SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  After she had gone Abbas stayed crouched against the wall, his kaftan skewed around his knees. He heard the clatter of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones as she left. After a while the shadows slanted across the room, and he watched dust motes drift through the chevrons of light that angled through the slats in the window.

  He drew his knees up to his chest and curled on the floor. Just before evening his pages came, helped him to his feet and half-carried him downstairs to the carriage. Then they took him home, to Hürrem.

  Pera

  Antonio Gonzaga watched the Kubbealti Tower at the Topkapi Palace rise like a miniature campanile from the skyline as they sailed past the battlement walls on Seraglio Point.

  'So that is the home of Il Signore Turco?' he said.

  'We must treat warily with him,' the bailo said.

  Gonzaga snorted with contempt. The bailo was more Turke than Venetian now himself, he thought. The man has gone native.

  He despised the Comunità. All these merchants lived in Turkish palaces and lived in Turkish gowns. What was more disturbing they spoke of the Sultan and the Divan as if they were more important than the Doge and the Consiglio.

  'We should take care not to provoke him,' the bail went on. 'The Mediterranean is now, after all, just a Turkish lake.'

  'Do not disturb yourself, Bailo. One day the Lion of Venice will consume all its enemies. Until then, I shall do as you suggest and play the lamb. But I shall not grovel to him. Our setbacks are only temporary. Do not forget that. '

  Chapter 30

  The Ambassador of the Illustrious Signory of Venice made the short trip across the Golden Horn in the royal caïque. When he reached Seraglio Point, two pashas and forty heralds escorted him and his delegation the rest of the way to the Ba'ab i-Humayün, the gate of the Majestic One.

  Gonzaga tried to appear indifferent to the great arch of white marble and the contents of its mitred niches. The decapitated heads had ripened in the sun and there were more heads piled like cannonballs at the main gate. A group of urchins were playing with them.

  Gonzaga put a scented handkerchief to his nose.

  The arch was a full fifteen paces long and when they emerged from it they entered the first court of the Topkapi Palace, the courtyard of the Yeniçeris. The court was full of people; servants carrying trays of hot rolls,; a page being carried on a litter to the Infirmary; a troop of blue coated Yeniçeris on the march, their Bird of Paradise plumes of the veterans cascading almost to their knees. Yet he was struck by the hush, after the tumult of the street outside. In here no one spoke above a whisper.

  The Ortakapi, the gateway to the second court, was flanked by two octagonal towers with conical tops, like candle snuffers. There was a huge iron door and Suleiman's tugra - his personal seal - hung above it on a brass shield. There were yet more heads blackening on spikes on the wall above.

  Gonzaga was ordered to dismount.

  'We must go on foot the rest of the way,' his interpreter told him.

  Gonzaga reluctantly complied.

  There was a waiting room leading off from the gatehouse. While Gonzaga cooled his heels in a sparsely furnished cell the interpreter passed the time by pointing out a cistern used for drowning and the beheading block. The Chief High Executioner, he said with some pride, could process up to fifty heads a day.

  Gonzaga thanked him for this information and settled down to wait.

  Three hours later he was escorted through the gate to the Second Court.

  ***

  How dare they can make him wait like this! He was so furious at the insult to his person and to La Serenissima that he did not spare a glance for the fountains or the box hedges or even at the gazelles that grazed on the lawns. He stamped between the honour guard of Yeniçeris lining the pathway to the Divan, head down, his retinue hurrying behind him.

  He was aware of the silence though. The only thing to be heard was the sigh of the wind in the trees.

  He was escorted into the Divan.

  This, however, was impressive. He had never witnessed such a riot of colour. Despite himself he stared in awe at the brilliance and variety of the costumes before him; the Grand Vizier in bright green; the muftis of religion in dark blue; the grand ulemas in violet; the court chamberlain in scarlet. Ostrich plumes waved like a forest, jewels flashed in turbans and from scimitars. There were silks and velvets and satins.

  And the aromas! Hundreds of dishes of foods were set out on the silver tables; guinea fowl, pigeon, goose, lamb, chicken. The Ambassador of the Illustrious Signory of Venice looked around for the chairs. Instead he was made to squat on the carpets with the rest of the company to eat his lunch.

