“Two?”
“The other was an archdeacon,” I said, “a high official of the Church. Columbus and he, sailor and counter of beans, were at daggers drawn the whole time we were outfitting the fleet.”
“Let us hope we do better as joint captains,” Amir said. “We will need a helmsman, a cook, a dozen rowers, and the same number of sailors. You to speak with any Spaniards we might encounter, I to speak Turkish and Arabic. And in me you have a Moorish corsair with a commission from the sultan. How is your Portuguese?”
“Faulty. Once we pass Gibraltar and turn south, we will meet none but Portuguese on the sea. We would do better to include a native speaker. What language do the Knights of Rhodes speak?”
“There is no short answer to that question,” he said. “They come from many lands and speak the tongues of those lands: German, French, the langue d’oc, Italian, English, and the various tongues of Spain, Castile and Aragon not being as united in the Knights’ hearts as in those of Ferdinand and Isabella. And Latin, of course.”
“I can manage in all but English and the langue d’oc,” I said. “Let us hope that we meet no English Knights. If we do, we will have to shoot first and try to communicate later. Shall we carry cannon?”
“Even one bombard will weigh the vessel down and compromise its speed,” he said. “If we are accosted, I think our best strategy will be to run and hide. I know the coast on both sides of the Mediterranean, and I will alert my many cousins to expect us.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that the most risky part of the voyage will be getting through Gibraltar. I confess I have not studied the geography of the area. The Admiral led us west of the Pillars of Hercules, straight from Cadiz to the Canary Isles.”
“Let us look at our maps,” Amir said. He snapped his fingers, and a boy appeared to bow and remove the tray. “On the north, the coastal towns belong to Spain: Gibraltar itself, Algeciras, and Tarifa. However, Algeciras is in ruins, and that is to our advantage. A hundred years ago, a sultan of Granada destroyed it so that the invading Spaniards would get no benefit from it, and they have yet to rebuild it.”
“I suppose you have cousins there,” I said, “and pigeons that know the way.”
“Of course.” Amir smiled.
“And on the south? Dare I hope that Ceuta and Tangier are in Muslim hands?”
“Alas, they are not,” he said. “The Portuguese hold them both. Even if they were, neither the Persian nor the Moroccan ruler is a friend to Bayezid, rightly believing that he eyes their empires with a view to expanding his own.”
“So we will have enemies at every hand on land and sea.”
“Do not discount our allies in the Maghreb,” Amir said.
“Cousins. And pigeons.”
“And a stout crew. We have only to recruit them, build our ship, provision it, and embark.”
“There is no booty to be gained on this voyage,” I said. “What incentive can we offer the crew?”
“Most of those I have in mind are retired pirates,” Amir said cheerfully. “They will come for the adventure.”
“I seem always to choose companions more optimistic than myself,” I said. “You, Ümīt, the Admiral. Do you know Rachel’s favorite remark to me?”
To my surprise, he said, “I do. My desire to escape slavery made me alert to every word spoken on that journey. I will not quote her, but say to you on my own behalf, Diego, you worry too much.”
“And if we reach the Isle of Crocodiles only to find that all the children are dead or that for some reason we cannot rescue the survivors?”
“Then we will have tried,” he said.
“Very well, I will set my doubts aside,” I said.
“This is your mission,” he said. “What will you name our ship?”
“Let us name her Esperanza. Hope.”
Chapter 38: Rachel
After delivering Ayşe Hatun’s flowers to the Kizlar Agha, who unbent sufficiently to compliment her on their freshness and color, Rachel continued through the now familiar corridors of lacy stonework and tiled passages to the seraglio, chatting with the eunuchs who escorted her. They were brothers, white, which was unusual for the seraglio, but Bülbül Hatun doted on them, calling them her white bullocks. Ulviye, the youngest of the hatuns and the least discreet, had told Rachel they had been rendered fit for service to the harem at Bülbül’s direct request. Kira Chana had refused with tightened lips to tell her what that might mean. Mama, who did not believe in evasions or watering down the facts, had said that she supposed there were degrees of gelding in the making of a eunuch and that those allowed to serve the women had more of their private parts cut off than those who attended the sultan.
