by Karen Essex
“I suppose that he heard through the Grand Vezir and the Capitan Pasha that you were worth a look.”
“Must it be tomorrow? I am exhausted,” she said.
“You are the first woman from the Continent invited into the Sultan’s palace,” he said with pride. “Other wives of ambassadors and intrepid female travelers have merely contemplated the labyrinthine building from outside its gates. Apparently he has heard tales of both Lord Bruce and Lady Elgin, and he wishes to have a viewing.”
“But why?”
“It is not up to us to ask why, Mary. When the man who lords over North Africa, Asia Minor, and the Balkans, and over great cities from Cairo to Tripoli to Baghdad to Constantinople, asks to see you, it is only proper to make an appearance at the appointed time.”
Topkapi Palace, November 26, 1799
LONG BEFORE DAWN THE next morning in damp, chilly air, Mary found herself once again high above men’s shoulders, surrounded by torch carriers whose wild flambeaux lit the path to the water. Her escorts, the Janissaries, carrying muskets and swords, walked alongside the golden chair, their uniforms of bright teal blue in sharp contrast to the still-black sky. She had learned that they composed an elite unit of soldiers, a strike force led into battle by the Sultan himself, and trained in an atmosphere of rigor that demanded celibacy and monasticism in all habits. In times of peace, they served as police and bodyguards. Mary was honored that no less than eight of these warriors were assigned to deliver her to important occasions, when she was sure that one or two would have done.
“I would like to talk to them,” Mary said to the translator who accompanied her. “But they do not meet my eye.”
“Such familiarity with a woman is forbidden,” the man answered.
“Even one they have seen as much as me?”
“When encountering an unveiled woman, they naturally, and out of respect, lower their eyes,” he answered. “Frequency of contact does not alter the etiquette.”
“Then I shall have to suppress my natural curiosity,” she said, watching the long white silks of their headdresses, folded high over crowns, dance down their backs like the veil of a Tudor bride.
Arriving at the water, she panicked when she saw the small Turkish vessel in which she was to be transported across the river. The translator helped her into the boat, instructing her to remain seated and absolutely still. “Last week, a European visitor got overly enthusiastic at the sight of the palace and tipped the boat mid-river.”
“Did he survive?” Mary asked.
“Yes, but he is in a rather rheumatic state from which we pray he recovers, insh’Allah.”
Mary shuddered; she felt rheumatic enough already, having awakened at three-thirty in the morning with a tickle in the throat and a pounding headache. She was much more nervous than she’d wanted to acknowledge. Maybe the Sultan was going to admonish her for invading the all-male ceremony at the Grand Vezir’s palace. It seemed implausible that a man whose realm extended over many countries would take it upon himself to punish her small, indiscreet act. But something that might be perceived as merely indiscreet to her, or an act of daring, might be seen as downright insulting, or even lawless and punishable, in this strange land, with its opaque rules and customs.
She looked out of the corner of her eye at the dark waters rushing past her, pitch-black but for little glimmers of light from the lamp that lit their path; she was afraid to turn her head lest she tip the boat. Even if she survived being dunked into the water, what would happen to her tiny unborn child? She sat, rigid, letting the cold wind hit her face, finally tucking her nose into her fur collar to preserve it from turning red, letting the warmth of her even breaths soothe her tension.
They arrived at the dock in front of the Imperial Gate just as the sky began to lighten. The sun was not yet visible on the horizon, but the slowly reddening sky forecast its arrival as dozens of people lined up to be admitted. Mary was advised to remain close to her escorts to avoid getting caught up in the throng that would rush the gate as soon as it opened.
“Is today some sort of holiday or special occasion?” she asked the dragoman. Perhaps she was just one of many who would be presented en masse to the Sultan.
“People travel many miles and from many countries to make appeals to the Grand Vezir, who hears cases for the Sultan and then presents the most urgent to him. Every morning, when the gates open, there is a scuffle to get to the head of the line. Some days, the scuffle turns into a riot.”
Mary looked up at the tall gates. The inscription above in Turkish letters with their lovely curves and accents seemed to dance on the wall.
