Harem (11 page)

Abbas kept to the shadows. All the previous night and this long day he had hidden, making his plans. With the little money he had, he had paid for passage to Pescati on a merchant galley that would sail with the morning tide. He did not know how they might reach Naples from there, but Abbas was sure he would think of something. All that mattered to him now was to get Julia out of Gonzaga's
palazzo
and escape Venice.

Abbas had hidden all that day in the apartment that Ludovici kept for his mistress at Guidecca. When Ludovici came to see him that evening he told him Mahmud's soldiers had been searching for him all day, turning out the inns and taverns.

'What will you do?' Ludovici asked him.

'Don't worry about me. I have already involved you too much in this.'

'This game is deadly serious now. I warned you.'

'It's not a game and I have always been deadly serious.' He nodded at the somber, dark-haired girl watching them from a corner of the room. 'I believe she thought you intended to share her with me. Reassure her that tonight I shall leave, your house and your mistress intact.'

'Where will you go?'

'I cannot even tell you that.' He embraced him. 'Thank you. You are the greatest friend a man could ever have.'

Ludovici pressed a purse into his palm. Abbas did not protest. Without it, he would have had scarce enough to buy a loaf of bread when they reached Pescati.

***

He heard the clock in the Piazza San Marco chime the twelfth hour. He pulled his mantello more tightly around his shoulders. The gondola was moored by the steps below the bridge, waiting. Would she come?

You don't know anything about her. You are in love with the danger of it. If you are in love with anything, you are in love with your own daring.

Ludovici was right, he knew nothing about her. But that was not what love was; knowing everything about someone was marriage, it was contract and prudent alliance. Love was mystery and it was something even a beautiful friend like Ludovici would never understand. He was still at university and was already an old man.

You're just in love with loving.

He saw a shadow darting from the alley on the other side of the bridge. 'Julia!' he said. He ran across the bridge, his arms outstretched. She saw him too and ran towards him. But just before he reached her, he heard footsteps on the cobblestones behind him. He looked over his shoulder. The
milizia di note
! The night police!

'Julia!
Attenzione!
'

Her hood fell back. In the light of the half moon he made out the crooked, bearded grin of a total stranger.

'Am I not the beauty you were expecting?' the man said. Abbas saw the flash of a blade, and felt the point of it jabbed hard between his ribs. 'I may not be your Julia, but I know the way to a man's heart.'

Abbas brought up his knee. The man squealed like a butchered pig and doubled over, collapsing at his feet. Abbas gasped. As he fell, the man had sliced into his side with the dagger.

He turned around, drawing his sword, knew the man's accomplices were behind him. He could not distinguish empty shadows from his enemy. How many were there? He guessed three, perhaps four.

He tried to run but the man in the hood grabbed his ankle. Abbas stabbed down with his sword, felt the blade crunch against bone. The man shrieked in pain and let go.

They had surrounded him. Abbas backed away, felt the cold stone of the bridge against his back. He heard his gondolier - God curse his yellow soul - poling away from the steps. Now the shadows came alive, two men rushed him from either side, neither as cocky or as amateur as the wretch still sobbing in his death agony at his feet. Abbas slashed with his sword, chest high, and they backed away.

Then he saw a third man come from the shadows. There was a shadow on the moon and something fell over his head and shoulders. He threw up a hand to protect himself. A net! He tried to throw it off, but tripped over the dying man and fell, enveloping them both in the mesh. His struggles only succeeded in working the net tighter around them both. Abbas remembered the dying man might still have his dagger.

He felt a searing pain in his face and screamed. But then they were on him, something clubbed him hard on the back of the head and he blacked out.

***

When he opened his eyes, it was pitch black. He could smell bilge water, heard the slow slap of waves against the hull of a ship, the scampering of rats.

And there was something else he knew, something he remembered from the battlefield. The smell of corpses.

Whoever his assailants were, they were not cutthroats after his money. They had cudgelled him when he was tangled in the net, when they could as easily have killed him. He tried to move but they had bound his wrists and feet. His face burned like fire.

He tried to reason out his predicament.