“That is so cruel, Mama!” Rachel had exclaimed.
“We cut our boys at the brit,” Mama said, “as Ümīt will be cut along with the Turkish princes. Is that cruel?”
“You cannot think circumcision is the same as gelding, Mama!” Rachel said. “Oh, I know, you wish me to think.”
Mama smiled.
“When a woman learns to think, it doubles her power.”
“You always say that,” Rachel said. “I love you so much, Mama. I missed you all that time that we were apart.”
Mama brushed a curly tendril of Rachel’s hair off her forehead.
“And I you,” she said. “You will need all the wits you can muster to be a kira. We cut our fingernails and toenails. Is that cruel?”
“I see,” Rachel said. “You are suggesting it is a matter of degree. Circumcision is a gesture of obedience to Adonai.”
“And cleanliness,” Mama added.
“While a man’s parts are a natural part of him and his ability to father children, so it is wrong to take them from him. How can the Turks do it?”
“They do not do it themselves,” Mama said, “thus demonstrating that they know it is wrong. Muslims are forbidden to perform the act. They leave the cruelty to their Balkan subjects and buy the eunuchs afterward.”
“That is—what is that word that Papa uses when Akiva advances an unsound opinion simply for the sake of argument?—sophistry!” Rachel said indignantly.
Mama laughed and bent forward over her sewing to kiss Rachel very tenderly.
“I need not worry about your capacity to think, my daughter,” she said, “or your feeling heart, which is even more important.”
Since then, Rachel had made it a point to learn all the eunuchs’ names and thank them for the tiniest courtesy. She did not pry, but when they let fall snippets of information about their history and their likings, she listened. The white bullocks were Dīrenç and Doruk. Doruk, the elder brother, was built like a minaret, slender and tall enough to soar far above the others in any company. Dīrenç was barely taller than Rachel, with a stocky body that looked as if it had once been muscular, though harem life tended to render all the eunuchs flabby, and some were grossly fat. When she ventured to ask Doruk about his name, he told her willingly enough that it meant “mountaintop” in Turkish and that it had been given him in captivity.
“My birth name was Dragomir,” he said. “I do not often think of it. To endure life, one must live in the day.”
“That is very true,” Rachel said, “and easier to say than do, is it not?” She kept to herself the pity aroused by the idea of perceiving life as something to be endured.
“My brother was Duşan,” Doruk said, “but do not ask him about his name or our life in Serbia. Dīrenç means ‘resistance.’ He fought like a tiger when they captured him and again when they put us in the ground.”
“In the ground?”
“They cut us and then buried us in sand for three days,” Doruk said. “It is the custom. Only the strongest survive. I am sorry, kira. I did not mean to trouble you with that story. You have a sympathetic face. We both survived, and our life here is pleasant. We have every luxury and no danger.”
Horrified, Rachel said no more. But after that she sought ways of showing the brothers any small kindnes
s she could.
“Doruk,” she said, trotting to keep up with his long-legged, gliding strides, “do you still have the rheum you suffered from last week? I have brought you mint and chamomile. You must make an infusion and drink it before you sleep.” She turned to Dīrenç, holding out a small casket. “Have some of these sweetmeats. They are sugared rose petals. Seyhan Hatun asked for them, and I know she will not share, even with the other hatuns, so I got extra.”
The eunuchs exchanged a look.
“Seyhan Hatun has a craving for sweets lately,” Doruk said.
“Except when she demands sour fruit or cherry juice,” Dīrenç said.
“Although sometimes she cannot keep down the delicacies she demands,” Doruk said.
“Especially in the mornings,” Dīrenç added.
“Do you mean that she is breeding?” Rachel asked, hoping they would not be curious about how an unmarried maiden knew such things. All the Taino women in the yucayeque learned midwifery, and Rachel had attended several births.
