SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  Outside Tabriz

  The chaush galloped towards the Sultan's silk pavilion. He had ridden day and night from Stamboul. He reined in beside the seven horsetail standard and jumped down, throwing the reins at the Sultan's equerry. He was ushered into the presence of the Lord of Life by the solaks and there prostrated himself on the ground.

  The message he carried was handed to Rüstem Pasha who read it to the Lord of Life: Çehangir had been found dead at the Topkapi Saraya. He had hanged himself.

  Suleiman's cry of anguish was heard around the entire camp. It echoed from the surrounding mountains, sending a shiver down the spine of the most seasoned of his soldiers. But when they heard what had happened none of them wept for him. It seemed to many of them that God's retribution had been surprisingly swift.

  Pera

  They sat together in the gathering gloom; the renegade in the silk robe; the slave girl in the black vesture. They watched the sun until it disappeared below the rim of the earth and the world turned gray. Turkish galleots and Greek caramusalis were silhouetted against the pearly waters of the Horn.

  'I do not believe it,' Julia said. 'The Sultan did not do this.'

  Ludovici had shrunk form telling her the truth; how could he? Had she not suffered enough without learning that her best friend had been about to betray her and the other had murdered her for it. Please Julia, he thought, just grieve and let it go.

  'You must have loved her very much.'

  'She was my friend.' She sighed. 'She said I should learn to love you more.'

  'Do you think you ever could?'

  "I don't know, Ludovici. I don't know anything anymore.' She got up and went to bed.

  PART 5

  Death of a Nightingale

  Chapter 50

  Topkapi Saraya, 1558

  By the grace of the Most High, whose power be forever exalted! By the sacred miracles of Mohammed, may the blessing of God be upon him! To thee who art Sultan of Sultans, the sovereign of sovereigns, the shadow of God upon the earth, Lord of the White Sea and the Black Sea, of Rumelia and Anatolia, of Karamania, of the Land of Rum, of Diabekir, of Kurdistan, of Azerbaijan, of Persia, of Damascus, of Aleppo, of Cairo, of Mecca, of Medina, of Jerusalem, of all Arabia, of Yemen, and of many other lands that my noble forefathers and my glorious ancestors (may God light upon their tombs!) conquered by the force of their arms, and which my august majesty has made subject to my flaming sword, and my victorious blade, Sultan Suleiman Kahn, son of Sultan Selim Khan. Father.

  In sundry verbal and written communications I have appealed to my Lord for intercession against those who have sought to spread calumny against me. God knows I have never sought favour for myself, unlike others, who curry popularity with the ulema and the soldiery to raise themselves in esteem and rival our own blessed father. I am powerless against their conspiracy, I who have never sought but to serve you. All I have is your love, and that of my gracious Mother. My fate is totally in your hands. Yet because I do not try to sway the Yeniçeris and swagger on my horse I am at the mercy of those who conspire against me. I know I could never outshine the great light that you have thrown upon the world.

  I worry greatly for your safety, my Lord. Reports reach me daily that my own brother has been seen in the Porte, heavily disguised, talking with the Yeniçeris in their barracks and spreading sedition and revolt. I pray that these reports are untrue for there is no rest for me knowing that my great Lord is in peril …

  Suleiman tossed the letter aside. He looked grey and shrivelled on his throne of beaten gold, sunken between the two golden lions on either side, as if he were their prey. Rüstem waited patiently.

  'He pleads with me like a woman!'

  'He fears Bayezid.'

  'As he should. Bayezid is a lion. A true ghazi!'

  'As you say, My Lord.'

  'And what do your spies tell you of Selim? He still drinks too much?'

  'He spends all his time at the table or the chase.'

  'And he wants me to protect him from Bayezid!'

  'When the time comes, my Lord, Bayezid will take the throne from him.'

