by Mike Ashley
He did not add that Djem’s death had served Bayezid well since he had rid himself of a rebellious brother and absolved himself from further ransom.
“There was another renegade prince in my father’s time, Ahmed by name. He escaped and became a hostage of the Doge of Venice. Despite the high esteem in which he was held he died in mysterious circumstances, it was said because of a love affair with a Venetian noblewoman. I have a miniature of this rebel Ahmed. You bear a striking resemblance to him. Why do you think this is?”
Sandro’s lids drooped over his almond-shaped eyes. His mouth became steely. “It’s usually the fate of hostages to die mysteriously. Tell your master that I’ve come to Istanbul to discuss quite a different mystery – the death of the kadin.”
Sandro could not detect the slightest trace of grief in Bayezid’s demeanour. He suspected the Sultan’s motive was revenge for the outrage committed against his house.
“Is it true,” the slave-girl continued, “that you were discovered in a palace called the House of the Moon? It’s a strange omen for Aysha loved the moon more than the sun, she was a creature of the night rather than of the day. She had a whim that the Sultan indulged. On the palace lake he built her a gazebo where she was rowed each night. There within its latticed walls she lay on a divan and watched the moon dance in the dark waters. It was in this gazebo she was found dead.”
“Alone? Not even a slave-girl or eunuch in attendance?”
“That was her desire.”
Bayezid interrupted with a sharp gabble of words. Kosem prostrated herself so low Sandro saw only the little round hat under the veil. Her voice was muffled.
“I was Aysha’s premier slave and with the Kizier Aga, the Chief Eunuch, was the first to find her.”
“I understand there were no marks of violence on her body. Was her expression peaceful or stricken?”
Kosem hung her head without reply.
“Did she ever take anything to eat or drink with her?”
“That night she took a ewer of sherbet.”
Bayezid waved a languid hand and asked a question which seemed utterly incongruous to the investigation, as if he had suddenly become bored with it. “He inquires if you wish a companion for the night.”
“Since you speak my language, may I choose you?” Sandro seized the opportunity to question the girl away from the intimidating presence of her master.
A tremor ran through Kosem’s frail body. “As a novice I lack the skills to please you.”
The Sultan gave a throaty chuckle.
“It amuses the Lion of Istanbul that you wish to make speech with a woman.”
“When a woman praises my virility I like to hear it in my own language,” said Sandro, suavely.
Bayezid chuckled again and closed his eyes. Kosem kissed the hem of his robe and crept away. Sandro realized the interview was at an end.
He was in the doorway when he heard a voice say in Italian. “It would be fascinating to conjecture that you are my cousin,” but when he glanced back the Sultan was staring into nothingness through a haze of opium.
Sandro found his gloomy henchman waiting in the company of a giant Nubian.
“This is Jevheh Pasha, the Chief Eunuch. I think he wants us to follow him – probably to the execution block. I mislike that huge scimitar in his sash.”
“You always take the pessimistic view, my friend,” replied Sandro. “He may be leading us to the House of Felicity.”
“Not if I value my head and other parts of my person. How did you find the Lion of Istanbul?”
“A jackal rather than a lion.”
The Kizier Aga suddenly rounded on Ugo and, in a shrill gabble, indicated he must venture no further.
“This must be the famous Golden Way,” observed Sandro, “that leads to the inner sanctum.”
Reluctantly, the henchman remained behind while Jevheh Pasha conducted Sandro to a garden walled with cypress and almond trees, fragrant with roses, verbena and jasmine, and dotted with miniature pools of floating water-lilies and exotic fish. In discreet corners stood the black eunuch guards.
Jevheh led Sandro to a stone seat beside a gilded kiosk. Through its latticed walls he could see the silken garments of a woman and hear the low, sinister growl of a large cat. A woman’s voice murmured, “It’s been so long since he smelled a real man it arouses his killing instinct. Shall I open the door?”
“If it would afford the valid sultana a few moments’ diversion I gladly offer myself to be torn apart.”
Her laugh was almost as sinister as the cat’s snarl. “You’re already versed in the idioms of Turkish courtesy. How did you know I was the valid sultana?”