“It is the only explanation for her megrims,” Doruk said. “Or for her new jewel, a ruby the size of a date that the sultan has bestowed on her.”
Rachel found that Seyhan’s condition was the chief topic of conversation in the harem, since the hatuns lived for the possibility of bearing the sultan’s sons.
“I know it is a son,” Seyhan declared, fingering the ruby that hung between her breasts on a delicate golden chain. “I can feel him here.” She pressed a shapely hand to her belly, which looked no more rounded than usual to Rachel’s eyes.
“Foolish girl,” Nigar said. “Son or daughter, it will not kick for months yet. When I awaited my Korkut, I carried him high, so I knew I had made a little prince. Your hips are narrow, so you will carry low, and it is likely to be a girl.”
“More than likely,” Bülbül agreed. “If you do not take better nourishment than sweetmeats, she will be a puny thing, unlikely to live long. But why waste my breath? You will do as you wish. In any case, my Ahmet is a man grown and high in his favor, so why make a fuss about another insignificant harem brat?”
“He is not an insignificant brat!” Seyhan said, defiantly stuffing a fistful of rose petals into her mouth. When she could speak again, she added, “You are simply being spiteful, and I will tell him so when he sends for me yet again tonight.”
Seyhan retched, and two black eunuchs hurried to her aid, one holding a basin, the other guiding her tottering steps to the nearest couch. By mutual accord, the other hatuns turned away and began chattering of other concerns. They had their own ways of establishing privacy in this strange existence. Rachel thought that lacking the freedom to be alone at will would be unbearable. Seyhan looked pale and weak, reeling as if she were dizzy. She lowered herself to the couch with the eunuch’s help, her breath coming in short gasps. Resisting the eunuch’s attempt to persuade her to lie back, she pressed one hand to her chest and, with the other, summoned the eunuch who stood holding the basin, which he had emptied and rinsed. Her long hair fell forward as she once more made copious use of it.
“The other basin,” she said faintly, “quickly.”
She clutched at the ruby on its dangling chain, holding it aside from yet another spurt of vomit. Another eunuch hurried forward with a chamber pot, yet another eased it under her, loosened her şalvar, and spread the folds of her tunic around her. The first attendant held her hair back, and the second knelt, resting the basin on his knee. Rachel, realizing that the way all the other women were now ignoring Seyhan must be protocol, turned away.
The next day, Kira Chana returned to work, riding in the cart as both Solomon and Rachel insisted she must.
“I hope Seyhan Hatun is better today,” Rachel said. “She seemed very ill yesterday, more than one would expect with morning sickness.”
“The has fine physicians,” the kira said. “Most are Jewish. Our medical knowledge is one of the skills Bayezid values us for most highly.”
“Will they let a Jewish physician attend the hatun?” Rachel asked.
“It is unlikely,” the kira said. “They complicate things with this inability to trust the integrity of any whole man. You will grow accustomed to it. The eunuchs will describe the symptoms to the physician, who will prescribe a syrup or potion. The sultan will no doubt send for holy men as well. He is known for his faith in the efficacy of prayers and charms, and nothing is more important to him than his children, however many he has.”
But they found on their arrival that Seyhan Hatun was worse. Her couch had been curtained off. She was now suffering morning and night from vomiting and diarrhea, Ulviye whispered to Rachel. From behind the curtain, Seyhan could be heard moaning that she would now disgust the sultan, who would no longer wish to take her to his bed, and begging her attendants to assure her that her son would still be born safely. Dervishes had been stationed well outside the harem to dance and chant for her recovery. The younger hatuns looked anxious and whispered in corners. Rachel heard enough to know that while some feared that if illness could strike one of them, it could strike them all, others speculated on which of them the sultan’s next favorite might be and what measures they might take to improve their chances of pleasing him.
