Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  “I am not sure I can claim domestic harmony,” I said, “but I cannot deny that I am restless. Both my parents have recently accused me of discontent. I was forced to admit that the daily life of a dutiful Jewish man holds little appeal for me. Yet I have thus far failed to find a worthwhile venture to put in its place.”

  “Come with me, then,” Amir said. “I would welcome your company.”

  “Would the Sultan not object? ”

  Amir laughed.

  “I may choose what men I will. I would even share command with you.”

  “It is a tempting offer,” I admitted. “Yet I cannot imagine explaining to my family that my mission is to spy for the Sultan. Indeed, I would surely be bound to secrecy on this point.”

  “That is true,” he said. “So let me propose another mission that we can pursue at the same time. You have spoken to me about the Jewish notion of repairing the world, which I find both foolish and noble.”

  “Tikkun olam,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Would it serve this directive if we sailed to São Tomé?”

  “São Tomé?” I repeated stupidly. “But the children who were sent to São Tomé are dead.”

  “Are they?” Amir raised his brows and cocked his head. “All of them? As you said yourself, how do you know? Let us go and find out.”

  “It would be two months’ sail across the Mediterranean to Gibraltar and another two months down the coast of Africa. And in the White Sea, the Mediterranean, are the Turkish navy and the Knights of Rhodes, corsairs all, and the Venetian fleet as well. And farther east are the Spanish, with yet another fleet. And should we make it through Gibraltar, there are the Portuguese, who consider the waters down the coast of Africa their own.”

  “I hear your objections,” Amir said. “At the same time, I observe that you already have much necessary knowledge of the route.”

  “Have you heard of the Tordesillas Meridian?” I asked. “The Spanish and the Portuguese, without a by-your-leave from anyone but the pope, have divided the world between them. The Mediterranean and the western lands the Spaniards continue to discover, Spain considers its own. The southern Atlantic, down the coast of Africa and around it to the rich trading in the true Indies and far Cathay, the Portuguese have claimed, along with whatever new lands may be discovered to the west and south of the meridian.”

  “They may own an imaginary line,” Amir said. “For that is all a meridian is, is it not? As for the lands themselves on either side of it, the peoples of the world may have something to say about the matter. It would suit the sultan to know more of what the Portuguese are about.”

  “Exploration and the trade in slaves,” I said, “by all accounts.”

  “Then let us go and see for ourselves,” he said.

  Chapter 36: Rachel

  Prince Selim’s sword was finished. Rachel woke early that morning, for Ayşe Hatun was impatient to receive it and planned to present it to her son that very day. Shivering in the predawn chill, Rachel scrubbed and splashed herself into a rosy state with cold water and braided her hair with trembling fingers. The night before, she had hung up the blue flower-embroidered dress, still her best, to shake out any wrinkles and made sure her finest şalvar and blue leather babouches were clean. It was no small thing to please a hatun whose son might one day be sultan. Kira Chana would present the sword, of course, and do the talking, but she had promised she would inform Ayşe Hatun that Rachel was equally responsible for making sure the gift was worthy of its purpose. If all went well, perhaps the hatun would charge her with commissions on her own, coming to see her not as Kira Chana’s negligible, practically invisible servant but as a kira in training on whom she might rely, at least in small matters.

  Kira Chana’s mule would carry no wares for the seraglio today. Solomon had vowed to curry it within an inch of its life and braid jasmine into its mane in honor of the occasion. They would go first to Mustafa’s shop in the Bedestan for the sword, then to the palace, where the Kizlar Agha himself would escort them to a chamber in the haremlik, to which Ayşe Hatun would be free to summon her son once she had approved the beautiful object. And it was beautiful! Rachel had seen the completed weapon the day before. Mustafa had run his hands over it lovingly before wrapping it in a silken cloth and promising to have every facet of the jeweled hilt sparkling and every inch of the bright steel blade glinting like sunlight on the Bosphorus before they came to collect it.

  “Are you not sorry to let it go, effendi?” Rachel could not resist asking.

  Mustafa smiled.

