Sultan's Wife (46 page)

Ben Hadou is much taken with this notion and evinces a passion for science I have never suspected in him. He questions Mr Pepys thoroughly on
the history of the society and its better-known members, and our host is happy to oblige. The unfamiliar names wash over me, leaving no trace. My mind is as serene as beach sand washed smooth by the ebb of a wave. I feel blessed by the world: apart from my wretched tooth. Even the city we pass through – with its grime and mud, its beggars and street-criers, its stink of fish and horse shit – seems a more benign place than it ever did before, even though the sky is visibly greying and a fine rain is starting to fall. I smile indulgently at a knot of men engaged in conversation on a street corner; but my quietude is soon shattered as they break into a brawl and abruptly there are knives flashing and a sudden spray of blood. Mr Pepys at once leans out of the carriage window and calls something to the coachman, who blows three loud blasts on a whistle. ‘That'll bring the charleys running,' he promises. ‘Please don't concern yourselves overly, my friends: the constables will sort it out.'

Gresham College, on the wide Holborn thoroughfare, is a tranquil place by comparison. We reach the meeting room via a colonnaded walkway bordering a lovely inner courtyard planted in an orderly fashion with grass and trees, and are greeted by twenty or thirty bewigged and solemn gentlemen, of whom I recognize five or six as court regulars. The president, Sir Christopher Wren, a supercilious-looking man in his middle years, bids us welcome, though his smile does not reach his eyes. ‘I hear your embassy is quite the social sensation of the year,' he sneers, and turns away to talk to Mr Evelyn.

At this snub the Tinker looks much deflated, but rallies when he is introduced to Mr Deane, who compliments him on his riding and has observations to make about the shortness of the stirrup leather used with regards to torsion and speed.

There is displayed a live scorpion found in an oil shop in London. Ben Hadou and I exchange glances: if this is the standard of wonders to be found here, we are going to have a dull day indeed. Several large pieces of amber containing insects are displayed: these, again, are nothing new to us. Zidana has a necklace in which a vast spider crouches, preserved for ever in the fragrant resin: it often sits at her throat.

There follows a long discourse in Latin of which neither the ambassador nor I can understand a word, though it appears to involve the relative qualities of a number of different substances and objects, including gold and silver,
water and fur, a bee and a leaf, which are then examined most thoroughly by means of an odd-looking instrument comprising a long, decorated tube and a round glass lens to which one places one's eye. Ben Hadou is invited to look down the tube at the mouth part of a bee, and at once leaps back, exclaiming in some horror at the monstrosity he has perceived, which causes considerable mirth. I choose rather to examine the leaf, which sits better with my mood, and am rewarded by a beautiful pattern of lustrous greens and yellows cut through with translucent veins. The experience is almost hallucinogenic; when eventually I come upright again I feel dizzy and overwhelmed, as if I have somehow been allowed a glimpsed into a secret world hitherto unseen.

By now recovered from his encounter with the suddenly-giant fly, Ben Hadou insists on examining everything else on the table, including his own finger, and as the meeting wears on I allow my mind to drift off into pleasant fantasies of the future that awaits: Momo dressed in a fine blue silk suit beside his lovely mother in creamy satin. No need for powdered gold or poisonous ceruse to heighten the natural beauties of Alys's porcelain skin or sunlit hair; no drops of belladonna required to widen that perfect regard. And I, in a fine coat and waistcoat of figured velvet, standing proudly behind them, with silver buckles on my shoes and a long black periwig to replace my turban, posing for the artist who paints the portrait that will adorn our new home. In one of these delicious fancies, I imagine Alys cradling a little girl – our daughter! my wayward imagination supplies – wrapped in a froth of lace, showing her off to a circle of court ladies. Such foolish nonsense! I catch myself up and chide myself silently. I am a eunuch: I can have no children of my own. More than that, I am a slave and she is a gentlewoman; I am as black as night and she as white as day; and never the twain shall meet.

