by Mike Ashley
Diego smiled and drew his sword. “Admiral, forgive me for this.”
Columbus’s hand closed on one of the native darts. As Diego moved he thrust it into his side.
It had been a shipboard accident, Columbus told his crew. The page-boy Luis and the translator Diego Quierdo were buried in separate graves on the San Salvador beach. Before they sailed away Christopher Columbus paused to say a prayer to the Lord for the soul of this Jewish boy who’d died so far from home.
House of the Moon
Claire Griffen
Claire Griffen is an Australian writer, actress and dramatist. She introduced the character of Don Alessandro Orsini in “Borgia by Blood” in Royal Whodunnits. Here is a rather more delicate case for the Borgia spy to investigate.
1502 – the Venetian Rites of Spring. The splendid and solemn ceremony of marrying a city to the sea, Venice made one with the Adriatic. From all the republics and kingdoms came the “wedding guests” in their gaily apparelled hordes. The palazzi fluttered with bunting, and barquess and gondolas festooned with garlands and gold-and-purple regalia crowded the Grand Canal.
“Not a ripple of water to be seen between them,” observed the henchman Ugo Beppo.
He stood with his master on the balcony of the Casa Luna, named for its façade of Istrian marble. Most of the other guests had gone down to the bridge for a closer view of the regatta. Ugo had persuaded his master to stay behind. In such a jostle, it would be a simple matter for a Borgia enemy to slide a stiletto between the ribs of a Borgia spy.
Ugo, an ex-actor and virtuoso of disguise, was both bodyguard and friend to Don Alessandro Orsini, potentially the most dangerous man in Italy. In the Papal States the flag of the Borgia Bull was flying and Sandro was prince of foxes to the most powerful of that name – Cesare, Duke Valentino, son of the presiding Pope and conqueror of Italy.
And, as a sideline, Don Alessandro Orsini liked to take a hand in murders, both political and domestic.
Ugo had known him since boyhood when he had fished Sandro out of a canal, the victim of a family vendetta, yet there were still moments when he was caught unawares by the exotic, almost barbaric nature of his master’s looks. Even in an Italian doublet in his favourite colours of sage and ivory, and with his hair worn in the prevailing fashion of long curling strings, his face with its almond-shaped eyes and olive tints was too Oriental to be Italian and had earned him the nickname Il Saracen.
The sunset that gilded the colonnades of the Palace of the Doges gradually faded into twilight. With a little flurry of sound, the evening breeze fluttered the bunting strung along the palazzi. Torches were lit on the watercraft and in the sconces of doorways.
A servant of the Casa Luna brought a lighted flambeau out or to the balcony. Ugo was suddenly aware of another presence and a hooded scrutiny beyond the radius of light. He crouched for the stiletto in his boot. Before he could draw it, Sandro’s sword was in his hand. Ugo sometimes despaired of his master’s carelessness for life, but in a crisis he could react swiftly.
“A thousand pardons for this intrusion,” a deep voice came purring out of the darkness, “but I seek the one known as El Saracen.”
The intruder stepped into the light. His accent and dress betrayed him as a Turk. Ugo ran an amazed eye over his crimson kaftan and pearl-strung turban and halted warily at the curved dagger thrust through the striped waist-sash.
But Sandro looked only at the face. Bearded, intelligent, cruel with something of the falcon in the hooked nose and piercing glance.
“You would be fortunate to find your quarry in this multitude,” he parried.
“My search has led me to the House of the Moon. With so many comings and goings it was easy to gain admittance. I only had to know a name. Don Alessandro Orsini.” The Turk made an extravagant flourish. “I am Murad Bey, Grand Vizier to the Sultan Bayezid, Lion of Istanbul.”
A cynical smile curved Sandro’s mouth. “Surely the fame of Il Saracen hasn’t reached the Golden Horn.”
“You are too modest, my cid. Do you recall Chasimpueg, who came as the Sultan’s ambassador to the Vatican in 1493?”
“Vaguely. It was nine years ago.”