“Some women have a beauty where aura transcends the mere sight of them. May I compliment you on your excellent knowledge of Italian.”
“I am Roxana. I speak five languages, embroider with gold thread, and prepare exotic foods and drink – such as this one.”
A slave-girl approached with a goblet and ewer. “This was prepared in my own kitchen. Raki, made from distilled grapes and flavoured with anise. See how it turns milky white from a dash of water. We call it Lion’s milk and it’s served only to men.”
Sandro sipped the raki cautiously. It was a potent brew.
“How may I serve you, lady?” he inquired, courteously.
Her laughter rippled through the lattice. “A provocative question in a house of pleasure. Is it true you’re the Lion’s cousin?”
“Another provocative question. The Sultan feels I can render him an obligement.”
“In the matter of the Circassian’s murder.” He could tell by the rustling of her garments she had risen from her divan. The cat panted eagerly. Roxana pushed open the kiosk door. A leopard sprang out, young, lithe, beautifully marked, pawing the air as it was restrained by a leash. He caught a glimpse of a long, slender arm ringed with bracelets.
“Shah was a gift from my husband. To Aysha he gave a gazelle. The leopard kills the gazelle. Isn’t that what the former stable-boy has tried to convince you? He was born with dung between his toes.”
“He’s made no secret of his humble beginnings.”
“Beware his guile. He’s a devious, ambitious man. I’m sure he poisoned your coffee with suspicion. But he had his own reasons to be rid of Aysha. Her influence in the Sultan’s bed was stronger than Murad’s in the throne-room.”
“Shouldn’t you have more cause for jealousy?”
“If you infer sexual jealousy, couching nights are simply duty, nothing more. I have other pleasures. As for power jealousy, I am the valid sultana, my young lion Rustum will one day be Sultan and then my influence will know no bounds.”
“It was rumoured that Aysha was with child.”
“Rustum would have killed the child when Bayezid died; it posed no threat. Bayezid himself might have killed it since it could have been fathered by one of some I could name. Murad Bey for one.”
“Surely not when she was so fiercely guarded by the palace eunuchs.”
“How naïve you are! Not all eunuchs are rendered impotent. Some can please a woman, though they never ejaculate. Many women prefer the love-making of eunuchs since they are expert at arousal and their pleasure is prolonged. Others, if castrated young enough, have regeneration of their male parts and are clever enough to conceal this or else bribe the physician who yearly examines them.”
“Did Aysha have such a lover?”
“Why else was she rowed out each night to the gazebo on the lake? If only the moon could tell.”
“How do you believe she was murdered?”
“I haven’t asked myself that question. To flirt with death is to add spice to the cup of life.”
Sandro stood quickly as the sultana followed the leopard out into the open. He had found the slave-girl’s cosmetics, visible through her veil, a little outré for his tastes with her whitened skin, kohl-lined eyes and henna nails. Roxana disdained the beauty treatments of the harem for a kind of bizarre beauty of her own d
evising. Her skin tints were more amber than ivory or alabaster, the transparent veil could not disguise her long, high-cheeked face and extravagantly drawn diagonal brows, her eyes of molten brown and gold-glossed lids. She had a slender, lissom body; every movement held the rhythm of a dance. Her body exuded the mingled scent of cloves and frankincense. She carried in her hand a single white rose.
“Of all the bushes in my garden only one bears a white rose. Aysha tried to take many things from me, but some things are still mine.” She caressed the slave-girl.
A young man came striding across the garden. From his splendid dress and his very presence Sandro guessed him to be Prince Rustum.
Roxana confirmed his identity by kissing the hem of his robe and murmuring, “My lion.”
The Prince glared at Sandro and addressed his mother in an angry gabble. She answered in honeyed tones and, taking the slave-girl with her, withdrew into the kiosk. Before she closed the door, she swept Sandro a sultry glance.
“You have an outward show all honey and silk, all courtesy and sensitivity, but I think you could kill an enemy in cold blood and not miss the blink of an eye. Let me tell you about my lord and husband. Unwanted wives are sent to the old palace, the House of Tears. Faithless wives are tied in a sack and flung into the sea.” She inhaled deeply the perfume of the rose and shut herself from sight.