  'When may I see the Sultan?' he hissed at his interpreter, an unhappy looking man who was sweating profusely.

  'Very soon!' the man whispered back. 'But we must be silent for the meal!'

  As the interpreter had suggested the meal was eaten in total silence. Pages leaned over their shoulders and squirted rosewater into their goblets with unswerving accuracy from goatskins slung over their backs. Attendants in red silk robes moved silently to and from the kitchen. Just a raised finger was enough to have a servant hurry over to fulfil any request. Pastries, figs, dates, watermelon and rahat lokum were served as dessert.

  Still, not a word spoken.

  In fact the solemnity of the occasion was not broken until the meal was completed and the assembled dignitaries rose to their feet. At that point the slaves descended on the plates and scrambled for the remains of the food like a pack of dogs. It only confirmed what Gonzaga had suspected all along.

  Big show. Nice clothes. But just heathen beneath it all.

  ***

  The Ba'ab-i-Sa'adet, the Gate of Felicity, guarded the selamlik, the Sultan's inner sanctum The double gate was surmounted by an ornamented canopy flanked by sixteen columns of porphyry and guarded, by Gonzaga's calculation, by at least thirty eunuchs. They wore vests of gold brocade and each had his curved yataghan drawn, each razor sharp edge flashing in the sun.

  Gonzaga was given a gold cloth to put over his clothes so that he would be fit to present to the Sultan. The Chief of Standard then came to receive his gifts.

  Four Parmesan cheeses.

  The interpreter did not comment on this bounty. He was made to wait while this treasure was presented to the Lord of Life.

  Suddenly two chamberlains grabbed him by the neck and arms, pinioning him. They forced him to his knees to kiss the portal and then dragged him across a gloomy courtyard, between another double line of guards, and into the Audience Hall, the Arzodarsi. They ignored his protests. They could not understand his Italian anyway.

  His impression of the Lord of Life was fleeting; a white turban adorned with a huge egret feather, three diamond tiaras and a ruby the size of a hazelnut, a gown of white satin ablaze with even more rubies. He had a beard and a proud nose.

  A throne, fashioned form beaten gold, stood in one corner of the hall like a four poster bed surrounded by a carpet of green satin. It was so vast that the Sultan's feet did not touch the ground. Pearls and rubies hung from silk tassels on the canopy.

  Gonzaga was even afforded a glimpse of his own august person, on his knees, held down by two black slaves, in the reflection of a gilt Vicenzan mirror. He was by now almost inarticulate with rage. While he fought for words, the Vizier, standing at Suleiman's right shoulder, turned to his interpreter. 'Has the dog been fed?'

  'The infidel is fed and now craves to lick the dust beneath His Majesty's throne.'

  'Bring him here, then.'

  Gonzaga was compelled into the act of sala'am by the chamberlains. He was then dragged into the middle of the chamber where they again forced his head onto the floor. Approaching the throne they pressed his forehead to the carpets a third time.

  'The dog has brought tribute?' the Vizier asked.

  'Four cheeses, Great lord.'

  'Store them in the Treasury with the other gifts.'

  The Ambassador of the Il
lustrious Signory of Venice was then dragged backwards to the door. Yet again his face was introduced to the carpet, and he was then propelled from the Arzodarsi into the forecourt, where the chamberlains released him.

  Gonzaga was incandescent with rage. 'What … what is the meaning … you humiliate me this way … I have not addressed the Sultan!'

  'You may not address the Lord of Life directly,' the interpreter said. 'Now we go to the Divan. You may put your entreaties to the Vizier and the Council.'

  'What?'

  'It is not possible to speak directly with the Sultan.'

  'Then why did you bring me here?'

  His interpreter looked absolutely terrified. 'Please, this way, My Lord,' he said. 'You will speak to the Vizier now and he will take your message personally to the Lord of Life. Please don't shout. You'll get me into trouble.'

  Gonzaga could not believe his ears. He turned on his heel and stalked away, his interpreter scurrying after him.

