The Reign of the Favored Women

by Ann Chamberlin

  “That is only Safiye’s wishful thinking,” Umm Kulthum said. “She doesn’t want her son ever to be lured from her influence as has happened to Murad and which is even now breaking poor Nur Banu’s heart. Actually, Esmikhan Sultan, if I may be frank, I should think you’d be glad to keep your daughter out of that brawl which is sure to break out—Allah forbid—when Muhammed comes of age.”

  Such observations were too clear and too insightful for them to have originated with the Mufti’s wife herself. I think even my lady realized they, too, must have been gathered at this last visit to Nur Banu’s part of the Serai. Esmikhan had this advantage over her hostess: She had been raised in the palace where tact had more value than an orthodox adherence to truth. She reminded herself severely of the more sober purpose that brought them there and she smiled politely.

  “I mean no insult, lady,” she said. “If I appear hesitant, it is only through disbelief. I am unable to believe that Allah should bless such a house as ours, tinged with politics and war and slavery as it is, with the blessed peace and wisdom of a great house such as yours.”

  Umm Kulthum, without Nur Banu’s coaching, could never suspect duplicity. She sat on her cushions and smiled broadly and simply at my lady’s comment and comforted her forthcoming widowhood with thoughts of a wedding soon to follow.

  Fortunately, there was no time for further discussion on the subject, for at that moment one of Umm Kulthum’s eunuchs brought a message from the men’s quarters. We had to leave at once. With all our concern for the old Mufti, we had ignored the earlier notice we had received that the Vizier of the Cupola, Piale Pasha, had failed to attend the previous day’s Divan for some indisposition. The indisposition, we now learned, was the plague and, as if it had the help of his younger, stronger body instead of its hindrance, it had done its work much faster than on the frail old Mufti. The Vizier lay now at death’s very door and it was only with the utmost haste that we could hope to arrive before the last Fatiha was said for him.

  Selim had given Piale Pasha his second daughter, Esmikhan’s half-sister Gewherkhan Sultan, to wife. The union had not been blessed with children, but it was a union of hearts uncommon even when the marriage is for love. The passion, even after so many years, was so intense that many, including the Sultan, said it interfered with the Vizier’s duties and Esmikhan would be the first to admit that her relationship with her sister had not been the same since those sheets were first bloodied.

  But if ever Gewherkhan needed her sister, it would be now. Some even chose to take a lesson from this: Let not your marriages grow too close, for Death and Allah are the portion of all. It was clear that Gewherkhan Sultan would not enjoy the easy, gossipy drift into widowhood Umm Kulthum did.

  Sokolli Pasha was not without his emotion at this passing, either. Indeed, he left us to find the way to the Vizier’s house on our own and hurried on ahead, as if a brain for deployment of troops and political intrigue could do anything against the plague doctors had not already tried. Piale Pasha, although close friends with Uweis and his circle, was not below opposing them when his conscience told him so. He had the passion of a virtuous woman behind him and there were some things Gewherkhan Sultan would not let him stoop to. My master would find the Divan a very lonely place indeed with both the Vizier and the Mufti gone hand in hand over the hair-thin bridge to Paradise.

  Ineffable are the ways of Allah. By nightfall, both men were dead. The professional mourners from the Mufti’s had offered the names and addresses of their sisters and cousins to fill the quota at the Vizier’s. Between the two houses, the women had earned enough to keep them ‘til the next plague before two parallel columns inched their way to the cemetery come morning. My master took the privilege of carrying the bier in both.

  And when he returned home, he sent for Michael Cantacuzenos. Until the Greek came, Sokolli Pasha took comfort in composing another long letter to Cyprus.

  XLIII

  Soon the first rains of autumn came, flushed out the disease, and cleared the air. Everyone breathed easier and freer; merely filling the lungs brought a smile to the faces one saw in the street.