“The powerful Duke Cesare that we know today was then but a mere Cardinal in the shadow of the Pope. But you were already in the shadow of that shadow. How prescient of you to recognize his potential and he a mere youth.
“There was much talk in Rome of the murder of your wife. The perpetrator had tried to disguise the deed. Your house had all the signs of being looted by revellers during Carnival, but you by astute inquiry and examination of the scene unmasked the murderer, one close to the Vatican.”
“One who was said to be the murderer.”
“Even so. It was this incident that brought you to the attention of Cardinal Valencia and was a curious tale that clung to the mind of Emissary Chasimpueg. Ah! I see I’ve opened an old wound.” Murad glanced keenly into Sandro’s face. “May I be flayed alive if it will appease you.”
Sandro shrugged away the fulsome apology. “So the Great Sultan knows something of my history. It’s taken him long enough to satisfy his curiosity. Has he no Scheherezade to beguile him with tales?”
“Nothing so trivial as curiosity summons you to the Seraglio. It’s an occasion of murder.”
The light from the flames flickered over the spy’s face, given an illusion of flaring excitement.
“I should have thought murder in the Seraglio was commonplace. From the tales one hears.”
“Not this one. The victim was Aysha, the Sultan’s kadin, or, as you might say, favourite.”
“Isn’t murder in the harem equally commonplace? Why does Bayezid require my special expertise when he has an army of halberdiers – and you, his Grand Vizier?”
“He seeks an impartial investigation. My galley lies in the lagoon beyond the city. The Great Sultan honours you in sending to escort you his most trusted servant.”
“Or assassin,” muttered Ugo.
A pearl dangling from the ear of Murad Bey flushed in the torchlight as he turned his head to look at the henchman. Ugo felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the Turk’s gaze encountered his.
Sandro was smiling and shaking his head. “I must decline.”
Murad sighed. “I must insist. Beyond this curtain are two of those halberdiers, renowned for their strength, who will accept no refusal.”
Sandro laughed softly, allowing the point of his sword to rest on the striped sash. “Life is precarious at the best of times. I could make you a candidate for the dissection table, a subject for Leonardo’s sketch-book. In plainer speech, I could carve you up, Murad Bey.”
The gleam of a gold tooth showed in the Vizier’s beard. “My blood would stain this fine terrazzo floor and provoke a diplomatic incident. The Ottoman Empire would make war on Venice to avenge me. On the other hand, I could order my halberdiers to cut you in two. Are you so beloved or invaluable to the Borgia that they’ll make either half a cause for war?”
Sandro smiled and sheathed his sword.
“Should you succeed in unmasking the murderer,” pursued Murad, “you’ll find the Sultan’s gratitude beyond expectation.”
“And if I fail?”
“Does El Saracen admit that possibility?”
“Is there a body for me to examine?”
“Aysha died a week ago. As is our custom she was interred with all speed.”
“No corpse and the site of the murder a week cold. How did she die?”
“There were no visible signs of violence. We leave that for you to discover.”
Sandro gave a soft chuckle. “The challenge of a lifetime. How can I resist?” He rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “From a wedding to a funeral, Ugo.”
“I trust not ours,” responded the henchman, gloomily.
“I think we have a few more teeth than the Lion of Istanbul.”
In 1453 the Turkish Sultan Mehmet II had conquered the Byzantine capital of Constantin
ople and renamed it Istanbul. On the isthmus between the Mamara Sea and the Golden Horn he built his Grand Seraglio, Topkapi, the Sublime Port, a jewel in the setting of lush meadows, parks and gardens. Through the Main Gate and under the shadow of the Tower of Judgment, Murad Bey and his captive guest were carried in a litter. Ugo, acutely pessimistic about their ultimate kismet, followed on foot as became the servant of a noble lord. He kept a sharp eye on the halberdiers marching beside the litter and a ready hand on the stiletto in his sheath.
