“I don’t have this Sullivan you’re after. I’ve never seen any of those documents! You planted them. The next step in your overthrow of this city!”
The bowl bubbled under the surface. There was a quick jerk of each set of pliers. Ildemir grimaced. Bahar wailed in pain. The soldier’s first attempt only half-separated her thumbnail. It took another pull for the rest to snap free, leaving a glassy pool of blood.
“You whoreson!” yelled Ildemir straining at his bonds. The chair legs pounded the floor.
Naim reached into the pot. He resurrected the bowl, emptied the water, and once again started the clock.
“Wait!” cried Ildemir. “Wait! Sullivan—I remember that name. There was a Captain Sullivan in the bey’s quarry when I commanded the garrison there. Uh…uh…” Ildemir stammered as he tried to remember. “Captain Irish we called him!”
Naim sat down and leaned forward. “Declan Sullivan.”
“Yes! Yes!” Ildemir smiled as if he’d found buried treasure. “That’s it, that was his name. Captain Declan Sullivan, a slave in the bey’s quarry. But a thief purchased him a year ago, and that was the last I saw of him. That must have something to do with this. It’s all a misunderstanding!”
There was a pounding at the chamber door, but Naim ignored it, nodding at Ildemir. “Go on, then. What was this thief’s name?”
Ildemir grimaced at the sight of the sinking bowl. “I don’t remember!”
The pounding came again, and still, Naim didn’t answer. His mask of interest fell away. “The thief’s name was Aruna. He helped the Red Hart—the girl who had been stealing from you—free her father. I have already heard this chronicle many times. You’re stalling, Corbaci.”
“No,” pleaded Ildemir.
The pounding got louder, this time accompanied by the voice of Commander Isitan of the Nizam-I Djedid. “Chronicler! I must speak with you at once.” The Djedid guards with the pliers looked nervously at one another, then at Naim.
“Tell me where Sullivan is,” demanded Naim. “Or your wife will suffer.”
Something slammed against the door, then again. The third time, the knob snapped away, and a foot kicked the door inward. Commander Isitan swept in with two of his men. “Chronicler. What are you doing?”
“This is imperial business.” Naim nodded at the guards to continue. “It is not your concern.”
“Both of you!” Isitan commanded the soldiers with the pliers. “Drop those tools.”
The Djedid soldiers froze. They looked at Naim, then to their commander. One of them obeyed and stepped behind Isitan. Fear crept into the eyes of the other as he weighed the consequences of disobeying the wrong leader. Naim directed an icy gaze at him, hoping to cow him into submission.
“I said drop that tool, soldier,” repeated Isitan. “You will free the Corbaci and Lady Bahar this instant. Then you will hold them under guard in the next room and treat their wounds. Or I will behead you myself.”
The pliers clattered to the stone. The guard hurried to untie Bahar. Naim sat quietly in his chair, hands clasped under his chin, as three more Djedid filed into the room. They soon had both prisoners freed. Corbaci Ildemir flashed a murderous glare at Naim as he rubbed at his rope burns. He strode with military posture behind the Djedid as they escorted him and Bahar to the next room. When the door snapped shut, Naim and his young protégé were left alone in the servant’s quarters. Bubbles muttered in the pot as the bowl submerged.
“Of all men,” said Naim, “I did not imagine you would defy the will of the sultan’s chronicler.”
Isitan circled in front of Naim. “And I did not think the Chronicler would torture the wife of a Janissary corbaci with neither evidence nor cause!”
Naim’s eyes rolled up to his protégé. The twenty-seven-year-old commander often withered under such a look from his mentor, but today his stare was solid as a rock. It was a sign of great courage, and though Naim couldn’t show it, he was proud. “Careful, Commander.”
“You have my loyalty, Sidi Naim. You asked for my help a year ago, and so I have given it. If I have displeased you, then I will face the consequences. But make no mistake: I command the Djedid and no one else!”
Naim allowed his eyes to drift to the east-facing windows, out over the rooftops of Tunis, to the small outline of the Lake Fort. “You had something to report?”