  “This beautiful thing is made for use,” he said. “See how sharp the blade is.” He held up a strand of silk and sliced through it with one quick swipe, so suddenly that Rachel jumped back. “Şehzade Selim will use it to smite the sultan’s enemies.”

  “More likely his own brothers when the old man dies,” Solomon muttered under his breath, fortunately in Hebrew.

  His mother shot a quelling look at him.

  “The sword is worthy of the sultan himself, effendi,” the kira said. “Perhaps when he sees this weapon of his son’s, he will commission one for himself.”

  “I am the sultan’s slave,” Mustafa said.

  Afterward, Rachel asked, “When does Mustafa get paid? Will we not need to give him gold before we take the sword?”

  “You heard him,” Kira Chana said. “He is the sultan’s slave, as indeed is every subject of the empire, including ourselves. Once Ayşe Hatun has approved the workmanship and the quality of the jewels and the şehzade has indicated that he too is pleased, eunuchs from the palace will deliver his fee in silver akçe or in gold. Mustafa will be rewarded, never fear.”

  Now, hearing the clop of equine feet on the still quiet street, Rachel ran to the door and flung it open. There was the mule, clean as a janissary’s horse and duly adorned with flowers. There was Solomon, also clean and looking as if someone had curried him with the same brush as the mule.

  “Where is Kira Chana?” Rachel cried.

  “Sick,” Solomon said. “You must go alone.”

  “Oh, no!” Rachel said. “She can’t be! What is wrong? Will she be all right?”

  “Did you not know she has a weak heart?” Solomon said.

  “No,” Rachel said. “She has always seemed a tower of strength to me.”

  “So she wishes everyone to see her,” Solomon said. “I am not surprised that she did not tell you. From time to time she has spells like this morning’s, when she suffers from shortness of breath and becomes weak and dizzy. Do not look so tragic. She will take her usual remedy and be better by tomorrow. But Ayşe Hatun cannot be asked to wait. Mama said to tell you she has every confidence in you.”

  “But I can’t! It is not only Ayşe Hatun, who can be frightening enough when she is displeased. But the Kizlar Agha will be there, and Prince Selim himself might appear. I do not know which is more terrifying.”

  “You must,” Solomon said. “There is no one else. You know very well that I cannot enter the harem, nor can Mustafa. Mama said to remind you that you are the girl who stowed away on Admiral Columbus’s flagship and was the first European woman to reach the Indies. I had not heard that story before. Did you really do it?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, “but that was different. I wanted to sail to the Indies.”

  “You want to be a kira, do you not?”

  “Yes,” Rachel admitted.

  “Then take the next step,” Solomon advised.

  He had more of his mother’s brains than Rachel had supposed.

  “Very well,” she said, “let us go. Mustafa will be waiting.”

  Having survived this ordeal—with flying colors, as Hutia, Diego, and Kira Chana all assured her afterward—Rachel found that her status in the seraglio had indeed gone up a notch.

  This meant further demands on her time, as the senior hatuns all began to give her small commissions whenever Kira Chana was not close at hand.

  “It is not about immediate reward,” the kira said wh
en Rachel had to empty her own purse to pay an old lady in the Grand Bazaar who embroidered exquisite linen handkerchiefs and would not believe Rachel’s assurance that their price would come directly from the palace. “You are establishing yourself as a kira, a trusted purveyor to the harem. It is a long game. If you find yourself too greatly out of pocket, ask more in reimbursement. If a hatun demands your services and then puts off paying you too long or too often, go to the Kizlar Agha. He will make sure that you get your due. And do not tell me that you are afraid of the Kizlar Agha. One reason I agreed to take you on is that I suspect that you are not afraid of anything.”

  “That might be true,” Rachel said cautiously, “at least now that I am beyond the reach of the Inquisition. And know how to use a sword. And shoot an arquebus. Why are you laughing, kira?”

  The kira wiped her eyes with a handkerchief almost as fine as those commissioned by Bülbül Hatun.