  'When I am dead, let God be the judge.' Suleiman closed his eyes. 'I had hoped to bring an end to bloodshed over the succession when Mustapha … but it has only made it more certain. Do you know the saying, Rüstem? What has been will be. My father murdered for his throne, and it seems my sons will do the same. I don't understand why they want it so badly. I never did. My only regret was that my father did not live longer. The mantle of the ghazis is like a flaming yoke. It has already cost me two of my sons. Why did Çehangir hang himself, do you think? Out of grief for his stepbrother - or because he was terrified of me?'

  Rüstem knew the Sultan did not expect him to answer and kept silent. Finally Suleiman indicated the letter that lay on the carpet between them. 'Is there truth in anything Selim claims? Has Bayezid been to Stamboul?'

  'My spies have heard nothing of this.' If I do not know of it, then it has not happened, Rüstem thought. Yet there was a seed of truth in everything that Selim had said; Bayezid had indeed inherited Mustapha's role as champion of the Yeniçeris. But that was as it should be; a Sultan could not take the throne without their support. Suleiman's only concern was that Bayezid might become too impatient, as Mustapha had.

  Or at least; as it seemed he had done.

  'Who should it be, Rüstem? Selim is oldest. The throne should be his. He is the shahzade.'

  'Bayezid is the only choice.'

  Suleiman nodded. Rüstem did not understand his seigneur's dilemma; I might be ill, and old, but I know what is sound and what is not, and the succession is something any fool could calculate on an abacus. Suleiman had smudged too many of his decisions with sentiment. If the mantle is like a flaming yoke, he thought, it is because he does not think clearly.

  'Bayezid has no great love for you, Rüstem.'

  'I shall not be here to fear him, my Lord.'

  'But should that not be the case, then I charge you with your last mission. When I am dead you must send a chaush on a speedy horse to Manisa to advise the shahzade, Selim, and to tell him to make haste to the city.' He paused, wincing at the gout in his knee. 'Then you are to send another chaush to Bayezid, on an even faster horse, and tell him the throne belongs to the better man. In return Bayezid will no doubt spare you his displeasure when he is Padishah.'

  'It will be done as you command,' Rüstem said.

  ***

  It was decided then, Suleiman thought. Let God choose. He had done all he could. He had written the laws that would safeguard the future conduct of the Empire. Perhaps with these kanuni, the Osmanlis could survive another warrior, or even a sot, should it come to that.

  Yet he feared that his true legacy would be two sons squabbling over his Empire like vultures picking at the eyes of a body not yet dead. God help me in my sorrow.

  Chapter 51

  Pera

  Ludovici was sitting alone in the great hall, staring at the logs burning in the grate. Julia came to stand behind him, and rested her hand on his shoulder.

  'You look troubled.'

  'I was thinking about what is going to happen when Suleiman is no longer Sultan.'

  'You think he is going to die?'

  'He is old and he sick. He has ruled at the Grande Porte now for thirty eight years. No man lives forever. Even the Shadow of God Upon the Earth has to die sometime.'

  'I suppose you will miss him.'

  Ludovici smiled. 'They could make one of their camels Sultan for all that I care. But change makes me nervous. A businessman cannot thrive in uncertainty. I need always to know who to bribe and how much.'

  'Who will succeed him?'

  'I imagine the Lady Hürrem will have a large say in that.'

  'Perhaps she will proclaim herself Sultan.'

  'I doubt that even she could not manipulate that outcome. No, it must be Bayezid. How could it ever be Selim? The man is a complete debauch. He would make an excellent Bey of Algiers - bu
t Sultan? Even I would not wish that upon the Turks.' A log broke and tumbled in the grate. 'I would it wish upon the Venetians though.'

  'And Rüstem Pasha?'

  'Bayezid would rather drown in boiling pitch than have him as his Vizier. Besides, he is growing old too. Soon everything will change. A new sultan, a new vizier. For a while the Turks might even enforce the law and my business will be seriously disrupted.'

  The wind howled and rattled the windows. 'I am sure you will continue to prosper somehow, my dear Ludovici.'

  'Perhaps, but the Divan is a nest of vipers and you can never be quite sure which hatchling is going to thrive.'