Ah, but you may be the night and she the moon, a little voice encourages coaxingly, and who knows what possibilities may be offered by that conjunction?

I am brought out of this reverie rather sharply by a sudden twinge of the damaged molar, and, although I think I have successfully stifled the groan it elicits, a gentleman in a tumbling brown wig leans over and asks after my well-being. ‘Just a little toothache,' I explain. ‘I cracked one this morning on some rather hard bread.'

‘Goodness me: austerity measures at the palace must be rather more severe than I thought!' He introduces himself to us as a Mr Ashmole, up from Oxford for the meeting, and questions me most genially about my origins and the Tinker about Moorish customs, explaining that he is something of a collector of antiquities and unusual items, and is indeed in the process of setting up a museum to share his collections with the world at large. He sighs. ‘How I would love to travel more. It seems the world is enlarging day by day – Africa, America, China … Imagine the wonderful treasures that might be gleaned on such trips, the artefacts from so many different cultures … We have the most remarkable flayed skin of a native Indian king to display, and the saddle used by Genghis Khan himself.'

Ben Hadou grimaces. ‘I'm afraid I can't offer you anything so grand, but I have a pair of fine Moorish spurs you might like for your collection.'

Ashmole looks thrilled. ‘That would be most splendid. But I can't possibly take them without offering something in exchange.' He thinks for a moment, then declares, ‘Maybe a magnifying glass you could take back to your country with you; and in the same house I have a friend who can mend this gentleman's tooth.'

Ben Hadou's eyes gleam. ‘I'm sure Nus-Nus does not need to bother your friend, but I must say I would dearly love one of these magical glasses.'

‘I cannot promise you it will be as strong as Mr Hooke's microscope, but I think you will be pleased to have it. Come with me after the meeting to Mr Draycott's house and I'll see what we can do. It is not far from here, just to the south of Fleet Street.'

I can see the Tinker is greatly torn, but in the end he declines politely, explaining that he has duties back at the palace. It is arranged that I am to go with Mr Ashmole to fetch the glass and am dismissed from my duties for the rest of the day.

Mr Ashmole proves to be excellent company. He insists on walking from the college, rather than taking a chair or carriage, pointing out curiosities as we go. ‘At my age you have to keep moving, you know, for fear of what will happen if you stop.'

I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. He cannot be more than fifty, and moves with as much speed as the king, his walking stick no more than a
stylish accessory: yet he speaks as if he is an old man. We are making our way down Chancery Lane at a trot when the heavens open.

‘Goodness,' says my companion, looking up from under the dripping brim of his hat. ‘I fear your headcloth will be quite ruined. I never thought to bring an umbrella.'

‘Can't stand the things,' I assure him cheerfully.

We duck into the Black Spread Eagle tavern and wait for the worst of the deluge to pass. The inn is noisy with custom and full of smoke and smells, but the sight of me seems to attract considerable attention and an uneasy quiet falls.

Then someone bursts out with, ‘By Gad, what a monster!' and there is general laughter, and more catcalls.

‘Is it real, or paint, do you think?'

‘We don't want no negards in here!'

‘Hoi, Othello, get back on the stage!'

Mr Ashmole looks appalled. ‘By my soul, Mr Nus-Nus, I do apologize for the rudeness of my countrymen. Better we brave the rain, I think.'

We are just making our way out again when a man grabs me by the arm. ‘Oi there, Mustapha, remind your mistress she still owes me eighty quid from the tables!'

I turn and look down at the speaker, a richly dressed but dissolute-looking young man with a sparse beard, badly trimmed. ‘I am not Mustapha.'

He screws his face up, perplexed. ‘Can't be two of you such a size and hue. You just tell her, you hear? Tell her Mr Jakes sends his compliments and reminds her of her debt. I'll see her at the opening of
The City Heiress
, right?'

Out in the street, the rain is still falling like spears. Mr Ashmole takes me by the arm and walks me quickly away, tutting. ‘Theatre folk, quite dreadful. This used to be such a nice area.'

