'Do you not fear the Yeniçeris, Rüstem?'

  'They will do as you command.'

  'Will they? They were ready to put Mustapha on the throne at breakfast.'

  'But now it is midday and Mustapha is dead. The Yeniçeris are like dogs. They just need a master.'

  'And raw meat.'

  'Indeed. Feed them and point them an enemy and they will follow.'

  Suleiman tore aside the silk curtain at the entrance and went out to face them. Immediately they fell silent.

  He looked around at the thousands of faces, hands on his hips. How they hated him right now. And how he hated them. He would have had all of their heads on the gate at the Topkapi if he had his way. They were the ones responsible for killing his son.

  The Aga broke the crackling silence. 'We want Rüstem.'

  'Rüstem will be replaced. The gold seal of Grand Vizier will go to Ahmed, the second vizier. But you will not harm him. He is under my protection.'

  'He took our Mustapha from us!'

  'I took Mustapha from you!' He stared them down. He would have this Aga's neck when things simmered down, he promised himself. The man was an ingrate. 'I took Mustapha. I, your Sultan. And you shall bear it, and you shall do as I command now! Tomorrow we march on the Sufavids. There will be booty and women. If you want blood, let it be Persian blood.'

  'We want Rüstem,' the Aga said, stubbornly.

  'If you want him you must kill me first,' Suleiman said and drew the jewelled killiç from the scabbard at his waist. 'Who will be first to raise his sword against his Sultan?'

  They backed down, though it took considerably longer than he thought it would. But one by one the Yeniçeris turned their backs and went back to the camp. Finally only Suleiman and the Aga remained. 'Rüstem told me to arrest him,' he hissed. 'Did he tell you that?'

  'You possess the written order, in Rüstem's hand?'

  The Aga shook his head.

  'Then I do not believe you. It was just what I expected you would say.'

  The Aga turned and walked away. Suleiman went back inside. He threw everyone out and spent the next hour breaking every piece of furniture he could find.

  Amasya

  The missive was written in white ink on black paper. Gülbehar did not need to read it to know what it said; she had known from the moment she saw the Sultan's chaush dismount in the courtyard. No, she thought, I knew before then; her son's fate had been sealed the moment he rode out of the gates.

  She refused to accept the letter. She spat in the chaush's face, cursing him and his sons for eternity and tried to rake his face with her nails. Her maidservants restrained her and the man fled, his face pale, the kadin's wails of grief ringing in his ears.

  Stamboul.

  Sirhane knew Mustapha and her husband were dead the moment she saw the heavy set Sudanese step from the shadows. A castrato, and deaf-mute. A monster more than a man, their knives and needles had excised all sentiment and mercy out of him.

  There was no point in pleading for her life. Just let it be quick.

  His tongueless mouth made a strange yelping sound as he came towards her. She knew he would only leave when she was dead, with her head in the leather pouch that hung from the sash at his waist for precisely this purpose.

  'Abbas sent you, didn't he?' she said. 'He thinks I am still a threat to Julia. But I would never have done it, it was a bluff, I would never have betrayed her, never. I hope she will know that. I don't mind dying but I don't want her ever to hate me.' She closed her eyes and kept her hands to her sides. There was no point in fighting him, it would only prolong the agony.

  The bostanji looped the cord around her neck. He lifted her effortlessly from the floor, the corded muscles in his arms bulging, and quickly and efficiently choked the life out of her.

  Chapter 49

  Pera

  Julia locked her door and stayed in her bedchamber for three days. Sometimes, in the evenings, Ludovici heard her crying through the door. He tapped on the door at mealtimes, more in hope than expectation, but she would not come out.

  So he ate his meals alone, the clink of his spoon in his soup bowl echoing around the vaulted dining room. He stared at her empty chair and told himself he was a fool, for he would never have what he wanted from her.

  When she finally reappeared for breakfast on the fourth morning, her face looked like a death's head and there were dark circles under her eyes. He stood up as she entered the room. She slumped into the high-backed mahogany chair at the end of the table.

  'Are you all right?'

  She thought she had not heard him. But then she said: 'Do you love me Ludovici?'

  'You know I do.'

  'Then find out who gave the order to do this.'

  'What good would that do?'

  'Please. Can you do it? Ask Abbas. He will know.'

  'It was the Sultan. Who else would it be?'

  'Why would he kill her? Her husband yes, but why her?'

  Why does she want to know? he thought. In the Empire, execution was just the way. Whoever ordered it, they were beyond her power and his. The arrival of a death chaush was like fate, he thought; it often could not be foreseen or prevented.

  'But he said: 'I will see what I can do.'

  Galata

  Abbas shook his head. 'There is nothing she can do about it, Ludovici.'

  'I told her that, but I said I would try and find out anyway.'

  'You have given your word before and broken it. It would be easy to do it again. For instance, once you promised me you would send her away from here.'

  Ludovici stared at the carpet. He shrugged; what could he say? 'I love her.'

  'Then you are a fool as well as a liar.'

  'If any other man said that to me-'

  'You have placed my life in danger countless times through the years because you did not get her out of Stamboul when I asked you to. And now you are angry because I confront you with it? Did you think it was a trifle? Did you think I would ever forget it?'

  'Love made a fool of you once.'

  'No, it made me a eunuch of me, it did not make m
e a liar.' He looked up. 'Don't look at me like that. If you are going to draw your knife, then do it. But otherwise we have known each other too long for such dramatics.'

  They fell silent.

  'How does she look these days?' Abbas said, finally.

  'She ages with much grace.'

  'She is still beautiful?'

  'She is no longer sixteen. There is a little silver in her hair. But yes, she is still beautiful.'

  'I picked the fruit but you tasted it. Do you know how much I hated you for that?'

  Ludovici nodded. 'Yes, of course.'

  Abbas sighed and hung his head. 'You asked me if I could find out who sent the assassin for Sirhane. I already know.'

  'Was it the Sultan or his witch?'

  'It was neither the Grand Seigneur nor his lady. It was me.'

  'You?'

  'She had threatened me that she would betray Julia's identity to the Lord of Life, tell him how his orders had been betrayed. Suleiman is not a man who forgives or forgets. He cannot afford to. I did as you would have done to protect her.'

  Ludovici sagged. 'Oh, Abbas.'

  'You may tell her this or keep it from her, as you see fit.'

  'Sirhane was the only real friend she had. This will go hard with her. I think it is better if she does not know.'

  'She was much more than a friend. But I suspect you already knew this. They had been lovers in the Harem. It is not uncommon in there, you know. And they remained lovers ever since.'

  Ludovici nodded. 'I know.'

  'And you still love her?'

  'It's not really a choice.'

  'You see? You should have taken her far away when I told you to.'

  'I'm sorry, Abbas. I should not have lied to you.'

  Abbas selected a piece of halwa, then tossed it back onto the tray, all appetite gone. 'It doesn't matter, old friend. I should understand you better than I understand anyone. What's done is done now. In the end we both loved and lost. Did we not?'