Isolated by the silk curtains, Sandro felt himself being carried through a bewildering labyrinth of corridors, rooms and courtyards and through a maze of sounds and smells, from the music of harps and flutes to the twittering of birds and the snarling and trumpeting of beasts encaged in the Elephant House, from delicate perfumes and foreign foods to the strong musk of African animals.
“Where are we going?” enquired Sandro, mystified.
“To my private haman,” replied the Grand Vizier.
The haman proved to be a luxuriously appointed hall with marble columns and inlaid tiles. Steam from the water which flowed from brass taps into large marble sinks rose in thick clouds to escape through the skylight. From bowls of silver were flung scalding water over the bathers, who sat on stools with pattens on their feet to protect their soles from the heated tiles.
Between deluges of water the skin was vigorously scrubbed with a loofah. Sandro found the experience invigorating rather than pleasurable; his skin shrank in anticipation of the next assault.
“You don’t care for Turkish customs,” observed Murad.
“I prefer my wooden tub before the fire.”
“Aren’t you afraid of ifrits – evil spirits who thrive in still water?”
Sandro glanced at him curiously, unsure whether or not the comment was serious or flippant. An enthusiastic wielding of the loofah distracted him. He winced and tried to shield a half-healed gash on his chest.
Instantly Murad clapped his hands. “Enough!” He led Sandro into a room furnished with sofas. They were wrapped in bathrobes and brought coffee flavoured with cinnamon and cloves. The air was redolent with the scent of sandalwood.
“I wasn’t aware you carried a wound.”
“An occupational hazard.” Sandro shrugged and experimentally sipped the coffee. It had a strong, cloying flavour and he suspected it was an acquired taste.
“We Turks like to boast of our scars.”
“Tell me of that one.” Sandro indicated a long blue-grey ridge along the Vizier’s left rib-cage.
Murad sat upright on his sofa, his robe falling open while a slave massaged his shoulders. He caressed the scar reminiscently. “That’s how I gained my present exalted position. I am one who was born with dung between his toes – of lowly estate. I worked my way up through the Sultan’s household, from stable-boy to Chief Falconer. I held that rank when one of the palace slaves – a brute rendered deaf and mute – attempted Bayezid’s life when he was visiting the House of Falcons. His former Grand Vizier stood helpless with shock, but I stepped into the path of the blade and saved the Sultan’s life. The Grand Vizier was deprived of his post along with his head. Bayezid, you see suspected him of hiring the assassin. Whereas it was I.” His eyes glowed with remembered triumph. “These mutilated brutes are useful as assassins since they cannot talk not even under torture. The risk of getting killed myself was one I was prepared to take in return for the Sultan’s favour.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“I want there to be no secrets between us. You’ll soon learn that the murdered kadin was my own gift to Bayezid. Aysha was unique, a Circassian with hair as pale as moonlight, eyes the light blue of incense smoke, lips shell-pink, skin a pale ivory and a form the envy of houris. The Sultan was enchanted with her.”
“You did not regret such a gift?”
“The world is full of women. Each month a new moon cuts the sky like a scimitar and blooms like a rose, only to fade and die. Its light is gentler than the sun’s but often deceptive, for by its light we cannot read.”
“Is that another way of saying that Aysha had secrets?”
“Are you familiar with the Turkish saying All women are mysteries, even to themselves?” Sandro nodded. “To understand the nature of harem women one must experience something of the harem itself.”
“I imagine rivalry is fierce.”
“A deadly ferocity, especially when an odalisque becomes the sultan’s favourite and the valid sultana finds herself and her son threatened. If the Sultan prefers the favourite’s son to his firstborn, there’s a danger of being supplanted. The valid sultana is Roxana, as dark as Aysha was fair, as bitter as Aysha was sweet, as powerful as Aysha was vulnerable. There’s no love lost between Prince Rustum and the Sultan, but that’s the way of the Sultanate. The Princes scheme against each other with the same jealous fervour as harem women.”
“Was Aysha with child?”
“There were rumours.”
“But a newborn child could scarcely be a threat to a grown son. What if Bayezid should die this year or the next?”
“There have been infant sultans before.”