  “I see why everybody loves you,” she said between chuckles. “Even my Solomon is smitten, and he is much too young.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Rachel said. “Anyway, I am pledged to Ümīt Gezgin. But you are right, I can see I need not be afraid of the Kizlar Agha. He is a man like any other, only sadder and more powerful than most.”

  “Ah, you see the sadness,” Kira Chana said. “You have a good heart, Rachel. That is the other reason I wanted you as my apprentice.”

  As time passed, Rachel became more and more at home in the seraglio, while exclaiming nightly, especially to Ümīt, how miserable she would be to lead such a life herself. One day, while Kira Chana was engaged in reviewing a long list of requested purchases with Nigar Hatun, Ayşe Hatun beckoned to her from the bath, where she was soaking her still supple body in milk and rose water while four slave women painted her fingernails and toenails.

  “Kiracik!” she called.

  I cannot expect her to know my name, Rachel thought. “Little kira” is progress indeed.

  “Yes, hatun,” she said, bowing. “How may I serve you?”

  “You are she who brought my son’s sword,” she said languidly. She looked Rachel up and down as if she were a new species of animal.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Ayşe turned her head a fraction of an inch and caught the eye of another slave woman, one of two standing by with thick towels.

  “I wish Armaghan to massage my head. Fetch him. And you! Let down my hair.”

  Rachel could not repress a start of alarm before she realized that “you!” was the other slave woman, not herself. The woman knelt and began to remove long, wicked-looking pins from Ayşe’s thick, lustrous hair, the color of mahogany with streaks of red that might be henna covering silver, but perhaps not. If the hatun dyed her hair, she did it in secrecy.

  “Do you know flowers?” the hatun demanded. “I mean you, kiracik. Speak up. I do not think you are stupid. In fact, I know you are not.”

  “Yes, lady, I do.” What kind of a question was that? “I have spent many hours in the flower market. I have set myself to learn the names of those that grow nowhere but in Turkey.”

  “Do not babble, girl!” the hatun said sharply. “I have heard enough.”

  She is deliberately trying to intimidate me, Rachel thought. There is no reason for it. Flowers are a small matter, and she knows I will do her bidding. It must be a matter of policy with her.

  “How may I serve you, lady?” Rachel repeated.

  “My son will visit the haremlik tomorrow,” Ayşe said. “I wish to deck the chamber where we will meet with flowers, and the eunuchs will be occupied with other tasks. I wish you to visit the flower market at dawn, when the blooms are freshest, and bring them to me. There must be an abundance of them, all that will fit in two mules’ packs. Can you do this?”

  “Yes, hatun.” The task sounded easy enough. “Do you wish a particular kind of flower?”

  “Tulips, of course,” the hatun said. “They are the glory of the Ottomans. Yes, yes, I can read your face. Our tulip gardens here in the palace are unparalleled. But those must not be cut. Their destiny is to bloom only for the sultan’s pleasure and die where they are planted, like our master’s hatuns. You may pick out strong and violent colors to suit the nature of my son. For fragrance, lilies and jasmine. And yüksükotu, do you know it? It is my son’s favorite flower. White and purple bells on a stalk with dark spots in each bell’s throat.”

  “Yes, my lady, foxglove. I have heard them called fairy fingers or fairy’s gloves.”

  Ayşe laughed.

  “Is it so? I must tell my son. It will make him laugh. Those are poor names for a warrior’s favorite flower.”

  “What could I do but bow and agree?” Rachel asked Ümīt that evening, as she told him about her day. They had taken to spending at least an hour together as night was falling, no matter how tired they were or how busy they had been. “I am not certain even she knew what she was talking about. What is so funny about fairy’s gloves? I would have asked Kira Chana, but she felt ill again this afternoon. She must rest at home tomorrow. Solomon will meet me at the flower market at dawn with two mules, and once I have delivered Ayşe Hatun’s flowers, I can do whatever the ladies wish for the rest of the day.”

  “It will be a long day for you,” Ümīt said.

  “I am proud that Kira Chana trusts me,” Rachel said.

  “You need not walk through the streets before dawn alone,” he said. “May I escort you?”