“Welcome to Topkapi Sarayi, built by Mehmet the Conqueror, after he took the city in the year 1453,” said the dragoman.
“What is the inscription above the gate?” Mary asked.
“The great Mehmet declares that the palace was built with the permission of God and is secure and impregnable. He asks that God make the sultanate eternal, and declares himself the hero and conqueror of land and water, the shadow of God in two worlds and the servant of God between the two horizons. He asks God to place him above the North Star.”
“A reasonable request,” Mary said, immediately regretting the irony in her voice. She had found many admirable qualities in the people of this land, but humor was not among them. Perhaps they had their own sensibility on that matter.
The gates opened, and Mary joined the throng pouring inside. Though she had to steady herself against her escort as the various contingents of supplicants rushed past them, she saw flashes of brilliant mosaic fountains and well-manicured gardens. Elgin, who had arrived even earlier, found them soon enough, and hustled her into a small antechamber, where she collected herself before joining the procession into the assembly room where the Grand Vezir was sitting in state.
“I’m the only female,” she whispered to Elgin.
“You should be accustomed to that by now,” he replied, offering her a seat next to him so that she might observe the Grand Vezir hearing cases, pleas that citizens of the empire wished to make to the Sultan. “The Great Man is listening behind the latticework,” Elgin said. Mary wondered if from behind his screen he was looking at her.
The proceedings went on for three hours. Mary had fallen asleep several times, whether from fatigue or passing out from hunger, she did not know. A merchant in a red tunic with a big white turban was imploring the Grand Vezir on some matter or other, and she took a deep breath, trying to stay conscious. She did not want to create a scene. She tried not to think of the long years stretching ahead. As the wife of a high-ranking diplomat, she would have to accustom herself to these deadening rituals.
Suddenly a bell was rung, and everyone stood. Elgin turned to her, mouthing the word dinner, his smile reminding her that all that she was enduring was well worth the price. What was a morning of discomfort and tedium compared to the utter bliss of being the wife of such a man?
It was ten o’clock in the morning. In the dining room, Elgin was seated at the place of highest honor next to the Grand Vezir, while Mary dined at a massive silver table with fancily dressed men, whom she assumed were important. She was starved, longing only for tea, toast, jam, and a coddled egg, but she was presented with platters of oily meats reeking of pungent spices, dishes she might have enjoyed in the evening with a glass of light wine. Starvation won the war; she could not afford to black out from hunger in front of the Sultan. But she hoped that her body would not betray her in other ways for admitting these foreign substances.
After dinner, she joined yet another procession into an open courtyard, where a skirmish broke out among a Greek contingent clamoring for the kaftans and cloaks handed out by a Turkish official. Elgin pulled her up on a small pedestal and pressed her so hard into his chest that she thought she would suffocate. From the corner of her eye, she saw fabrics fly into the air, then land in hands that pulled and tugged and threw punches. Some of the men were knocked to the ground before guards rushed in to restore
order, and the culprits were escorted from the courtyard.
“There, there,” Elgin said, patting her back. “Not so bad as a London riot, was it?”
“I am not very fond of those either,” Mary said, hoping to keep the bits of rich meats she ate for breakfast in her belly.
“Are you ready for the audience?” he asked. Four men with stiffly erect posture in magnificent gold robes approached them with purposeful strides. Wordlessly, two flanked Elgin, and the other two, Mary. The men each with one hand over his heart, marched the Elgins into a small, dark room.
Still reeling from the ruckus, Mary was not sure of what was happening. Her eyes did not immediately adjust to the dramatic change in light. It appeared that a monster was propped up on a huge platform, one knee raised, supporting a long, droopy limb. As objects came into focus, she realized that it was the Sultan, Selim III, the Grand Seigneur, lying on an immense golden throne, which back home would be called a bed. She almost chuckled as she imagined parsimonious old King George receiving his visitors sprawled out in such luxury.
The Sultan, she now saw, was not so immense, but was wearing a yellow satin robe with a huge collar and cuffs of black sable, thus contributing to Mary’s initial impression that he was a beast. Upon his head sat a monstrous turban with an aigrette of plumage sprouting from the center. Behind him on windowsills sat two additional diamond-studded turbans, perched like sparkly heads. A jumble of mosaic patterns covered the walls. Mary did not want to look as if she was gawking, so she kept her eyes focused on the Sultan, who had not yet acknowledged her.