“But only, I suspect, if the mother has influential friends. Would a Circassian slave-girl have at least one powerful friend?” Sandro allowed his lips to curl in a quizzical smile. “The Grand Vizier and the favourite he procured could well be allies.”
Murad showed his gold tooth in a grimace. “But wouldn’t I have then been the victim?”
A Moroccan slave with a face the colour of the coffee they had just consumed sidled into the room and whispered in Murad Bey’s ear.
“It’s time for you to dress for your audience with the Sultan.”
Ugo was waiting anxiously beside the huge curtained divan in the apartment assigned to Sandro. The spy immediately crossed to the latticed window and cautiously opened one of the casements. The wall opposite was patrolled by halberdiers. In the courtyard below several Arab steeds were tethered and a contingent of janissaries milled about, talking, drinking or tending their weapons.
“I’m being treated to a show of military strength.”
“I don’t trust that Nabob,” muttered Ugo, dourly.
“Murad’s busy absolving himself of motive,” murmured Sandro, “while throwing one or two other suspects my way.”
The furnished garments were appropriately splendid antery and trousers of brilliant green embroidered with gold thread, a silk shirt with a high, jewelled collar and a striped turban of yellow and green to match the waist-sash. There was a jewel cask for his selection, but he wore only the pendant that always hung about his neck – a black pearl. He declined too the embroidered slippers, preferring his own boots of Cordovan leather.
The Great Sultan Bayezid, Lion of Istanbul, Defender of Islam, lord of armies and King of Kings, received him in his audience chamber, a hall with frescoed ceiling and arches, panelled walls and sculptured pillars. Across a large carpet of jewelled colours, sapphire, ruby and topaz, sat the Sultan on a divan of cushions on a raised dais under a silk canopy. Despite the warmth of the room, his long coat of woven thread of gold had a fur collar. From a ruby clasp on his turban rose three peacock feathers that swayed and nodded majestically as he talked.
A man in his late fifties, he had inherited the beak-like nose of his father Mehmet the Conqueror, a nose so long it almost curved over his bearded mouth. He was smoking from a nargileh, the bubbles gently gurgling, possibly opium, although the dark, almond-shaped eyes under the artificially shaped brows were alert. He was attended by the Bostanji, his personal bodyguard, and one odalisque, heavily veiled, crouching at his feet.
After the presentation and obligatory obseqious observances, the Sultan waved his Vizier away and beckoned Sandro to a recess lower than the surrounding floor in which was a scattering of cushions. Murad Bey bowed low, but as he withdrew Sandro caught a glimpse of his expression. It was a look Ugo would have called murderous.
The spy obediently steppe
d down into the recess and sat cross-legged. At a terse word, the odalisque prostrated herself before Sandro and, to his surprise, spoke in perfect Italian.
“I am Kosem, a humble slave in the household of this mighty lord. Since Italian is my native tongue, I have the honour to translate the words that fall from his mouth.”
He could make nothing of her face behind the yashmak. Her body seemed frail within the Turkish costume of rose-pink antery, skirt and trousers and her arms thin within the muslin sleeves of her chemise.
“What is your true Christian name?” he asked, gently.
He felt rather than saw the fearful glance she stole at her master. “I’m no longer Christian, but have embraced the true faith of Islam, the creed of All-Powerful Allah.”
Bayezid had been watching this exchange with a cruel amusement. He spoke, his voice oily and insinuating.
“My master wishes to know your age.”
“Thirty-one.”
“The perfect age for a man. He should be neither older nor younger. Kismet has favoured the Sultan. Since his fair beloved has died young she will preserve her youth like the crescent moon and her cid will look neither younger nor older than thirty-one in Paradise. So it is written in the Koran.”
Sandro digested this significant piece of information while Bayezid considered his next remark.
“Did you ever meet my renegade brother, Prince Djem, when he was held hostage by the Pope?”
“Several times.”
“Did you investigate his murder?”
“He had then passed into the hands of the French,” Sandro replied, cautiously, “and I believe the diagnosis was bronchitis.”
