by Roberta Rich
Mustafa bowed low before the Valide, approaching her divan cautiously and kissing her hand. She dismissed him with a flick of her jewelled fingers. He fell to his hands and knees and slowly crawled backwards out of the room, his belly grazing the floor, leaving a trail of displaced rose petals in his wake.
It was Hannah’s turn to approach the royal divan. She was so frightened she would happily have changed places with any other person in the room, including the young girl who was netting the carp out of the gold basin and stringing them through their gills to carry them off to the kitchens.
The Valide reclined with what seemed to Hannah an unnatural calmness, eyes fixed on her. Damp circles formed under Hannah’s arms. They say that the body odour of an animal excites the instinct of the predator, causing the eyes to narrow and the mouth to water in anticipation. She must relax and show no fear. The Valide picked up her glass of rose-petal-flavoured sherbet and began to sip. Hannah could almost see the translucent skin of her neck flush pink as she swallowed. A pair of large, silky-haired dogs lounged at Nurbanu’s feet, front paws crossed in an unconscious imitation of their mistress.
“On you be peace and the mercy of God and His blessings,” said Hannah with her right hand on her heart, as was the Muslim custom.
“Be seated,” Nurbanu said in Venetian, gesturing to a large silk pillow across from the dais. “I am so pleased that Mustafa persuaded you to join me.”
It was a great honour to be asked to sit in the Valide’s presence. Commoners were usually required to remain on all fours, their chins touching the floor. No doubt the Valide intended her graciousness to put Hannah at ease. Hannah arranged herself on the cushion, careful to point her feet away and to keep her head low.
The Valide’s face, so Venetian in its paleness, the fine dark eyes and eyebrows like raven’s wings, and her fluent Venetian, reminded Hannah so much of her beloved Venice. The sound of the familiar dancing vowels and polished consonants was like sunlight sparkling on the Grand Canal. Hannah nearly forgot her nervousness and disgraced herself by blurting out how she missed the city of her birth and longed to return.
“Your Highness, I am honoured to be here,” Hannah said.
One of the dogs stretched and yawned, revealing pointed teeth that looked as though they could devour her whole.
“The Venetian ambassador sent these brutes as a gift,” the Valide said. “Can you imagine? These huge, nettlesome creatures, a gift? My scribe had to send him a reprimand.” She paused and then, hands in front of her face as though holding up a scroll of parchment, pretended to read. “‘I require two lap dogs, not these hulking, long-haired monsters. Send others and let them be white and let them be little!’”
Hannah was mystified. Was not one canine just as horrid as the next?
“I sometimes wonder whether anyone listens to me. My needs are not so complicated nor so difficult to fulfill and yet …” She shifted on the divan where she was seated and then locked eyes with Hannah. “But you and I have a more important matter to discuss.” The Valide reached over to a tortoiseshell tray of spicy meatballs resting on a stool next to her. She plucked one from the tray using her thumb and the tip of her index finger and placed it on her tongue with such delicacy it was as though the food had floated through the air and into her mouth of its own volition.
In response to the delicious smells of roasted walnuts and lamb, Hannah’s stomach rumbled. The Valide pretended not to notice but nodded to Kübra, the slave girl. Kübra was, so the gossips of the harem reported, blessed with feet identical to the Valide’s. When the Valide ordered a new pair of pattens, it was Kübra’s task to wear them until the silver repoussé strap over the instep was sufficiently soft. By this method the royal foot was spared all chafing and discomfort.
Hannah accepted a plate of mezes from Kübra and a glass filled with sherbet. “Thank you.” The liquid sherbet was cold and tangy with a touch of lemon and pomegranate juice. She savoured it, swallowed, and then spoke again. “To hear my language again. And spoken with such grace. It warms my heart, Your Highness.”
“Such a pleasant change from Osmanlica—bestial grunts and wheezes that masquerade as a language.” There was a pause while the Valide waited for Hannah’s response.