The older hatuns maintained a calm and dignified demeanor but were concerned enough, Rachel pointed out to Kira Chana, to offer tinctures and decoctions made with their own hands, which the eunuchs administered whenever Seyhan was briefly able to keep them down. Kira Chana, in her turn, pointed out that a eunuch was required to taste each offering before it touched the suffering hatun’s lips. The hatuns also added silver from their own purses to the sultan’s no doubt generous reward for the dervishes’ services.
“He has said that if she lives,” Hänom Hatun, another chatterbox, told Rachel, “and the child is safely brought to term, he will increase his endowments to the Sufi orders. The dervishes are very holy, you know.”
“So I understand,” Rachel said, wondering for a moment whether there were any similarities between Sufi mysticism and kabbalah and how perplexed Hänom would be if she uttered the thought. Unlike Mama’s daughters, the hatuns were not encouraged to think.
“Do you think Seyhan will recover?” Rachel asked Kira Chana as they made their way home at sunset. Her shoulders relaxed and she breathed a sigh of relief when they left the palace behind, entering the greater world where they could talk freely.
“I think she will die,” Kira Chana said. “I have thought she may have a weak heart, as some of her symptoms resemble those I occasionally suffer from, though less severely. If they believe she has been poisoned, I fear they will start torturing the eunuchs.”
“I don’t understand. Why would the eunuchs wish to kill Seyhan?”
“It is not they who might wish her ill, but the other women. Some are always jealous of a favorite, and Seyhan has boasted of it without even a show of modesty or tact. But the real threat is her pregnancy. The reign of a favorite never lasts for long. It is the custom for a bedmate to be dismissed once she has borne him a son. But the mother of a son has status that endures as long as the sultan lives and outlives him if her son inherits.”
“That is horrible!” Rachel said. “And they would torture the eunuchs to see if they had conspired to poison her but not question the hatuns themselves?”
“The eunuchs are expendable,” Kira Chana said. “Ordinarily, the sultan's ladies are not, although if he comes to believe one of them killed his child, he will have her strangled or thrown into a sack and drowned, as he would if she took a lover. Do not forget, my dear, that we are expendable too. I hope you have heeded my advice not to accept commissions for drugs or spells.”
“I have indeed,” Rachel said, “though in fact, none of them have asked me to obtain any medicines or even spices. I have purveyed nothing less innocent to the harem than sweetmeats and flowers.”
“Flowers? I do not remember any such commission. The palace gardens are one of the wonders of the empire. Why, it is said that
every species of tulip that exists blooms within the palace walls. Who made such a request?”
“Ayşe Hatun,” Rachel said. “Solomon did not tell you? She wished to surprise her son Selim by decorating a chamber in the haremlik with his favorite flowers for his visit. You were ill that day.”
“It is no surprise,” the kira said, “that Ayşe’s indulgence of her son knows no limits. But flowers? That does not sound like either of them. What did she say his favorite flowers were?”
“She asked for an abundance of tulips for color and lilies for scent,” Rachel said, “but she said his very favorite flower was foxglove. You know, fairy’s fingers.”
“Rachel!” Kira Chana stopped dead, turning white. Her hand flew to her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “Do you not know that foxglove is a specific for the heart? I take it myself. In small doses, it has healing properties.”
“No, I did not know.” Rachel’s eyes widened in horror. “What does a large dose do?”
“It kills.” The kira’s hands gripped Rachel’s shoulders so tightly that she gave a little cry of protest. “I have heard it called deadman’s bells.”
“What shall we do?” Rachel breathed.
“Nothing. Or rather, let us pray that Seyhan recovers. In the meantime, say nothing to anyone, not even your mother.”
“I must tell Hutia, I mean Ümīt. There can be no secrets between us.”
“Your betrothed? You must not! What man can keep a secret?”
“There is not a man like him in the whole world,” Rachel said. “I will tell him the whole story in Taino, a language that no one survives to speak except the two of us, and tell him to lock it within his heart.”
“And your brother?”
“Yes, Diego too speaks Taino. He too would keep the secret, but I will not speak of it to him, I promise. Soon he will be far away from Istanbul. Besides, if he knew, he would try to insist that I give up being a kira.”
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