Selim III was not a small man, and the accoutrements of power with which he adorned himself, and the pearl-studded cushions upon which he reclined, made him look even larger. His face was long, disappearing into a perfectly rounded dark beard. His eyes were slinky and almond-shaped, like those of a beautiful lynx. His nose was long and fine, and as far as Mary could tell in this dimly lit environment, his skin was smooth and flawless, as if only the rest of him had aged since the day he was born. Nets strung with rows and rows of pearls hung above his head, presumably to catch insects. A small butterfly, wings caught in the threads, struggled to escape, and Mary wished that she could free it from its beautiful trap and watch its burnt-orange wings soar out of the window.
At the Sultan’s right was an inkstand encrusted with diamonds, and at his left lay his saber, covered in diamonds so large that Mary wondered where on earth they had been mined. She had never seen such huge, thumping stones, such concentrated lavishness, and could not wait to write to her mother about it. She was composing the letter in her head when she realized that Elgin was speaking through a dragoman, but the Sultan’s gaze was upon her. Though he did not acknowledge her, he stared at her so attentively that she began to feel dizzy—and then terrified. Was she supposed to meet his stare, or was that considered a breach of their bizarre and contradictory etiquette?
She was not prepared for this level of scrutiny. Here was a man who supposedly had dozens of wives and concubines at his disposal, hidden away in his harem—she had been told that the word meant “forbidden place.” Somewhere in this very palace was a virtual prison full of women who were on this earth merely to please this man. Perhaps he was accustomed to looking at women thus, appraising them as he would a horse for purchase.
Elgin, looking unconcerned that the monster was staring at his wife, focused upon the dragoman, who was translating his remarks to Selim. But to Mary, it was all disorienting. She put her hand to her head, and then, not wishing to appear ill or odd or insecure, she pretended to push a lock of hair away from her forehead. More words were exchanged, but Mary could not focus on the meaning. Elgin was bowing, and Mary chose to emulate the gesture. Then the two of them were whisked out of the room by their escorts and into the startling light of the courtyard.
“That went rather well,” Elgin said.
“Did you not object to the Sultan’s scrutiny of your wife?” Mary asked.
“I could hardly challenge the man to a duel.” Elgin looked perturbed, and then he sighed. “I fear I must become accustomed to the way that men scrutinize my wife, or I must resign myself to fighting an inordinate number of duels, with men ranking from slave to sultan.”
“Don’t be cross, Eggy. I cannot help it if sultans find me alluring,” she said. “Perhaps I should take up the veil.”
“Perhaps you should, only removing it when your lord and master returns to his private harem.” Elgin smiled. “I believe that I shall have the good Reverend Hunt castrated so that he may act as your eunuch and protector.”
“When the Capitan Pasha comes for a visit, he shall be told that Lady Elgin is no longer at leisure to enter into the company of men. Lord Elgin demands that he find another lady upon whom to lavish his gifts of furs and jewels and fine porcelain.”
“We mustn’t treat our Capitan Pasha in a punitive manner, Mary. Not when he has so very much to offer us.”
Mary smiled, patting Elgin’s hand. “How gracious of you to be so concerned about not punishing the good Capitan Pasha.”
“For all your good humor, you look a bit tired, Mistress Poll,” he said. “I am taking you home and putting you to bed, where I shall not allow you to rest at all. I want to lift your veil, as it were, and view the whole of you.”
So Elgin had actually been aroused by the Sultan’s attention to her. Men could be such strange beasts—animals whose sexual urges could be tweaked by the most unpredictable incidents. She was not unhappy. She had heard that some men lost interest in making love to their wives as their pregnancies progressed, but Elgin only seemed more eager, telling her always that her swollen belly made her look like some pagan fertility goddess.
Elgin called his valet, asking him to take charge of his horse. He would be taking the private carriage back to the boat with his wife.