Caution, warned a small voice in Hannah’s head. Of course she detested Osmanlica, but she must give no reply that sounded treasonous. Making herself understood in this language of the Turks was an ordeal. She would canter at full speed into dead ends before lurching to a stop. Her stammers and stutters were supplemented by extravagant hand gestures, vigorous movements of the head, exaggerated shrugs, and much pursing of the lips. Isaac urged her to make more of an effort, to study more and to seek out women with whom she could practise. It was her tongue now, he said. Isaac, who could learn any language within a matter of a few months, had no comprehension of her struggle. Once, in the midst of a quarrel, Hannah screamed at him that Osmanlica sounded like glutinous maize soup bubbling over a camel-dung fire. Isaac had laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.
He often lectured her on the virtues of Constantinople. She was able to cast off the red headdress that had marked her as a Jew in Venice. Yes, Jews here paid a head tax, but they were free to practise any profession, own any type of business, and buy property, Isaac argued.
All true enough, but it did not prevent Hannah from missing Venice. Even the Jews here were different. The Sephardim, the Jews from Spain and Portugal, were more relaxed, more sensual, more refined, and less learned than the Ashkenazi from eastern Europe. The Sephardim spoke Ladino instead of Yiddish. They had names that did not even sound Jewish, like Spinoza, Cardozo, and Mendoza. They looked down on the Ashkenazim like Hannah and Isaac, whom they thought boorish and fashioned from coarser clay than themselves.
Hannah took another mouthful of her sherbet. The palace chefs perfumed sherbets with jasmine, attar of roses, bergamot, and cloves, all of which were designed to impart fragrance to the secretions of the odalisques’ private parts. If she and Isaac coupled tonight, would he notice? In her nervousness, a tiny giggle almost escaped her lips.
“Hannah, you have not answered me,” said the Valide. “What is your opinion of Osmanlica? We are fellow Venetians. You can speak frankly.”
True, they were both from Venice, but barriers of social class and religion made it odd to refer to the two of them as “fellow Venetians.” Perhaps the wide expanse of sea and nostalgia for the familiar conferred on them a familiarity they could never attain in Venice.
Hannah took a deep breath. “You and I, Your Highness, slip naturally into Venetian with the gratitude of bathers slipping into the Sweet Waters of Asia on a humid August night.”
The Valide smiled.
“Besides,” Hannah added, “as anyone will tell you, I am a poor linguist. Yesterday in the market I asked for six aubergines and the vendor handed me a bunch of radishes.”
Valide Nurbanu laughed. “I think this is your way of saying you detest Osmanlica and all those who have the misfortune to speak it?”
The Valide might have lived among the Ottomans most of her life but she had not lost the directness of speech that Venetians were famous for.
Hannah said, “I cannot walk abroad in your city as I did in Venice without either my husband or one of the workers in our workshop to accompany me. But hidden in a carriage, I may come and go as I please.”
A look of incredulity passed over the Valide’s face. “Such liberty compared to those of us in the harem! But who would wish for it? Not I.”
Her Highness had no need to leave the harem for either companionship or intelligence. Ezster had told Hannah that the Valide had a network of spies as intricate as the gold mesh holding her hair in place. Nothing escaped the Valide’s notice, from the menstrual rhythms of the girls of the harem to the number of chickens roasted in the palace ovens, to the Grand Vizier’s military campaign against the Safavids in Persia.
The Valide gestured to Kübra to replenish her sherbet. “I find it fasci
nating to hear other points of view. Tell me more about yourself, Hannah.”
Hannah revealed details about her family, their business, the neighbourhood in which they lived. Encouraged by Nurbanu’s interest, Hannah had the boldness to speak of Isaac’s silk workshop, where he fashioned billowy silk tents in which the rich enjoyed picnics. Hannah described his tents as so delicate that the slightest wind made them billow and dance, deceiving the picnickers into thinking there was a strong breeze blowing off the Bosporus even when there was not so much as a puff of air. Hannah did not mention to Her Highness the glut of silk in the market nor the unsold bolts in the warehouse.
“Another reason for my happiness here is that I can use my skills as a midwife without being branded a witch.”
“And yet,” said the Valide, “our palace cradles are still empty.” She took a sip of sherbet, then replaced the gold-rimmed glass on Kübra’s tray. “It is not a happy state of affairs.”
“It is fortunate that Safiye was able to bear Mehmet, may his health continue to improve, and her little Ayşe.”
“You are well aware”—the Valide paused, touching her lips with a napkin—“that I was … unable to attend Safiye’s confinement.”
