Chapter 5
Topkapi Palace 1554
Bora waited in the bushes outside the inner walls of the palace. He had met with Pasha on several occasions to finalise the plans and at last the time had come. He lay shivering beneath his cape, keeping as still as he could in the freezing temperatures of the cloudless night, and pondered how he had got there.
As tradition decreed, Pasha had arranged a final meeting between Bora and Irini before her final admission into the harem of the sultan. Ordinarily that would be the last he would ever see of her but if everything went as planned, they would soon be able to live out their lives in comfort. They had met in an antechamber of the inner temple and though chaperoned by one of the eunuchs, they had the time and space to talk quietly without being overheard.
At first Irini had been sceptical but when Bora had outlined the fate that awaited them and the potential riches should they succeed, she soon came to see the sense of the plan. It was better to die reaching for freedom than die in the face of a false accusation.
The plan was agreed and at last the time had come. The moon was absent from the skies and the darkness was complete. Bora waited until the last patrol of the evening had passed, knowing that the enormous walls of the inner palace were protection enough from anybody outside, but little did he realise that this night the threat lay within.
* * *
Irini sat in front of the mirror, combing her long brown hair, her heart racing. So many things were due to happen, her mind struggled to arrange them in order. First, along with twelve others she was to be presented to the sultan. It was to be a fleeting meeting where the girls were led into the audience chamber and stood in line while the sultan made his choice. She would not even have the privilege of gazing on the man as he would be seated behind a screen, so as not to be seen by the eyes of the undeserving.
Each girl would then be allocated a position in the harem as either servant or Ikbal. Every girl there prayed to be chosen as Ikbal as though there were no guarantees, they would probably get the chance to attend the sultan’s bedchamber on at least one occasion. Please him there and it was possible for any girl to rise through the hierarchy of the harem to the very top. It was known that one of the sultan’s four wives, Roxelana, had once been a slave and had made her way up to favoured wife.
Ordinarily Irini, like all the other girls, would also be praying for selection as Ikbal, for only there lay the path to an easier life and the ways of the servant girls did not appeal. However, this night she did not care, for her mind was focused on the events after the selection. Once they had been led away, there would be a period of several hours while the sultan and his entourage dined and decisions were made. After this, the girls would be called again and their fates revealed. This was the period where Irini would seal her fate, one way or the other. The corridors would be deserted and she was to obtain a picture from the walls of the outer harem, casting it from one of the outer windows to the grounds below where Bora would be waiting to take it from the palace. After that, Pasha would remove his recommendation and Irini would be reunited with Bora. It all seemed so simple.
* * *
An hour later, Irini was led from the audience chamber along with the other girls to the halls of the outer harem. At first all were quiet as they were still overwhelmed by the opulence of the audience chamber but as they reached their quarters, their tongues loosened and the chatter came quickly as they speculated about each other’s fate. Irini alone was silent; the time was rapidly approaching and as she passed the rows of pictures on the walls of the corridors, she wondered which one held her one chance of happiness.
They were led into a luxurious waiting room and lounged on couches covered with silken sheets as they awaited their fate. Serving girls attended with trays of grapes and dates, giving each hopeful a teasing sample of the life that awaited them should they be successful.
Irini picked lightly on the fruit and after making some small talk, made her excuses and returned to the room where she had slept for the last two weeks. She walked quickly for there was no knowing how long the wait would be.
She entered the tiny room and closed the door behind her. Quickly she walked to the single bed and lifted the pillow. For a second, she didn’t see the note as she had expected something larger, but then she saw a tiny piece of parchment folded in half. As agreed, someone unknown had left her the message explaining which picture she needed. Irini unfolded the message and read the inscription.
The seventeenth picture from the left.
Irini read the instruction over and over again, determined not to make a mistake, and then made her way out of the room to head toward the corridor of gifts where the walls were decorated with dozens of pictures. She took a deep breath and started pacing, counting as she went.
‘One, two, three…’
At seventeen she stopped and stared at the picture in confusion. This was no work of art but a cartographer’s chart. Thinking she had made a mistake, she returned to the beginning and started again.
‘One, two, three…’
At seventeen she stopped again and looked at the same chart. The picture was interesting but the ones either side were obviously of superior quality and worth much more. Once more she doubted her counting and she retraced her steps one last time, touching each painting as she passed. For the third time she stood before the map and, realising time was running out, started to ease the picture from the wooden beads securing it to the wall.
At first the picture came easily and she managed to ease the metal studs from the right edge of the thick gazelle skin. Half of the top edge came next but then it became harder as the studs were driven deeper into the wooden frame. Irini started to sweat, her fingers working furiously as she tried to pull the iron studs free. The harder she worked, the more stressed she became and her sweaty fingers started to slip from the studs. In the distance she heard a door slam and someone approaching down the corridor.