  Chapter 31

  Pera

  'We come here in peace and they spit on us! How dare they treat us this way!'

  It was two days since the Ambassador of the Illustrious Signory of Venice had been honoured with an audience with the Sultan of the Osmanlis and he was still shaken. Ludovici poured him wine from the crystal decanter to soothe his nerves.

  'That is the protocol,' Ludovici said. 'All ambassadors are treated alike, ever since Murad the First was assassinated by a Serbian noble.'

  'I was not even given the opportunity to speak to him in person! Who does he think he is?'

  'He is the Lord of Life, the Emperor of the Two Worlds, Maker of Kings and Possessor Men's Necks - that's who he thinks he is, your Excellency. Besides, all decisions on foreign policy are taken by the Vizier for Suleiman to ratify. He never conducts negotiations directly. It would be too demeaning.'

  'Demeaning!'

  They were in the drawing room of Ludovici's palazzo. He saw Gonzaga cast a critical gaze over the long table of polished chestnut and carved chairs upholstered with crimson damask. Gilt Vicenzan mirrors hung on the walls. Yes, Ludovici thought, impressed aren't you? Not bad for a bastard.

  He had not expected to ever entertain a Consigliotore here, and he supposed that Gonzaga had not expected to find himself here either. But politics made for strange bedfellows. 'You must understand,' he said, 'their whole system is built around a rigid hierarchy. To their mind the Sultan has no equal anywhere in the world. Not even the Pope - or the Doge.'

  Gonzaga snorted with derision.

  'The Sultan is the only one in this whole Empire who attains his position by virtue of his birth,' Ludovici continued. 'All others rise by their own abilities. They do not even have to be born a Muslim. The last Vizier, Ibrahim, was the son of a Greek fisherman. A Christian. They have a system called the devshirme. They take men and women from all over the Empire and train them to be part of the kullar, which is what they call the Sultan's slave family. Those with real ability can rise to pre-eminence. Those with more brawn than brain are conscripted into the Yeniçeris, which is their soldier elite. And they are elite; full time professionals and the reason they have conquered half of Europe. As for the women, the mother of the Sultan might start life as the daughter of a Circassian peasant farmer. The system is eminently fair and eternally surprising.'

  'I understand the point you are making, but perhaps your admiration for them is tempered by your own bitterness.'

  Ludovici bowed his head to concede the point. 'It is true, in the Republic men such as myself must go abroad to find their own measure. However, even an impartial judge would see that their system is not only fair but it also promotes peace inside the society. For instance, although the Turk fights the infidel -as he calls us - with all the means at his disposal, nowhere else in the world can a man practice his religion as freely as he may inside the Osmanli empire. Even when they made war on you - on us - we in Pera were allowed to practice our Catholic rites in peace. Down there in Galata you will find Jews, Muslims, Christians all working side by side. In Rome they are still putting Lutherans to the stake.'

  'Is that why you asked me here Ludovici? To list the Sultan's virtues? Perhaps you will convert to Islam yourself?'

  'I remain a loyal subject of La Serenissima. But I have lived here a long time, your Excellency, I understand their ways.'

  'Thank you for the lecture. It has been most instructive.'

  'That was not my purpose in inviting you here.'

  'You said you had a proposal for me.' Gonzaga finished his wine and helped himself to more.

  'I understand your negotiations with the Vizier did not go well.'

  'The impertinent little man wants us to pay tribute and cede the island of Cyprus! He will want the San Marco as his summer palace next!'

  'Can we refuse his demands?'

  'Ever since Prevezzo Suleiman has us by the throat, as you well know. Without uninterrupted trading routes our republic will sink into the Adriatic. Thanks to your enlightened Turk!'

  'There might be another way to settle this, Excellency.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'As I think you know my activities do not always align with the strictest reading of the law.'

  'You're a pirate.'

  'Not quite. But I have made some unusual allegiances in the course of my business. They might now be of some use to La Serenissima.'

  'How?'

  'It is true that I admire the Turk, but I love my country more. Perhaps you should abandon your negotiations with the Sultan. I might instead be able to arrange a meeting for you with the Turkish admiral, Dragut.'