  Topkapi Saraya

  Frost glittered on the domes of the Palace as the . sun rose in a cold blue sky. Hürrem sniffed the north wind for scent of the steppe. She shivered and drew her ermine robe closer about her shoulders. She could never seem to get warm these days, even hunched over a blazing fire.

  She nestled her feet beneath the tandir, the pan of lighted charcoal underneath the square tin-topped table in front of her.

  She stared through the lattice window, imagining the steppe somewhere beyond the violet horizon. She closed her eyes and her spirit drifted free of the old woman dozing at the window, flew free across the waters and over the caravansaraya at Üsküdar. Üsküdar! Yes, she remembered it, there was a stone han with a central fountain. She had arrived there thirty five years before as a copper haired girl with venom on her tongue and defiance in her eyes. Look at her! She should have ended up as bait for the fish in the Bosphorus. How did such a wilful minx ever become the Valide?

  But that girl was far behind her now, lost on the horizon. She flew north and below her was the Kara Deniz, the Black Sea, dotted with the tiny specks of the caramusalis. Soon she broached the coast and below her was a tribe of Krim Tatar, the grass lands dotted with their tent wagons. She swooped down and jumped on the back of one of the broad-shouldered horses and rode splashing through the reed-grown islands of the Father Dnieper. Ahead she saw a city of tents and horses and heard gypsy flutes. She waved and her mother looked up from the goat she was milking and waved back.

  'My Lady!'

  Hürrem woke with a start. Muomi was staring at her and shaking her arm. 'What is it?'

  'You were shouting, My Lady. Is everything all right?'

  'Shouting?'

  'Were you asleep?'

  'Yes, asleep,' she said, disappointed to be back here again, inside the Harem.

  'Are you all right?'

  'Of course I am all right. Go away.'

  Muomi shrugged and left the room.

  After she had gone Hürrem felt a tear course down her cheek. She was only ever happy in her dreams now. Why did that black witch have to wake her and drag her back here to this prison?

  What was the use? It had brought her no joy, this struggle for eminence over other women. There had been relief when Suleiman had first chosen her, and a certain satisfaction at outwitting Gülbehar - a minor achievement that, God knows. But never real happiness. Perhaps that was because women were not really her enemy, men were.

  And then there was Suleiman; she hated him as much now as she had the day he first chose her, thirty five years before. No, before that; she hated him from the very first day of her enslavement in the devshirme, led from her village with shackles on her wrist. That venom still resided there, deep in her soul, a bitter green poison undiluted by time.

  But it was not memory that had brought on this black mood. It was the nightingale.

  It had been a present from Suleiman. He had given it to her on the day of their wedding, its cage crafted from cedar and studded with onyx and pearl. It had sung to her every day since; but this morning she had found it on the bottom of its cage, stiff and cold. She had removed it gently, cupping it in the palms of her hands, and stared into its unblinking eye.

  As she held it, the bird sang to her for the final time. My life is your life, it sang. You have lived out your days just like me, in your own gilded cage, and the Sultan has admired you and enjoyed you and marvelled at your voice and at your beauty. But one day soon, just like me your cold eye will stare at the dawn and it will be over. Your time will have passed. The cage door will never open. Your song will be gone and you will be forgotten.

  Well, old she might be, but she still had time to bring down one final curse on the house of the Osmanlis. She would yet have her revenge, a sweet justice she could savour from her tomb for decades, perhaps centuries, to come.

  The answer was simple; the Osmanlis wanted Bayezid. More, they needed him, and left to their own devices Bayezid would surely overcome his indigent brother in the race for the throne. He was the strong one, the leader, the ghazi. Selim, for all she knew, was the son of a white eunuch.

  So she would give them Selim.

  Muomi rushed into the room and seeing Hürrem awake fell reluctantly to her knees. 'My Lady, I thought I heard you shouting again.'

  'I wasn't shouting, I was laughing.'

  'Laughing, My Lady?'

  'Yes, laughing. I feel suddenly warm again. Take the tandir and put it by the door. I think there is spring in the air.'