These must be Gonzaga's men. If Julia had written the letter then she had deliberately led him into this trap; the other possibility was that it had come from her father's hand. He hoped so. Why hadn't they killed him and dumped his body in the canal? He supposed his father being Captain General of the Republic might have something to do with it.

There were footsteps on the companionway and mens' voices. A hatch was thrown open and torchlight flooded the hold.

He turned his face away and found himself face to face with the hooded stranger from the bridge. He was dead. Beside him lay another corpse, an old woman dressed in black. Her throat had been cut.

He heard a man laughing. Abbas turned to face his tormentors. They were bearded, shoeless sailors, the kind who could be bought at the Marghero wharf any day for a few
dinari
. One of them - Abbas smelled cheap wine and body stench - bent down and held the flaming torch a few inches from his face.

'Well, my boy, look at you. You don't look so pretty now. Bartolomeo here split your face in two with his knife before he died. Not that you'll care about that, soon enough.'

The two men behind him laughed again.

He leaned closer. 'See that other one next to Bartolomeo? She was Gonzaga's
duenna
. Put up a real fight she did. Not that it did her much good. Ever slaughtered a pig, have you? It was a bit like that.' He grinned. He had rotten teeth and boils on his neck. 'But she was luckier than you, that's a fact. You'll wish you were her before the night's out.'

One of the men tugged down his breeches while the other sliced the ropes at his ankles. They gripped his knees and prised his legs apart. He shrieked in panic and tried to kick out, but they were too strong.

The first man drew his knife. Abbas twisted and bucked. Now he knew why they had not killed him on the Ponte Antico.

'You wanted Signore Gonzaga's daughters to play with these little toys, did you? Well, how about we give them to the
Consigliore
and he can give them to her himself.'

He let go his bladder in his terror and the men laughed.

'Say goodbye to them, Moor,' the man sneered. The blade flashed in the light of the torch and the world sheered into a hot and infernal place.

***

A milky dawn. A funeral procession of gondolas, draped with black velvet, emerged from beneath the Ponte Molino and slipped silently along the Sacca della Misericordia and across the lagoon toward the cemetery island of San Michele. Julia watched until they disappeared into the mist.

He was sending her to the convent at Brescia, to await the arrival of Serena and what her father referred to as 'the joyous occasion of her wedding.' The barge would be here soon to collect her.

She thought about that last afternoon in the gondola.

Come away with me. We can go to Spain. You don't have to marry an old man! You don't have to spend your life shut up in a rich man's palace. You can be free!

I should have said yes, she thought. It was my one chance and I threw it away. Now I am to be buried alive. Oh, Abbas. Where are you now?

The Sweet Waters of Europe, near Eyüp.

Fields of sunflowers dazzled the eye. On the other side of the Horn the city rippled in dusty amber behind its gray land walls. It was a view of the city some of the girls had never seen. Today the entire Harem had been transported in canopied
caïques
along the Bosphorus, a welcome respite from the oppressive monotony of the Eski Saraya.

The girls gossiped on the blue and crimson Persian carpets thrown in the shade of the cypress trees, while the
gediçli
fed them peaches and grapes from silver salvers. Musicians entertained them with flutes and viols; piles of silk cushions kept their pampered bottoms from the hard ground; dancing bears performed for them on the grass.

Gülbehar kept herself apart. One of her
gediçli
produced a mirror and held it up for her inspection. The handle was encrusted with sapphires, a gift from Suleiman after the birth of Mustapha. She studied her reflection and brushed an errant lock of hair back into place.

'Where is Hürrem?' one of the girls whispered, watching her.

'The Kislar Aghasi says she is with Suleiman,' another girl said. 'Now he spends all his days with her, as well as his nights.'

Sirhane, a raven-haired Persian, popped a grape into her mouth. 'In the bazaars they say she is a witch, that she has cast a spell over the Lord of the Earth. How else could she have replaced Rose of Spring in his affections so quickly, and to the exclusion of all others?'

'Look at her,' another whispered, watching Gülbehar's
gediçli
combing out her hair. 'She is so beautiful. If the Lord of Life will not look at her any more, what chance is there for the rest of us?'