‘Oh no,’ she gasped, and turned one last time to the picture. The right half was now hanging free and she knew she couldn’t even abandon the task as anyone passing would notice the flapping skin immediately. She realised she had one last chance and, grabbing the free edge, she pulled the skin as hard as she could, using her foot against the wall as leverage. At first nothing happened but suddenly she fell backwards as the map tore free of the frame. Irini picked herself up from the floor and looked up at the wall in horror. Though the map had indeed torn free, half of it remained on the wall, the left side still fastened by the iron studs. Irini gasped in fear and as the footsteps drew closer, she picked up the piece she had managed to obtain before running from the corridor.
A few seconds later, the footsteps passed Irini’s room as she stood behind the door, holding her breath in fear. Whoever it was, they were obviously too engrossed in their conversation to notice the torn map on the wall. Slowly she exhaled and thought frantically. Though she didn’t have the whole map, perhaps Pasha would still honour his side of the bargain. Even if it meant forfeiting the money, perhaps he would still arrange the freedom he promised. Clinging to that faint hope, she once more left the room and turned down a side corridor that led to the latrine.
The latrine girl was sitting on a stool outside the door and stood up in respect. Irini slowed her pace and passed as gracefully as she could, entering the latrine reserved for those who had not yet been accepted into the harem. Despite the low status of the room, the decor was still beautiful and polished granite seats separated by mahogany screens lined the far wall. Above the seats, small windows opened to the outside, letting fresh air into the latrine. Irini quickly climbed on the seat and poked the folded map through the window to fall to the grounds below. She then sat on the cold stone, her whole body shaking with fright and exertion. It was over, she had done all she could to carry out the plan, the rest was up to Bora and subject to the whim of Pasha. There was no more she could do.
* * *
Bora stared up at the window Pas
ha had pointed out days earlier. His gaze never wavered, as in the darkness he could easily miss anything falling. Once again he cupped his hands, blowing the warm air over his fingers.
Suddenly a movement caught his eye. For a few brief seconds some of the myriads of stars were obscured by something falling through the air and he ran toward the wall to search for the painting in the darkness. Finally his foot hit the animal skin and he quickly tucked it under his tunic before returning to the servant’s gate, the hood of his cape drawn up around his head against prying eyes. The guard saw him approaching and pulled back the giant bolts securing the door in its frame. It was no concern of his who visited the apartments of the caliph and his purse was considerably heavier for not asking questions. Bora scuttled through without making a sound and disappeared down the hill to the maze of houses.
* * *
For the rest of the night Bora paced the main room of his mother’s house, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise. The plan had worked perfectly and the rest would be easy. All he had to do now was wait until sunrise and meet Pasha at the main gates where he would hand over the map and Irini would be set free. He sat at the family table, impatient for the night to be over. Once again he pulled out the document that meant so much to the financier, trying to see the value that may yet cost them all their lives. It was interesting enough as maps went, depicting the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. The African continent was detailed, as was the European mainland, and colourful illustrations depicted the sorts of landscapes and animals that could be found in each of the countries.
Long-necked beasts the likes of which he had never seen before stood in the vast plains of Africa, wolves dotted the forests of Europe and camels indicated the deserts of the east. Mountain ranges were clearly marked, as were the great rivers, and there were even representations of the great rulers of the time. Major cities were easily recognisable and even the pyramids of Egypt could be seen alongside the snakelike Nile.
Bora stared in renewed interest. He knew of the Nile and heard its source sprang from mountains of gold, deep in the unexplored interior of Africa. When Pasha paid him the money, perhaps he and Irini could travel to that strange land of gods and magic and make a name for himself in this world of cruelty and poverty. On the right of the map, a long poem extolling the magnificence of Selim the First filled the gap where the map maker’s knowledge was limited.
His gaze turned to the left edge of the gazelle skin and his face fell slightly. It was a strange place to finish a map of the world as only half of Africa was shown. Even a lowly official such as he knew that Spanish explorers had found new lands across a huge ocean to the west. He ran his fingers slowly down the edge, realising the map had not been cut with a blade but had been torn, the ragged edges still visible.
Bora’s heart sank as he realised something had gone wrong. The map should be complete. Pasha had made it clear that there was to be no damage. Bora jumped up, pacing back and forth, his heart racing. There was only one thing for it, he had to get back up to the palace before it was too late. If he could just get to see the financier, perhaps he could reason with him. He picked up the map and placed it back under his tunic before running through the streets once more. He was about to bang on the gate when he heard the bolt being thrown from the inside and he ducked back in the shadows.
A group of six soldiers ran out and down into the town. Two more stepped through the gate to watch them go.
‘Where do they go at this hour?’ asked one.
‘To arrest a man for coveting a girl of the harem,’ came the answer.
‘A harem girl?’ laughed the first. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a night amongst those.’
‘It would cost you your life,’ said the first again.
‘But a price worth paying, I feel.’
Both men laughed and disappeared back inside the gate.