Unwilling was what the Valide meant. It surprised Hannah that Nurbanu would bring this up; it had happened so long ago. “My daughter-in-law was in a great deal of pain, I imagine.” The Valide made the words I imagine sound like I hope.
“There were difficulties. Her labour was long—two days—but all seemed well, until the infant emerged with her shoulder out of place. With God’s help, I was able to manipulate it back into position and stop her anguish. Poor Safiye suffered as well.”
“Two days of pain, and for what? A girl.” The Valide tossed a meatball into the open jaws of one of the dogs. “Childbearing is the greatest of all gambles, is it not?”
“Very true,” said Hannah. Soon, the Valide would inquire about Leah. Hannah felt her stomach tighten.
“Even in the glittering casinos of Venice’s Grand Canal, neither the turn of a card nor the roll of dice can compare to the dangerous game of chance we women are forced to play.”
Hannah had never taken part in a game of chance in her life but she was playing a dangerous game now. What were the odds that a lie about Leah would be discovered? On the other hand, had not the Sultan rejected all odalisques and concubines his mother and sister had placed before him for the past several years? He might decline Leah as well. This was Leah’s only hope.
“Hannah, Safiye clutches on to my son as tightly as a fishwife holds on to a snapper. My son could at any time, may Allah not be listening, sicken and die. He could be assassinated.” The Valide sighed. “The enemies of the Empire are everywhere. The Chief Taster died a very unpleasant death last year from a bowl of pistachio nuts and honey laced with quicksilver.” The Valide plucked a pastry filled with walnuts and honey and fresh cream from a tray at her elbow.
“I understand.”
“Safiye has tried for years to produce a second son. She has failed. Miscarriage after miscarriage, then another girl. On it goes—vexation after vexation, disappointment after disappointment. In spite of this, the Sultan remains devoted to her. It is very tiresome. The Sultan must put her aside and find a girl who will bear sons.”
Unlucky Safiye. Was she nothing more than a burden to be discarded? How miserable Hannah’s life would be if Isaac had decided that Matteo was not sufficient, that he wanted a son from his own loins. There was nothing but his love for her to stop him from thrusting her aside. The law would place no obstacles in his path. And yet Hannah knew he loved her too much to abandon her.
The Valide held out her hands so that Kübra could wash off the pastry crumbs. “Here we have the very crux of the problem.” The Valide opened her hands palms up as if in supplication. It was a disarming gesture for the most powerful woman in the Ottoman Empire and hence the world. “You are renowned for your skill in delivering babies, but have you ways of turning a man’s thoughts to procreation? The Sultan can perform perfectly well with Safiye, but with another woman, no matter how lovely, his royal member is as flaccid as …”—the Valide, to Hannah’s amusement, blushed—“last season’s carrot.”
She leaned forward and let her hand rest on Hannah’s knee. Hannah had the presence of mind not to disclose her surprise.
“My daughter, Esmahan, and I have searched far and wide to find Leah. I made sure my son had a glimpse of her through a hole in the floor of his sleeping chamber when the slavers delivered her. The girl has engendered in my son’s heart the kind of lust against which there is no shield.” Nurbanu’s mouth formed into an expression that was not quite a smile. “But while his heart may burn for his little slave girl, there is a great difference between Allah giving a man desire and providing him with the ability to satisfy it. One only has to watch the eunuchs gazing upon the girls in the hamam to divine that.”
Hannah winced inwardly at the comparison. Not certain how to respond, she finally said, “I try to educate myself in all matters concerning childbirth and conception. I have knowledge of herbs.” Herbs to enhance fertility, she could have added, none of which had had the slightest effect on her own body. She also knew of herbs that thwarted God’s will and prevented conception.
The Valide Nurbanu stirred on her divan and pushed up the sleeves of her kaftan, making her gold filigree bracelets jangle. “Young Mehmet, Murat’s only son, remains weak from his bout with typhus two years ago. If he should someday succumb, and if anything—may Allah not be listening—happens to the Sultan, there is no one to rule the Empire.”