  But there was one major hindrance to free breathing in our harem, and Umm Kulthum’s visit certainly did not help it go away. She came and kissed Gul Ruh moistly on the cheek and asked pointedly how work on her trousseau was coming, for she would soon have need of it. Gul Ruh, who never pierced needle with thread with any confidence, balked at the idea and said nothing.

  “We must get to know each other better,” Umm Kulthum pursued. “Please, feel free to stop by my house anytime. Yes, I fully intend to make your marriage bed within the year...”

  As soon as manners allowed her escape, Gul Ruh left the divan and, lest they seek her in the garden or the bath or any of the other usual places, she came bursting into my room for asylum.

  “I cannot! I will not!” she shouted, then succumbed to tears.

  I took her gently in my arms and let her cry it out. Emotion came over me in surges as I felt the woman in her body that was quickly overtaking the child. Had I still been a man, it was emotion that would have been dangerous for us both. As matters stood, I felt only a terrible craving to protect her from anything and everything evil, destructive, or even sad in the world. In either case, I knew I would gladly die for her sake.

  When the tears had given her some measure of peace so that speech was at least possible, I said, “Now tell me what is so frightful about this Abd ar-Rahman ibn Hamid to cause all these tears. For I have never even seen him myself and all I have heard comes from his own mother. I know enough not to trust those glowing reports, so tell me what it is that you have heard.”

  Gul Ruh was silent, so I guessed. “You know nothing about him either, do you? So I thought.” I spoke gently. “How can you judge a man so unseen?”

  “I don’t want to see him! I don’t want to know anything more about him!”

  “But I do,” I said. Before she could do more than fling a glance at me such as is usually reserved for the most vile of traitors, I continued, “How shall I know how to most effectively fight against this marriage for you if I don’t find out about the man?”

  “Oh, you dear Abdullah!” The hug and kiss she gave me then were more than recompense for all my years of service.

  “The trouble is, how to learn more about him? If I suddenly appear at the medrese where, as his mother says, Abd ar-Rahman spends all his time in study, I will be immediately suspected, an ignorant oaf like me among all those scholars. No, I’m afraid, my little heart’s oasis, there is no other way. You must feign some interest yourself to give me a chance to accompany you. Not too much interest, of course, or your mother-in-law will find you forward and undesirable.”

  “What a good idea! I shall be so interested, I shall scare him right away for the shame of a forward wife!”

  “Easy now. If you make yourself a name for being forward, no one but a gypsy would have you, even if you are an Ottoman. No, let us try this tack first and then, if that doesn’t work, we may consider more drastic means.”

  Umm Kulthum’s house was right against the city’s western wall. Its roof proved an excellent place for my young mistress to watch the annual pilgrims’ departure for Mecca. Of this great festival she otherwise must have been content to only hear reports.

  It pleased Umm Kulthum to no end that the only member of Sokolli Pasha’s household who accepted her invitation should be the girl she intended for her youngest son. And she was very helpful in providing opportunities for Gul Ruh (and myself) to view something more important than the pilgrim’s procession, and that was a glimpse of the man she was to marry.

  The men of the household—those who were not elsewhere in town, officiating at the attendant ceremonies—did not have such a good view as the women from their second-story window. To see over the walls, they had to climb onto the roof of the kiosk that served as the family’s prayer hall, mosque, and library. This was mostly slaves and young boys, a rather undignified
bunch with no supervision. One passing might have thought them the household of a tanner or a goldsmith rather than that of one of the greatest family of legists in the world.

  A single young man alone did not join their antics. He sat below, reading a book. He was in sight and earshot of the festivities, giving the impression of joining in and enjoying the diversions. It was, after all, a religious holiday. But his delight in the book gave him such powers of concentration that he might have been sitting in the hush of a deserted mosque the whole while. The catcalls and laughter of his peers might have been no more than the rustling of sleepy pigeons in the rafters.

  “There he is,” Umm Kulthum announced proudly. “That’s my heart’s delight.”