Bora was devastated, for it was too much of a coincidence. They were talking about him, and if that was the case, then Pasha had reneged on the deal. That could only mean one thing: Irini was either dead or soon would be. He retreated back into the darkness and as soon as he was out of earshot, ran as fast as he could with tears streaming down his face.
* * *
Back in the harem, Irini dozed fitfully on the bed in her room. She had been told that she was one of those chosen by the sultan and while the other lucky candidates lost sleep through excitement, she only worried over the fate of Bora. Footsteps came quietly down the passageway and stopped outside her room. Irini sat up and wiped the tears away. It would not be good to show that she was not happy about the decision, it was important to carry on the pretence until Pasha came to release her.
The door opened and Irini stared in confusion at the black eunuch stood in the doorway.
‘What do you want?’ she asked nervously.
‘I have a message for you from the financier, Pasha,’ said the eunuch.
‘At last,’ she said, stepping forward. ‘What is it?’
‘This,’ said the eunuch as he reached her and thrust a stiletto blade up under her ribs into her heart.
Her eyes stared wildly and she tried to scream, but the assassin’s hand clamped tightly over her mouth meant the silence of the harem was maintained. Finally she slumped to the floor and the eunuch arranged her hands on the blade to make it look like suicide. Task done, he left the room and returned to his duties. Behind him, a girl lay dead on the floor, the blood oozing smoothly from beneath her still, lifeless body.
Chapter 6
Istanbul 2011
Kosta Bin Syndic walked across the tarmac toward the multi-storey building. The tinted windows of the cafe on the lower floor reflected the traditional dress of a desert nomad and several tourists, risking the heat of the midday sun, paused to take photographs of the huge man who strode along the pavements of Istanbul with such impunity. The large turban accentuated his natural height and the loose black clothing flapped around him as he walked. The bottoms of his loose leggings were tucked into his worn camel skin boots and a long coat of natural black camel hair hung down to his calves. The coat was secured around the waist with a wide snakeskin belt holding his kama, the traditional curved Yatagan knife that all his people carried.
Despite looking so out of place, Kosta walked confidently into the foyer of the building without breaking his stride, knowing from experience that most people would naturally move out of his way. He waited at the security desk while the necessary phone calls were made, ignoring those whom he despised and staring at the wall until the permission was received. By the time the security guard had nodded his approval, Kosta had calculated that he could have killed all three guards with his kama before any of them had drawn their hidden guns. He walked past the lift and up the stairs to the fourteenth floor, eventually emerging from the stairwell into an air-conditioned corridor. The floor was covered end to end with a lush carpet of deep reds and rich blues, and at the end of the corridor two more guards in the seemingly obligatory suits and sunglasses protected a pair of ornate doors.
Kosta approached and lifted his arms with contempt when they stepped forward to search him. Inwardly he smiled, knowing that even without his kama, he could easily kill these men in more ways than they could ever imagine. Still, he allowed them their fleeting moment of power as his master insisted on these quaint security arrangements. Finally the doors were opened and Kosta entered the rich apartments of His Royal Highness, Mehmed Hundar the Fourth, modern-day businessman and self-proclaimed successor to the ancient throne of the Ottoman Empire.
‘Kosta, your visit is unexpected,’ said Mehmed. ‘I hope you have good reason.’
‘I have news,’ said Kosta.
‘And this news could not have been passed over the phone?’ asked Mehmed.
‘A tool of the devil,’ said Kosta.
Mehmed sighed. Kosta was a valuable and indeed lethal ally but his refusal to embrace modern ways was so frustrating. He wouldn’t carry a mobile phone, had never flown in a plane
and wouldn’t even use a lift. Yet his mind was sharp and he had skills unrivalled by any man in the way of administering pain or death. Kosta was one of the few remaining Saljik, a tiny tribe of ancient traditional nomads who specialised in the ways of killing and could trace their ancestors back into antiquity. For generations they had roamed the deserts of the Middle East, selling their skills to whichever tribe paid the best, but when Sultan Selim the First hired them exclusively to carry out his whims in the fifteenth century, they became one of the most powerful tribes in the kingdom. The Saljik served the sultan and his descendants for hundreds of years until the collapse of the line in the early twentieth century, and then the tribe had returned to the ways of the ancestors, seldom crossing paths with the modern world. Kosta was one of the few who made the sacrifice in order to serve the surviving bloodline of the true sultans.
‘So,’ said Mehmed, ‘what news is so important that makes you travel from your home?’
‘The Greek is dead,’ said Kosta simply.
‘He is? Then how come my people haven’t heard of it?’
‘The authorities spread a lie that he has travelled elsewhere.’
‘You are sure of this?’
‘I prepared the poison myself and my spies watched them carry his corpse from the house.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Mehmed. ‘It could have been a trick.’
‘I thought this also, so I had them dig up the grave to check it was he who lay within. He is dead.’
The Treasures of Suleiman Page 5