'They say even the Grand Vizier fears Hürrem,' Sirhane said. 'The Kislar Aghasi told me that the Sultan even goes to her to discuss politics and that she advises him on military campaigns.'

'The Kislar Aghasi has a fertile imagination.'

'He swears it is true!'

'The Grand Vizier would have her drowned in the Bosphorus!'

'Perhaps he cannot,' Sirhane said and they all fell silent. Was that really the truth of it? Surely no one was more powerful than the Grand Vizier? 'Anyway, I feel sorry for Gülbehar,' Sirhane added. 'The Lord of Life has disgraced her.'

'Gülbehar is still first
kadin
,' another girl said. 'And one day she will be the Sultan Valide. Her day will come.'

'They say God is punishing the Lord of Life for making a witch his
kadin
. That is why his last son died in the cradle.'

'But Hürrem has two sons still living. And she carries another child now.'

'None of them will ever rival Mustapha!' another girl shouted and there the conversation ended. The girls' attention returned to the dancing bear and Sirhane kept to herself the other whisper she had heard from the Kislar Aghasi; that Hürrem was plotting to get rid of Mustapha also.

But that could never happen. The very thought was absurd.

It was quiet here among the kiosks and the ornamental ponds. Only the sigh of the wind through the chestnut trees and the gentle murmur of water in the ornamental fountains disturbed the gazelles grazing on the lawns.

Suleiman had always liked to walk here to compose his thoughts and find respite from the endless demands and entreaties that came every day from the Divan and the Harem. Once he would come alone. Lately he brought a companion with him.

The last five years had been many times blessed, he thought. When he returned from hunting at Adrianople, shortly after their first union, he had found Hürrem already plump with new life. Early the following year she gave birth to a boy. At the insistence of the Valide, they called him Selim.

He had not quite shared his mother's excitement. While she celebrated the consolidation of the Osmanli line, he brooded over future conflicts. He knew what his father had done to secure his throne. He supposed now his sons would have to do the same.

Hürrem was now his second
kadin
, but she had replaced the first in his affections. Gülbehar had been his sanctuary for so long, but he had never been able to share the burdens of his sultanate with her. That had been Ibrahim's role.

But when Achmed Pasha rose in revolt in Egypt he had been forced to send Ibrahim to crush him, and while he was gone Suleiman had brought the problems of state to Hürrem instead. To his surprise he found her shrewd beyond her years and with an innate grasp of the intricacies of court politics. He continued to confide in her, even after Ibrahim's return. Her caution was now a counterfoil to Ibrahim's aggression.

She had opened a new world to him. While Gülbehar was pliant and predictable, Hürrem continually surprised him. On one visit she might be sullen but passionate; on another effusive and playful. She could soothe him with her singing and her viol or excite him with her dancing. She could dress like a slim boy in military doman or like a
houri
in gossamer. He never knew what to expect from her, though she seemed to have an uncanny ability to anticipate his own moods.

Her delight in lovemaking was still unholy and he knew he must one day send her to the mufti for education. But for now her infidel soul afforded him endless pleasures. One cry of ecstasy gave him more pleasure than all the grovelling of foreign ambassadors in the Divan.

Hürrem was now his joy; everything else was duty.

The little Russian girl - he had taken to calling her, affectionately, 'russelana' - had carefully cultivated her friendship with his mother, the Valide, and Nature had helped her cement the alliance by providing her with another son, Bayezid. She had failed in the labour chamber only once, when she had produced a girl twin. The boy, Abdullah, had died just last year; but his sister, Mihrmah, was now three years old.

She was not the devoted mother that Gülbehar had been, but that did not trouble him overmuch; he wanted her all for himself.

'I want to talk to you,' he said to her as they walked in the garden.

'Yes my Lord?'

'It is the Hungarian question again. Frederick is sending an envoy to treat with us. He does not know that the
voivoide
, Zapolya, has sent his man also who has already met in secret with Ibrahim.'

He did not need to explain the problem to her; somehow she already knew. Suleiman's army, marshalled by Ibrahim, had annihilated the Hungarians on the plain of Mohaçs just two years before. Their king had drowned in the swamp when his horse fell on him during the retreat. Since Hungary was too far away for permanent occupation, he had withdrawn his troops after the battle and it had since become a wasteland of warring bandits, coveted by noblemen such as Zapolya and the great Hapsburg family, under Frederick. But they could not have it without coming to terms with him first. Who should he treat with?