  Under his father’s influence, Abd ar-Rahman ibn Hamid al-Mufti had been named muderisler, or professor in the medrese, when he was circumcised at the age of twelve. Although, like his father, he could recite the Koran from memory by that age, he was by no means capable of giving lectures on religious law to men of forty. That required grey hairs, or so the saying went. A man more qualified was chosen to represent the boy in these duties for a small salary and, in most cases, that would have been fine.

  This boy, however, could not escape a horrible sense of responsibility which by now, after six or seven years of the pretense, was heavily commingled with guilt. There was his father’s name to live up to, as well as a whole chain of older brothers who had attained positions of importance. Abd ar-Rahman was determined to succeed, but full-heartedly and idealistically trusted in study to do it. His brothers had known enough to develop personality and social relations as well as their study. At eighteen, such a life seemed burned from the young man by the white heat of books.

  His flesh was as grey as an ash pit, and though it could not be denied he knew much, it was hardly to be called wisdom. When asked what he knew, learning came from him in endless yet disjointed streams that could never be discerned to have anything to do with the subject at hand. There wasn’t the solid base of experience to give flesh and rationality to his comments. When his opinion was not called for—which came to happen more and more frequently as he matured, instead of less—he would sit to one side wearing on his face a pallid yet firm look of superiority: They were all fools basing decisions on no authority, and if they’d only ask, he could set them all straight.

  The final outcome was that Abd ar-Rahman was painfully, sometimes viciously, a loner, and proud of the fact. He seemed frail, old, and senile, but had never enjoyed full use of his faculties between this state and the folly of youth.

  When the head of the procession could be seen approaching, the other lads called down from the roof of the kiosk to say he had better come up now or he would miss it altogether. To us up behind the second-story grille, this was our first view of the young man on his feet. His mother gave no apology for the sight. Still even she, a strong and robust person herself, could not help but be touched, perhaps even frightened by the thinness of his body as it appeared beneath his festive robes. His body was not the product of a restrained diet forged into strong wiry bands by exercise. It was pasty and unsound, the back and limbs already curled and permanently creased into unnatural shapes by too much sitting and cramped reading. His mother couldn’t apologize. She only let what had been a steady stream of prideful commentary fall into uneasy stillness.

  We all held our breath as Abd ar-Rahman made his attempts—at first pitifully abortive—to use the window ledges and railings to climb to the roof. He very nearly gave up the project and used this as an excuse to return to his book. But the others wouldn’t hear of it. Some of them climbed down, and pushing and pulling, they managed to get him up in time for the passing of the two holy camels. We felt at once that the lads would have done better to leave him on the ground. As every other head bowed in wonder before the spectacle, Abd ar-Rahman turned his head in superior disgust. Such ignorant people, bowing before no more than an empty saddle and a garish mound of black and gold! One could almost hear him reciting chapter and verse where the Faithful are enjoined not to add gods to God.

  Before our arrival that morning, one portion of my mind had nurtured the hope that a glimpse of the young man would change Gul Ruh’s youthful heart, making any machinations on my part unnecessary. I could see now that that hope must be abandoned. My little monkey who still climbed all over roofs and trees the moment my back was turned—I was to stand by and watch as she was married to that man? He was old before his time, a pale, limp rag such as others use to mark their places in their books when they go off to more important business. I looked down at her protectively then and vowed that it should not be so.

  Certainly her mind was filled with thoughts of similar purpose. But as I looked down I noticed something about her determination that disquieted me. It included the thoughtful fingering of the golden hoops she had put in her ears that day.

  At last we bade good-bye to the Mufti’s widow, having waded through many more wishes for the joyful union of our households. When we were finally out of earshot, packing up the sedan chair to return home, my young mistress sighed wearily and said, “By Allah, Abdullah, I do hope you come up with something to prevent this.”