In the corner of his vision, Naim could see Isitan’s posture relax. “Ildemir is not harboring Sullivan,” the commander said.
“Your search yielded no results?”
“I called off the search. It is no longer necessary. We have an informant.”
“Who?”
“One of the American crew,” Isitan replied. “He came ashore with a group of our men. He claims to have important news. The Aubert woman lied to you—the Janissaries didn’t help Sullivan. Your torture of Ildemir has played into Sullivan’s plan. He’s fomenting a Janissary rebellion against us and attempting to steal a ship from the harbor. And I have reports of Janissaries marching on the palace as we speak.”
A cord of muscle tightened from Naim’s neck to his thigh. In that instant, it all made sense. Sullivan’s miraculous escape. The soldiers who fell asleep at their posts. The theft of Naim’s chronicles. Sullivan, Auldon, and Dufort hadn’t done it on their own. They had help. Help from someone quiet. Someone careful. Someone who opened doors that were meant to stay locked.
“She’s alive,” Naim said with a wry smile. “The Red Hart.”
“Who?”
“The girl. Sullivan’s sister. We never found her body at Red Mortar Redoubt. I always suspected she might have lived. She helped them escape the Lake Fort, and she planted my papers in Ildemir’s study. Sullivan helped the Aubert woman plan this ruse.” Naim scoffed, impressed at the cunning of his enemies.
“Chronicler,” said Isitan. “Our position here has become untenable. If we return the Corbaci to his men and announce our withdrawal from Tunis, perhaps we can avert an attack.”
“The Janissaries are going to attack no matter what. Better we should have their commander and his wife as hostages. Rally Hamit’s pirates, then select five of your best men for a special task. The main Djedid force will fortify this position.”
Isitan shook his head in disbelief. “This is madness, Sidi Naim. The bey will turn the palace guards on us. We can’t fight them and the approaching Janissaries.”
“Leave the bey to me. Get your men ready.”
“Is this one man really worth starting a civil war?”
Naim seized the collar of Isitan’s jacket. His anger boiled over, and he rasped, “Sullivan killed my son!”
Isitan neither cowered nor resisted. His eyes were strangely soft. “My honored mentor, Ilyas was like a brother to me. His death was a dagger through my heart. I stood at your side this past year out of love for him, as much as for you. I was once a drunken boy, stealing in the market. Your teachings made me a man of honor and strength. I owe you everything. And that is why I beg you to reconsider this path. It was one thing to tax the bey’s hospitality, but now we risk driving the Barbary powers into rebellion against the Ottoman Empire. Would such a catastrophe truly honor the memory of Ilyas?”
The words touched Naim’s heart, and at that moment, a strange feeling came over him. He realized he wasn’t looking at his top commander, but rather an adopted son. He realized the words of this young man carried the power to dissuade him from his work. And that he loved this man as if he were his own. And for those reasons, Naim nearly reached up with both hands and crushed Isitan’s throat.
Instead, Naim forced his hand to let go of Isitan’s collar. He molded his face into something softer. “It was a mistake to involve Corbaci Ildemir’s wife. Before my retirement, I would never have used such undisciplined methods. Isitan, my student, you have become a wise and honorable man. I can see I have no more to teach you.”
“I know that is not true. I shall always be your student, Chronicler. And the sultan will always seek your
counsel.”
“On the contrary,” said Naim with a rueful smile. “My days of bloody, terrible work in the shadows are at an end. You and your new way will lead our empire into the light. But before I can hand the chronicle of the future to you, there is one last page I must write. I cannot do it without your help.” Naim let go a heavy sigh, and he almost believed his own mask of serenity. “I know what I ask carries great risk. I am asking you, brother, to trust me one last time. Help me lay my son to rest.”
Isitan’s eyes fell to his polished boots. He looked up at his mentor with renewed purpose. “I am with you to the end, Chronicler.”
Naim laid a hand on Isitan’s shoulder. A shock of emotion ran through him, unexpected and unbidden. As he looked into Isitan’s stalwart eyes, he saw admiration in their reflection. Naim’s hand slipped away. “Now then, where is this informant?”