Prince Rustum was a handsome youth on the verge of manhood, his first moustache darkening his upper lip. Sandro tried to make conversation with him, but he was either too uneducated or too proud to answer. He left the youth to his mother and sought out Ugo.
“I have a task for you, O Master of Disguise and Deceit,” he told his lugubrious henchman. “I need someone to infiltrate the harem and listen to the conversation of the women.”
“How should I be disguised?” Ugo bridled indignantly. “Not as a eunuch?”
“As a bag-woman, a peddler. Go to the city bazaar, purchase the most splendid of silks and adornments and then present yourself at the Carriage Gate. A bag-woman will be eagerly welcomed and allowed to display her wares.”
“But they’ll gabble in their own tongue. I know a little of their lingo, but . . .”
“O past-master of mime, where is your skill at reading faces and gestures? The body has a language all its own. Besides, I’m sending in an interpreter, an Italian slave-girl. Use a keen blade when you shave tomorrow.”
Ugo groaned. “Why am I always risking my neck for you? And how am I to pay for these splendid adornments?”
“It’s time I received an advance on the Sultan’s generosity.”
Sandro found the Grand Vizier in the House of Falcons. It was the hour of feeding and Murad Bey, with his own hands, fed dissected hares and pigeons to the fearsome birds of prey.
“Behold the ferocity of their beaks and talons. Imagine them tearing apart the flesh of a man foolhardy enough to invade the harem. I admire cruelty. It is the only refinement. What did Roxana say to you?”
“She is both an enigma and a woman of astonishing candour.”
“Did she have a theory about Aysha’s murder?”
“She said something surprising – that the Circassian had lovers.”
“I’m sure she mentioned my name, but not the name of Rustum.”
“Was he her lover? Despite the vigilance of the black eunuchs?”
“With bribery, love or lust will find its way. Had they been discovered there would have been no mystery about her death. The Sultan would have publicly cut her throat.”
“As you say, the ultimate in refinement.”
Murad turned the subject abruptly. “You must dine with me tonight and have the pick of my women.”
“I’ve already asked for the Italian slave-girl.”
“Kosem? She was once Roxana’s hand-maiden before she was given to Aysha.”
“Who watched the gazebo while Aysha lay there gazing at the moon?”
“Jevheh Pasha, who waxes fat on bribes. Who fawns on Rustum, because he’ll be the next Sultan.”
“It was said she had drunk sherbet that night. Could it have been poisoned?”
“Only half had been consumed. The Mistress of Sherbets was ordered to drink the rest. She survived.”
Sandro accepted this pragmatic method of elimination without a blink.
Turkish food was rich, the guests were served with lamb flavoured with saffron, pilav, egg-plant and other vegetables cooked in olive oil, and many sweet desserts predominantly of nuts and honey. They drank boza, a drink of fermented barley sprinkled with cinnamon and finished the meal with strong coffee.
To Sandro’s surprise there were no knives or spoons. The diners ate with their fingers, a perfected art, and were served with bowls of rose-water and embroidered towels between courses.
When he returned to his own apartment he stumbled across Ugo sleeping in the doorway. Anxiety had at last given way to weariness and he snored lustily. Sandro gave him an exasperated kick in the ribs at which he snuffled, “What’s wrong?” before lapsing back into sleep.
The room was dimly lit by an oil-lamp. Sandro threw off his clothes and approached the divan. A shadowy figure materialized from among the curtains.
“My cid.”
Kosem.
At his first step towards her she shrank back, then seemed to gather her courage and took a timorous step to meet him.
“You’ve no reason to fear me.”
“I’m yours to command,” she whispered, submissively.
“It may be possible to bargain for your freedom.”
“No!” She surprised him with her vehemence. “I can never go back to Venice; it seems now like a dream that opium brings. I was maid to the wife of the Viceroy of Cyprus. Our ship was attacked by Corsairs. I was sold at the slave-market.”
Sandro could only guess at the humiliation she had suffered being paraded naked for the eager inspection of prospective buyers.