  'Dragut?'

  'Now he really is a pirate, for sale to the highest border. Ecco, if Venice must pay tribute for use of the sea lanes I am sure Dragut would not be quite as unreasonable in his demands as the Vizier.'

  Gonzaga drained his glass. 'You think he would do this?'

  'Dragut is not one of the kullar. He's a freebooter. Make him the right offer and he'll switch sides. What's it worth to you?'

  'So you can do this?'

  'Of course.'

  Gonzaga smiled. 'Well my renegade merchant, perhaps you could be of service to the Republic after all.'

  'I am so glad you think so,' Ludovici said.

  ***

  Julia watched the conversation from the shadows at the top of the stairs. Her father! Yet it was like looking at a total stranger. He looked grayer and smaller than she remembered. Almost twelve years since she had seen him, but his voice still put a chill through her. It brought back memories of silent, gloomy meals, black, dusty Bibles and of course, Abbas screaming in the hold of a privateer.

  She searched in her soul for some ghost of filial affection but found nothing. She felt instead a deep kinship for Ludovici, as he handed yet another goblet of wine to the man who had destroyed his best friend and crushed the spirit of the woman he loved.

  Chapter 32

  Stamboul

  Sirhane now had her own hammam. Her husband lived in some luxury, befitting a man of high rank. She had sent a message to Julia, inviting her to visit with her at his palazzo. 'Let's bath together,' she said, when she had shrugged off her ferijde. 'Like the old days!'

  Now Julia sat naked on the edge of the bath while Sirhane held a stone jar of scented oil and splashed some on her hands. She massaged it into Julia's shoulders.

  'Does Ludovici know you are here?' she asked her.

  'No. I haven't told him.'

  'No one needs to know.' Julia groaned as Sirhane's thumbs found a sore spot. 'You're tense. Are you worried about being here?'

  Julia shook her head. 'Do you remember your father?'

  'My Father? Of course.'

  'How old were you when you were taken away?'

  'Fifteen.'

  'Did you cry?'

  'For a week. Why?'

  'Tell me what happened.'

  'We were farmers. My father had sheep and a few goats. Also we grew seeds and a little grain. He was a kind man, but
he was very old when I left. He is probably dead now. My mother, too. I had ten brothers and sisters. I miss them all. But what good is it to brood about it? If I were still with them I would be in a field driving a plough or picking sunflowers.'

  'But your father, did you love him?'

  Sirhane seemed perplexed by the question. 'Of course.' She squeezed hard on Julia's neck muscles. 'I suppose so. Julia, what is wrong?'

  'Sirhane, I fear for my soul.'

  'Your soul?'

  'There is something evil in, I feel it.'

  Sirhane laughed, then realized that Julia was serious. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and hugged her. 'What is it? First you ask me about my father, then you tell me you are evil …'

  'There is so much about myself I do not understand. Why can't I love a man? Why do I prefer your company to my husband's?'

  Sirhane stiffened. 'It's not wrong.'

  'Of course it is.'

  'We harm no one. A woman cannot violate another woman.'

  'It would do harm, if he knew. I know he loves me, I know he wants me to love him. I betray him every time I see you.'

  'Julia, what is all this about?'

  She sighed and rested her head on Sirhane's shoulder. The gauze wrap felt rough against her cheek. She allowed Sirhane to cradle her.

  'If you knew something terrible was about to happen to someone and you did nothing to prevent it … is that wrong?'

  'I don't know.'

  'What do you think?'

  Sirhane ran a hand across the frieze of Iznik ceramic on the walls, feeling the condensation cool on her hand. It was emblazoned with a verse from the Qu'ran in white and blue script. 'Every soul will taste death. We test you with both good and evil as a trial. And you will be returned to us.' 'It depends,' Sirhane answered carefully. 'Has this person done anything wrong?'

  'Yes … oh, yes.'

  'And is his punishment ratified by law?'

  Julia did not answer and Sirhane did not press her., Instead she said: 'What will happen if you keep your silence?'