Isitan went out into the hall for a moment. He returned with a man in a blue coat and black oiled top hat. The man was an American sailor with thick sideburns and a scowling, weathered face. He approached Naim with bow-legged purpose. In his hand, he twirled a segmented cane. He held out a sealed envelope with a French fleur-de-lis stamped in blue wax. “My name is Bosun Zachary Toule. My captain, Richard Aubert of the Allegheny, offers his compliments and a proposal of mutual benefit.”
An urge came over Naim to draw his sword and slice the groveling peon’s throat. He feigned a nod of interest instead. Restraining his violence became more difficult by the minute.
“In exchange for a few modest considerations,” Toule went on, “Captain Aubert can supply you with information that will lead to Sullivan’s capture, among other advantages.”
Naim gave a pained smile. “Such as?”
“We can provide details of his plan, which will aid in his capture. He means to steal a ship.”
“What ship?” asked Isitan.
“We don’t know,” admitted Toule. “But we have some inkling by which to guess…”
“No need for guessing,” said Naim, a cold smile spreading across his lips. He gazed out the window toward the walled harbor of the Janissary docks. “Of all the ships on the sea, there is only one Sullivan desires.”
Chapter 29
Outside the City of Aleppo
Ottoman Imperial Province
Ten Years Ago
A forest of flags snapped on poles. The wind carried sand through the colorful tents of Governor El-Azzam. Two columns of Janissary troops stood at attention on either side of a red-carpeted path, their long rifles resting upright against their shoulders. The governor sat under a four-poster awning, flanked by his viziers and ministers. His black hair was tied in a queue, his beard flowing down purple robes. The cocksure heir to his father’s province stared at the jewels on his knuckles.
Governor El-Azzam said, “You are lucky we are in the desert, Sidi Naim. Had you approached my palace, I would have taken your head.”
The sultan’s chronicler absorbed El-Azzam’s words. He stood twenty paces from the Aleppo governor, his kaftan blowing in the breeze. He replied, “There are no tricks. I am but the word of Sultan Selim, to whom you swore fealty. His only desire is to restore peace between your lands and the court.”
“Ha!” scoffed El-Azzam. “There’s no ruler in the empire that isn’t wise to your game, humble Chronicler. In one hand, you offer the sultan’s peace, but in the other, you hide a dagger. You may carry this message to Sultan Selim: He will not get a single coin of taxes from me. He will receive no conscripts for his army. And my Janissaries will kill any man from this day forth who approaches my city in his name.” El-Azzam leaned forward. “Until he disbands his coterie of infidel-trained soldiers. Aleppo will not bow to the Nizam-I Djedid!” In the same breath, he shouted, “Slave! Where is my pipe?”
A hunched old man in a course kaftan shambled to the governor’s feet. The assembled soldiers, dignitaries, and advisors sat in polite silence as Al-Azzam accepted his pipe from the old Jewish slave. The governor puffed the long stem, watching the smoke trail in the wind.
“Is that your final word, Governor?” the Chronicler asked.
“It is,” El-Azzam replied. “Unless you want to hear, ‘Executioner, bring me the head of a calligrapher.’”
A mutter of laughter passed among the crowd.
The Chronicler gave a humble bow. “As you wish. Peace be upon you.” Then he turned around and walked to his waiting carriage.
The old slave slinked away from the governor, and in the side of his eye, watched the so-called Chronicler step into the coach. The slave had been watching and listening in the governor’s presence for weeks. Of course, El-Azzam was wise to meet on neutral ground. But as Varlick Naim hobbled into the slaves’ tent, still disguised as a decrepit old servant, he knew a fatal secret.
The man El-Azzam called “Chronicler” was nothing of the kind.
###
That night, in the candlelit warmth of Governor El-Azzam’s tent, Varlick Naim attended the young leader’s whims. He washed El-Azzam’s feet, dressed him in his evening clothes, and sent for his favorite prostitutes. El-Azzam was youthful, sharp, and filled with ambition. He was wiser than his father and knew better than to trust any agent of the sultan—even under a flag of truce. But like all men, he had a weakness. Naim dutifully applied scented oil to the governor’s back, and as always, the young man would not look him in the eye. Slaves were unworthy of a governor’s gaze, after all. So long as Naim acted craven and subservient, he was invisible.