“I was given into the service of the valid sultana and became Mistress of Robes. Then Aysha saw me at the baths soon after her arrival. She was always jealous of Roxana and when she became kadin she asked for me. The Sultan could deny her nothing.”
“Will you now be returned to Roxana?”
“She has another Mistress of Robes.”
“Will you let me see your face?”
“No! I’m not beautiful like Aysha. That’s why I was put in the women’s household.”
“I have something to ask of you that requires great courage. Tomorrow my friend Ugo will go into the House of Felicity disguised as a bag-woman.”
“No!” She gave a convulsive jerk. “They’ll put out his eyes and mutilate him in terrible ways before they kill him.”
“He’s too clever to let himself get caught. Sit beside him and translate the gossip of the women.”
“If he’s discovered they’ll drown me for being his accomplice.”
“In that unlikely event, I’ll intercede for you. Promise me, for your mistress’s sake.”
“For my mistress’s sake,” she whispered, and fled from him.
She had spoken of opium. He wondered what fevered dreams it brought an exile from life.
Next morning Murad Bey casually mentioned a second tragedy. Selma, the Mistress of Sherbets to the valid sultana, had been found dead. It had been her custom each dawn to sit cross-legged on the terrace wall and gaze out on the Bosphorus and it was assumed she had lost her balance and fallen to the rocks below.
“Yet how many mornings had she sat there and dreamed?” Sandro tried to conjure up an image of a dark-eyed, wistful girl, remembering a far-off land. His image fixed on the odalisque who had served him the raki. “I think I’ve seen this girl. She’s the sultana’s . . .” He hesitated, delicately.
“Favourite,” Murad finished for him. His eyes smouldered. “Ah, that such a woman should be wasted. But it’s the fate of harem women.”
The terrace was within the harem precincts, but an elderly eunuch disposed to gossip pointed the way. He could n
ot have guessed the agile spy, eluding the watchful gaze of the guards, would scale the walls and find his way there.
The view was breath-taking with the green fields, walnut trees and palms, the two estuaries and the jutting promontory of the Golden Horn, the brilliant blue of the water flecked with fishing-craft and painted galleys.
A flake of white like snow on the terrace floor caught his attention. He bent and picked up the rose petal.
“What have you found?”
Sandro looked up into the smooth black face of Jevheh Pasha. “You speak Italian.”
“With the valid sultana so fluent in the tongue I found it advisable to take lessons. I am but a poor novice still.”
When he had led Sandro to Roxana’s garden the spy had been unaware of his power and prestige. The Kizier Aga was a high-ranking pasha, second only to the Grand Vizier. He was go-between for the mighty, privy to all their secrets and possibly the most feared man in the Ottoman Empire.
“Was Selma holding a white rose when her body was found?”
“Selma was Mistress of Sherbets. It was one of her duties to gather fruit and flowers.”
“Even the rare white rose that blooms only in Roxana’s garden?”
“Each to their own exquisite taste. I enjoy my sherbet sweetened with honey. The kadin liked her sherbet flavoured with almonds. I noticed when I bent to listen for a breath she had the scent of almonds on her lips.”
Sandro studied him intently. “Were her limbs convulsed? Was there froth on her upper lip?”
Jevheh looked uneasy. “The Sultan was coming to view the body . . .”
“So you made her as beautiful as possible for him. What became of the white rose?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it could have fallen into the lake. You know, of course, that this place is forbidden to you.”
“You’ll find me suitably grateful if I am able to pursue this inquiry in my own way.”
The eunuch smiled. Another gift of akcha for his capacious purse, Sandro thought, ruefully.
Ugo was agog with the cornucopia of beauty rolled out before his eyes in the inner sanctum of the harem.
“ ’Twas enough to make a man forswear Heaven in the hope of Paradise. All those voluptuous delights and seductive charms wasted on one man. It’s obvious they hunger for diversion. They fell upon my bundle of treasures like wolves on a flock of sheep. As for my disguise, my own master wouldn’t have recognized me. My one fear was that the Sultan should visit the harem and choose me for his couching partner.”