  “I shall try everything in my power,” I assured her, and she kept her face outside the curtain for a moment to fix me with a look of gratitude. I touched that face, coaxing a brief smile from it. Then I gently, purposely fingered her earring as she had done. “But,” I said, “I cannot even dream of getting you the man who gave you these.”

  She looked away at once and closed the curtain with her own hand, which told me I’d guessed aright. Those earrings had come from Cyprus, a gift from Arab Pasha. It was not so much that she was opposed to Abd ar-Rahman ibn Hamid as that she still dreamed of gaining substantiation for her youthful infatuation for the big, strong black man who was like a brother to her. Even her suggested preference for the Prince Muhammed was only a blind. After two years of life, can an infatuation still be brushed aside so? Such a match was out of the question, too, of course. Poor child, I murmured as I secured the latch over my treasure and pulled the curtain to. Poor child!

  XLIV

  We walked ho.me through the early evening streets. The pilgrims were across the Sea in Asia now. It seemed they had taken the soul of the city with them. The muezzin’s call was lifeless. (“Hurry,” I told the porters. I had not realized it was so late.) What virtue could be claimed by turning the face and heart towards Mecca for the few brief minutes it takes to pray? Those of true virtue had given their prayers action and set their feet already on the pilgrims’ trail. We were left behind with but the form, the hollow shell of religion. Such was the dark feeling of premonition that came over me.

  Oh, Allah, I prayed, be merciful to us now.

  A dark figure pressed by me hurriedly in the narrow street. I noticed curiously the clink of chain mail and the knobbed helmet of a chiaus, an imperial bodyguard.

  How odd, I thought. What cause has a chiaus to run? His will—his master’s will— is the supreme law of the land. He should have no cause to cover his tell-tale red trousers and chain mail with a dark cloak nor to run furtively like a thief.

  We turned the corner then into our lane and the porters stopped with a jerk, uttering spells against evil. “Keep going! Keep going!” I told them, but had to shove one man quite roughly to make him obey.

  Gul Ruh drew the curtain back inquisitively. “What is it, Abdullah?”

  “Are you a whore that you must go showing yourself to every passerby?” I spoke to her more sharply than I ever had before. But I was not so afraid she would be seen as that she might see.

  I hurried the sedan in through our gates, warning the porters they must not upset the harem by reporting what they had seen. I told the gatekeeper to fetch the master in a hurry, and one peek out of the gate was enough to give him wings.

  Still, it seemed I stood a very long time alone in the dark street in the shadow of a dead man. At first I had thought my duty was to prote
ct him from dogs or the desecration of human stares and jeers. But as the only live thing I saw—a lean, grey cat—skirted the lane as if were bewitched, I shivered and came to crave protection myself.

  The holiest ones, I suddenly remembered, had all left us for Mecca that day. We were at the mercy of the influences of the Pit. The body swung from its hook as if, even though the life was gone, his spirit still stirred with an angry craving for justice and revenge.

  At length the gate opened. I jumped at the sound as if it were the chains of a ghost. The master came out accompanied by three chiauses from the Porte he had lately been given as a bodyguard. The sight of their round-knobbed helmets made me remember the figure that had so quickly rushed by me and it touched my back with cold. I also remembered that when Sokolli Pasha had been given the guard he had been surprised and asked the Sultan: “Master, why do I need a bodyguard? I have always walked the streets with but a few unarmed attendants and feared nothing.”

  Murad’s reply was evasive, but seemed to suggest that he knew things he was not telling.

  The master was dressed in the plain, simple robe and small, loose turban he always retired to on the rare evenings he had to himself. I realized then that he must have been at his prayers. I could imagine him, kneeling on his rug, when the doorkeeper burst in out of breath, gasping the news: “Master, the Greek is dead. Hung from a lamp hook just outside our gate.”

  For one brief moment, Sokolli Pasha would have lost his place in the recitation. Michael Cantacuzenos was the only man he would receive in that state of easy undress, the only man he trusted not to be influenced by the cloth of gold of his robes or a large gold band around his turban.