'What are your thoughts, my Lord?'

'We have slain the king and the horses of the Osmanli have set their hoofs in Buda, so it is now in the dominion of Islam. Why should I treat with either of them? I am the King of Hungary now.'

'So every summer you must send your army to regain what it has conquered the year before. One day you will grow tired of it.'

'The dogs are always at the door when there are scraps to be had.'

'But you must guard every entrance to the house. If you become too preoccupied with one, the robbers may enter by another door.'

'I shall not treat with Frederick. Then I would have exchanged a starving dog for a rabid wolf.'

'What about Zapolya?'

'Zapolya is an upstart. He is no king.'

'What is a king? It is not the crown that makes a king, it is the sword. Make Zapolya your gatekeeper and let him have a piece of iron for his head. In return demand his tribute and free passage for your army. While there is no border, you remain his master.'

'He is not strong enough to hold back Frederick's armies.'

'He can keep the borders until a real army is assembled against him, one that is worthy of your attention. You may even use Zapolya to lure Frederick into the contest and drown him in the swamp also.'

Suleiman stared at the black waters of the Bosphorus, white foam streaked across the surface by the wind. On one side lay Asia, on the other Europe. She was right; one could not look too long at one side for fear of forgetting the other.

'Zapolya, then.'

'If my Lord considers my counsel proper. In all things I defer to your greater wisdom.'

Suleiman nodded, pleased with Hürrem's diplomacy. Ah, she was a rare treasure indeed.

Suleiman and Gülbehar ate kebabs of lamb on silver skewers with pine kernels and drank perfumed rosewater from goblets of Iznik glass. After the
gediçli
had removed the bowls they sat for a long time in silence.

'Have I offended you in some way, my Lord?' Gülbehar said at last.

'No. Why?'

'You have not asked for me these many months. When you do come, it is only to see Mustapha.'

'Do not deem to question me.'

Gülbehar hung her head. Suleiman felt sorry for her; she had been a good wife. All she had ever asked of him until now was some Venetian satin or Baghdad silk or a tortoiseshell comb. And she had given him Mustapha.

He had not wanted to hurt her this way. But each moment he spent with her, he compared her to Hürrem and his impatience grew. He could not be at ease with her; his frustration turned inevitably to anger.

He got to his feet. Gülbehar looked up at him, startled. 'You are leaving, my Lord?'

'I have matters of state to attend to.'

Gülbehar looked miserable. 'Hürrem.'

It was an unpardonable breach of protocol but Suleiman decided to ignore it. 'My Lady,' he said and took his leave of her.

***

It was always dusk in the Eski Saraya. Even on a summer midday, the sun could not chase the shadows from the warren of dark panelled rooms and endless corridors. It was a world of dusty lanterns and baroque mirrors coated with ancient grime. Sloe-eyed women with dark rubies in their hair appeared on shadowed staircases like ghosts, ungratified and forgotten.

It infected Hürrem's mood. I am a heartbeat from such a living death, she thought.

She had come so far. She had given him sons and somehow kept him from this neglected storehouse of pleasures. None of it had been easy. The strain of child-bearing had sapped her energies and after each confinement she had surrendered herself to Muomi's ministrations and to vials of the
gediçli
's foul potions in order to restore her figure. She had wet nurses for the children so her infants would not suckle her breasts dry.

Yet all she had won thus far could be snatched away from her in an instant. Only one woman in here had power over her own life and that was not the wife of the Sultan, but the mother. She could not wait for fate to be kind; to wait on destiny was to wait forever. She must force her own fortune.

'Muomi! Muomi!'

Her
gediçli
appeared instantly. She had been hovering at her post outside the door.

'Come here,' Hürrem said.

Muomi sank to her knees beside her. 'My Lady?'

'There is something I want you to do.'

'Another potion?'

Hürrem nodded. 'Yes. Another potion. I want you to make one that will kill Mustapha for me.'