As they drove toward home, he whispered in Mary’s ear, “I want to see and touch every part of you, which even the Sultan of the Ottomans may do only in his dreams.”
In the city of Constantinople, Christmastime 1799
DR. MACLEAN’S HAND SHOOK with palsy as he removed the leeches from the pot and applied them to Elgin’s sweaty face. The jar was an odd vessel to house the slimy creatures. It was of elegant shape, and made, Mary guessed, by one of the finer china companies, perhaps Staffordshire. The word “leech” was painted in the color of teal that was so popular in the fashions of the day, and Mary thought that if one changed the word to “butter” or “sugar” or “milk,” the jar would not be out of place on the most decorously laid-out luncheon table. But instead of accompaniments to one’s tea, the contents of the jar were horrible, wormlike, blood-sucking creatures, the first of which now sat upon Elgin’s temple, swelling as it fed upon his rheumatic blood.
“God help us,” the doctor said as he withdrew his shaky hand, leaving the horrid thing to its business on Elgin’s face.
Elgin had spent a whole evening out of doors in the rain, witness to one of the city’s spectacular fires, as it burned through blocks of the unsafe wooden structures that housed Constantinople’s cacophonous and polyglot population of more than a half-million people. The homes of immigrant Greeks, Jews, Italians, Slavs, and Russians had burned through the night along with the homes of many Turks.
“It’s too dangerous, my darling,” Mary had cried as he ran out the door. But he did not heed her, turning around to blow her the briefest kiss, and leaving his greatcoat behind in the fervor to see the flames that were shooting up above domes and minarets into black sky.
As he left the palace, Mary looked up into the sky, unable to distinguish the gathering smoke from storm clouds. When the heavens broke open later in the evening, she knew that Elgin would not heed his delicate constitution and come in out of the rain. He was always caught between his poor health and his natural desire for manly adventure. To remind him of the former was such a blow to the latter that she had ceased to do it, though she must resume now that he was paying the price of his
recklessness. He had come home very late, soaked to the bone, and spent the following day in bed with one of his worst migraines, a condition that he blamed on Constantinople’s inclement winter weather.
“How on earth can a Scot complain about Turkish winters?” she would say to him. But complain he did about the bitter and unpredictable rains and the improperly heated rooms in which they often had to wear the furs given to them by their Turkish hosts.
Now, Dr. MacLean delivered the sixth leech to Elgin’s face; all of them pulsated rhythmically as they bled him of his misery.
“I’ve never seen such vicious eaters,” Dr. MacLean said, lifting the tail end of one of the creatures to make sure that it had fastened itself. “Their bite is much stronger than the English leech’s.”
Elgin winced, opening for one instant a startled blue eye and then quickly shutting it again. What must the worms look like from his perspective?
Mary hoped that the doctor was making a legitimate observation and not an inebriated one. His heavy drinking had caught up with him, and she noticed that his hands shook whether at breakfast or in ministering to the sick. She had wanted to call another doctor, but where to find a reliable one in this city of rampant disease, she did not know. She was aware, however, that she experienced a failure of nerve whenever she thought of Dr. MacLean presiding over the birth of her baby, which was now only two months away.
She was not a squeamish girl. She had played with earthworms and other insects in the gardens at Archerfield, to the horror of her nurses, who thought that she would die from the venom of some unidentified many-legged creature before she was out of the nursery. Her mettle had been tested on the open seas, under gunfire, and on the backs of donkeys through treacherous terrain, and all while carrying a growing fetus inside her. But Mary could not maintain her gaze upon Elgin’s beautiful face as the leeches performed their grim duties. His eyes were shut tight—a look that she was accustomed to and loved in rapturous moments, but that now bespoke only agony. And yet she must resolve to be strong. There was no mother or father into whose arms she might collapse or seek comfort. Despite all who admired her, she was alone in this strange city. The other diplomatic wives sought her company and fought for invitations to her suppers and dances, but she knew that they also cackled with jealousy behind her back for the favor she was shown by the Sultan and his retinue of powerful men. How they would love to hear that Lady Elgin had weakened under the strain of her pregnancy and of her husband’s illness and had to be sent home.