“I don’t like the girls you brought me last night,” said El-Azzam. “I want a younger one. One that is innocent. Pure. And I want wine. Red.”
“Of course, Master,” said Naim.
And there it was. El-Azzam’s weakness wasn’t arrogance or stupidity—it was denial. In public, he maintained an air of moral righteousness. Only in the presence of non-persons—of slaves—could he admit to his dark desires.
Naim stood behind his seated charge, running a comb through the governor’s silken hair. “May I ask you a question, Master?”
“Certainly, dog.” El-Azzam admired the smooth lines of his face in the mirror. “And if your question bores me, I’ll have your hands cut off and dipped in pitch.”
The comb slid through the governor’s locks with ease. “You hate the sultan’s new soldiers because they are trained by infidels. But what if they can use the knowledge of infidels against them? What if they can lead our empire to new glory?”
“The sultan has become decadent. He envies Christian ways in the name of reform. I will not bow to that sinful fool or his army of usurpers. How do you find that answer, dog?”
“Strange. For a man who beds children and swills wine.”
For the first time, El-Azzam met Naim’s eyes in the mirror. He frowned.
The silk cord whipped around El-Azzam’s neck. Naim pulled it tight under the young governor’s chin, easily staying clear of the man’s flailing hands. It sang softly as it pulled tight. El-Azzam clutched at it, unable to get a grip, his face reddening. There was a realization in the governor’s expression—realization come too late. As the struggling young man suffocated, Naim met his own eyes in the mirror. He wore an expression of boredom. The governor added a burst of effort to his struggles, his life ebbing by the second.
Naim was used to a victim’s last grasp at life, and he tightened the cord, his grip holding firm. He brought his lips close to Al-Azzam’s ears. “Your brother is eager to take your place, Governor. Though he pledges support for the sultan and his new army, if it is any comfort, he hates them as much as you.”
There was a final flash of despair in the governor’s eyes, and then he went limp. Varlick Naim let the young man’s head tilt back against the chair. He assumed the hunched gait of an old slave and shambled out of the tent.
###
Outside Athens, Greece
Ottoman Imperial Province
The setting sun spilled across the fields of olive trees. Naim sat at the head of a table o
n his cobbled patio, facing west, his family gathered around. The fragrance of blooming flowers and wet earth filled the air. He son Ilyas, daughter Touran, and wife Rahele ate a meal of lamb, bulgur, and figs. Rahele sat opposite, her brown hair fluttering in the breeze, her face flawless as a sculpted queen. He loved watching his wife’s brows as she bit into the fruit—the moment when pleasure filled her eyes. After so many months traveling the desert, he longed to bring her a deeper pleasure after nightfall. Looking at the beauty of his wife against sunlit hills, Naim knew his terrible work had been worth the price. The day he saved Sultan Mustafa’s son from the attack on the seraglio, the sultan gave him Rahele’s hand in marriage and a plot of land in the Greek countryside. After that reward, Naim never asked another.
“Touran,” said Naim with a smile. “Your mother tells me your art lessons go well. Master Christopoulos reports your skill at portraiture is the best of his students.”
Naim’s thirteen-year-old daughter looked up from her plate. She had her mother’s soft, large eyes and her father’s athletic build. But a curiosity had always been her chestnut hair, not like either of her parents. All the gold in the empire could not have warmed Naim’s heart like the sight of her. Much to his disappointment, Touran’s mood was somber. She mustered a smile, then went back to picking at her food. “Yes, Father. Thank you for hiring so fine a teacher.”
Even after a lifetime learning to read the intentions of others, Naim found his daughter’s moods confounding. Attempting to lighten her spirits, he asked, “When can I see this new portrait of yours? I hear your subject was your mother. You could not have chosen one more lovely.”
“Yes, Father, of course.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Naim. “I thought you were excited for me to see your work.”
Touran brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Yes, Father. I am, very much. But…it’s…”
“But what?”
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