There was a long pause while Nurbanu re-crossed her legs on the divan. Her trousers under the red pelisse were made of a fabric so diaphanous that Hannah could see a mole on her ankle. “I have often puzzled about the mystery of conception. Why, for example, God breathes life into some unions and not into others. Some physicians believe that a man’s seed is like that of any seed and simply needs a willing vessel—the warmth and moisture of a woman’s womb in which to grow and flourish.”
If only it were so simple, thought Hannah.
The Valide Nurbanu drummed her fingers on the ivory tray by her side, prompting one of the dogs to twitch its ear in a disquieting way. Hannah waited for the Valide to ask the question that was making her knee jump.
“So this girl from the mountains on whom I have pinned my hopes. I trust she is a virgin? The slavers assured me that she was, but they are Arabs and therefore liars. I trust you, and only you, to tell me the truth. You understand how important this is, the condition of her hymen?”
Hannah said, “For Jews the issue of virginity is also crucial. The Book of Genesis says of Rebekkah, daughter of Bethuel, ‘And the damsel was very fair to look upon, a virgin.’”
“I know that Leah is fair to look upon, or will be when she is attended to. My question remains: is she or is she not a virgin?”
“She has suffered a terrible shock,” Hannah said. “Her entire village was burned to the ground, her family murdered before her eyes.”
“How fortunate for her that I purchased her.”
Hannah rearranged herself on her cushion; her legs were falling asleep but she dared not stretch them. “Leah needs time to accustom herself to the palace and its ways. She is overcome with grief.”
“Her spirits will improve when she is cared for.” The Valide grimaced slightly. “I suspect she was as filthy and brown as a goat when you examined her. Will she be worth all the creams and perfumes and attention we will lavish on her?”
“I think not, Your Highness.”
“Really?” The Valide picked up a fork and stabbed a pastry with too much force, sending it skittering to the floor. One of the dogs pounced on it and wolfed it down before Kübra had a chance to grab the beast by the collar. “Leah is to be a gift to my son. She will be presented to him—and soon. I repeat: Is she or is she not a virgin?”
“Leah will know nothing of the womanly art of pleasing a man i
n bed,” said Hannah.
“Nonsense, her inexperience will make her more appealing. Time is of the essence,” said the Valide. “Not too much delay or the Sultan will forget her, nor so little that he fails to experience lusty anticipation.”
The Valide spanked her hands together in a way that demanded a response. “Answer my question—now,” she added, as if the gesture were not enough.
Though, of course, Hannah had never laid eyes on the Sultan, she knew him to be a man old enough to be Leah’s grandfather, with a pendulous belly and hooked nose. There was no taking the words back once they had left Hannah’s lips. “She is a virgin, Your Highness.”
“Wonderful!” the Valide exclaimed. “I want to see the chubby fist of a princeling waving at me over the side of that cradle.” She indicated the corner of the room where a cradle rested against the wall. “Not a lot to ask, is it?” Nurbanu arched an eyebrow. “If you succeed in breaking Safiye’s spell, you will have my undying gratitude.”
“I shall do my best,” Hannah replied, trying not to think about the lie she had told and its possible consequences.
“I do not have to tell you that if her meeting with my son goes well, you shall have a handsome reward.”
Hannah bowed her head. Isaac would be well pleased with her.
“Mustafa reports that you have a tranquil effect on the girl. When the Sultan summons the girl to be brought to his divan,” she added, “you shall be present at their couching.”
CHAPTER 8
The Aphrodite Mediterranean Sea
THE WIND PLAYED with Cesca’s hair, unknotting her careful chignon and whipping it about her shoulders like an untidy cape, just as it had every morning for the past three weeks since she had boarded the Aphrodite at the Port of Venice.
She gathered up her blond hair and twisted it around her hand into a figure eight. Then, holding the hairpins between her lips, she jabbed them in one by one until her hair was secure. She recalled as she gripped the ship’s railing meeting with Foscari a month ago—on God’s firm earth and not on the pitching deck of this ghastly ship. Yes, it was a foolish and risky thing for Cesca to have accosted Foscari after the funeral. Anyone could have seen them together and guessed she was up to no good. Even worse, when she told Foscari what she wanted of him, he could promptly have had her arrested. Neither of these outcomes came to pass. For once, luck was with her. And her own good judgment. Something about Foscari suggested he would be on her side.