  ***

  The Suleimaniye mosque rose from the city like a mountain of gray marble, one man's prayer for God's mercy, fashioned in perfect symmetry. Other new buildings swarmed at its feet; soup kitchens, hospitals, public baths, a caravansaraya, a library, a medresse, schools and gardens. There were four universities also with the best professors of theology and law in all the empire. It had cost seven hundred thousand ducats, a king's ransom, and it had absolved a Sultan's guilt for the murder of his son.

  Perhaps.

  Suleiman admired it from the latticed windows of Hürrem's apartments, his hand on her shoulders. 'It is magnificent, my Lord. In a thousand years men will look at it and regret they were not born in an age such as ours.'

  'I hope so, little russelana,' Suleiman murmured. He held her tighter. She felt frail; he could feel the shape of her bones through the seraser brocade and it frightened him. She had been ill so often lately.

  She wore a green taplock as she had the day he had first seen her in the courtyard, but it was a mocking echo of her youth. Beneath the kohl and henna and powder her skin was like parchment. Her hair was no longer gold; it was milky white at the roots and all Muomi's dyes could not replicate the burnished gold of her youth.

  He clung to her as if he could protect her from death by his will alone. He loved her more now than he had ever done; his physical passion had been replaced by a feeling of ease and intimacy that he had shared with no one else. How could he live without her now?

  'It is a wonderful achievement, My Lord.' Her attention was still focused on the Suleimaniye.

  'One day we will lie there side by side,' he said and thought: let that day not come for many years!

  'So I shall return to the hill where I was first imprisoned?'

  'Not a prison,' he corrected her, 'just the old Eski Saraya.' He felt her tremble. 'Are you well, my russelana?'

  'I have lost a little appetite.'

  'Shall I have my physician send you an elixir?'

  'Muomi tends to me, my Lord. It is just the cold. I shall feel better as soon as Spring comes.'

  The north wind, the tramontana, howled like a djinn outside and Suleiman shivered inside his sable-lined robe. 'You must take better care.'

  'Do not concern yourself my Lord. A few aches are to be expected when we grow older.' She turned from the window. 'Will you help me to the divan, my Lord?'

  Suleiman waved away her gediçli and helped her across the room, shocked at how light she felt against his arm. He positioned her feet below the tandir, supporting her back gently with cushions.

  'Thank you, my Lord. Please don't look so concerned. It is just a slight chill.' A gediçli threw a quilt over her knees. When she had settled herself, she said: 'My Lord, I would talk with you soon about the succession. I know it has been on your mind. They are my sons, and I know their he
arts.'

  Suleiman took her hand. 'Russelana, Selim is a loving son but he could never be a great Sultan. Bayezid is the ghazi.'

  'He will be popular with the Yeniçeris at least.'

  'Without the Yeniçeris, a Sultan cannot rule.'

  'The Yeniçeris! For whom you have nothing but contempt.'

  'There are times when a Sultan must use his sword, even if he despises war.'

  'But Bayezid knows nothing else. He would spend his whole life in the saddle if he could. My Lord, I do not say this to condemn him, only to give you pause. Selim is the oldest. He may not be a warrior like his brother but he may prove a true knight in the Divan. As you have said, it is the law and not the sword that will ensure the future of the Osmanlis.'

  'Selim is a debauch and a drunkard. He rarely attends his own Divan in Manisa. Why should we think that will change when he becomes padishah?'

  'If Bayezid takes the throne, Selim will die.'

  'Let God decide it then.'

  Hürrem bowed her head. 'I do not contend with your wisdom. I shall pray for both my sons.'

  He embraced her, a terrible ache in his chest. Unlike her to talk of politics and then concede so easily. Was she really as frail as she looked? Please do not leave me, russelana! I cannot live without you now. I have murdered my best friend and executed my son but I have never betrayed my love for you. It is the one thing that I know in my heart has been true and good.

  Do not leave me russelana; please do not leave me.

  Chapter 52

  Topkapi Saraya

  Only Muomi was with her when she fell.