  “Of course, nanichi,” she said. “I will be glad of your company. And thank you for not saying I must not walk through the streets alone.”

  Ümīt grinned and ruffled her hair.

  “I am learning tact,” he said, “another quality of which the Taino had no need.”

  Chapter 37: Diego

  “What do you know about the western Mediterranean?” Amir asked.

  “Very little,” I said. “When I first boarded a ship in 1492, I was not a seaman but a frightened boy who knew only that he would be killed if he did not leave Spain that very day.

  Since then I have crossed the Ocean Sea four times, three of them with the best navigator in the world. On the Mediterranean, I have been only a passenger who encountered first a storm, then corsairs. That one of those corsairs was a friend, I thank God.”

  Amir waved a hand as if to say that saving our lives and our freedom had been but a trifle. We sat on cushions in the cool room of the hammam, a low table between us. This held not only a tray of pastries and glasses of mint tea but also maps and charts, for Amir had thrown himself enthusiastically into the venture he had proposed.

  “And of what manner were your ships?”

  “The Santa Maria, our flagship on the first voyage, was a carrack, a lovable tub.”

  “Oh, yes, slow to catch the wind but undaunted in a storm and with a belly fit to hold a regiment of soldiers or provisions for an army.”

  “The others were caravels,” I said. “Then you know sailing ships as well as galleys?”

  “When I escaped from slavery,” Amir said, “I knew I must make up for lost time and acquire as many skills as possible—especially those that might assist me to quit any place I did not wish to be! Your big ships will be no use to us, as we have not the men to crew such a vessel.”

  “We have no men at all,” I pointed out.

  Amir flashed the white teeth in a dark face that made his smile so dazzling.

  “I have many friends. Will Ümīt not join us?”

  “He is no sailor. In any case, he will not leave Rachel, now that they have reached an accord and my parents given their blessing. His latest ambition is to take part in the sipahis' demonstration of equestrian archery before the sultan at the circumcision festival.”

  Amir laughed aloud.

  “He is optimistic indeed if he thinks he will be able to sit a horse, much less shoot a bow at a gallop and swing down beneath the belly of his horse to avoid the others’ arrows, directly after being circumcised.” He took a pastry, bit into it, and licked his
fingers, sticky with honey.

  “He assures me,” I said, “that the demonstrations are scheduled for well after the ritual itself.”

  “We too will be busy,” Amir said. “We have much preparation ahead of us.”

  “I agree,” I said. “First, we must find the right ship. She must be swift, for she must outrun any who pursue or try to stop us. She must require a relatively small crew. Her draft must be shallow enough to hide in coves and enter any harbor but deep enough to brave the ocean off the Guinea Coast. An oared vessel would serve us best as we pass through Ottoman waters, but the ocean demands sail. I cannot imagine such a vessel.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” Amir said. “You have never seen such a vessel, nor have I, but we can imagine it. We need a very small galliot, more like a caique or fishing boat in size, but with two masts for sail, rigged to require the smallest possible crew, with no more than six banks of oars, and so efficiently designed that it can get us through the roughest waters. I know a shipbuilder who can build us the very ship we need.”

  “Commission a ship?” I shook my head. “The cost would be prohibitive.”

  “This shipbuilder and I have done business together for some time,” Amir said. “I have brought him ships to repair such as the captured vessel on which you and I met again, and that is only one part of our association. He and I will come to an agreement. In fact, I can propose the vessel as a prototype to be presented to the sultan for his navy once we have tested it by completing our voyage successfully.”

  “It takes time to build a ship,” I said. “We cannot count on leaving until the spring.”

  “Will such a delay trouble you?” Amir asked.

  “Not as long as I have employment,” I said. “What I have lacked in Istanbul is a sense of purpose, and this venture provides it.”

  “We will both have much to do,” Amir said. “I will recruit the men.”

  “You can leave the provisioning to me,” I said. “In ’93, I not only learned to estimate and supply the needs of twelve hundred men, but wrote down with my own hand every biscuit and barrel the Admiral’s fleet carried, under the two most cantankerous masters who ever bullied an apprentice.”