We make a right on to Fleet Street, then cross it and enter a road flanked on either side by tall houses, at the bottom of which the river can be glimpsed slinking by like a great serpent. A few yards further down he turns right into a narrow alleyway, and we mount steps to a door with a brass knocker in the form of a lion's head and are ushered inside by a pink-faced man with a pair of spectacles strapped to his head, the glass of which makes
his eyes look vast and aquatic, like fishes in a bowl of water. ‘Elias!' he cries. ‘Back so soon?'

‘I hope we have not interrupted some essential process.'

‘I am in the middle of transmuting water and dried leaves into a potable libation,' Mr Draycott says, smiling. ‘Perhaps you and your guest would join me for a cup of tea?' He leads us into a dark parlour, where a kettle hangs from a hook over a small fire. The entire room is grimy with soot and littered with papers and books: it is hard to know where to sit, especially in a white robe, so I hunker down African-style.

As we drink this English tea (a bitter, execrable brew), my companion explains that I have a cracked tooth that needs mending and our host rubs his hands in glee. ‘A patient? How excellent.'

‘Not paying, I fear, Nathaniel. As a favour to me, if you would be so kind.'

I watch Mr Draycott's face fall. ‘I have money,' I say quickly, but he shakes his head. ‘No, no. I cannot take money from a friend of Mr Ashmole: everything I have I owe to him, including this house.'

‘Nonsense, my dear Nathaniel: it is our shared venture, this laboratory: where else would I practise my experiments?'

We go down a flight of rickety wooden stairs into a long, low-ceilinged cellar lined with shelves on two sides. Upon the shelves are piles of books and papers, and as many labelled bottles and pots as in an apothecary's shop. Leaning towards them I read: ‘viper's flesh', ‘goa stones', ‘hiera picra'; ‘spider silk' and half expect to come upon a jar containing mouse eyelashes or dragon's teeth: it reminds me of Sidi Kabour's stock. Against one wall sits a large cylindrical furnace, the coals within glowing red and around its base heaps of dark matter, metal tailings, powders and ashes. The room is gloomy and smells sulphurous; there are dishes and crucibles on the tables, retorts and melting-pots, mortars and pestles, all stained with a variety of substances. On one of the tables a collection of vials containing larvae and foetuses of animal origin; and a rodent is pinned to a board, displaying its vital organs and skeleton. I think of Zidana's secret chamber and the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.

‘Perhaps I should see a chirurgeon with this tooth, have it taken out by the root.'

‘Nonsense, dear fellow: no need to give yourself over to barbarians with
pincers and levers. Nathaniel has perfected a wonderful amalgam that permeates every hole and crack and sets as hard as stone.'

Giving words to my thoughts, I ask, ‘Are you are an alchemist, sir?'

‘I'd rather be called a natural philosopher,' Nathaniel says cheerfully. ‘Making rigorous inquiry into the hidden laws of the universe.'

‘Though the word “alchemist” is by no means an insult to men of vision such as ourselves, seeking evidence of the pure essence of the Lord's creation.' Mr Ashmole pats my shoulder. ‘Now, sit down here and let's take a look. Hand me that candle, Nathaniel.'

They peer curiously into the cave of my mouth. ‘Remarkable teeth,' says Ashmole. ‘They'd take some drawing: the roots will have a powerful hold.'

‘A cracked grinder on each side: couldn't be simpler!' exclaims Mr Draycott. ‘A swift coating with my patented mixture and they'll be as good as new.'

‘It really isn't hurting much any more,' I lie. ‘I'm sure I can live with it.'

But Mr Draycott is already mixing up his ingredients with a terrible briskness of purpose. ‘A little tin and zinc,' he murmurs, ‘a touch of copper, and a drop of vitriol –' The crucible gives off a violent hiss and the flames of the spirit-burner flare green, then blue, and a horrible stink fills the air. Mixing frenetically, he moves it off the heat and reaches for a heavy flask. ‘And now to let it cool a moment before we add the quicksilver …'

The fumes are disquieting: I leap to my feet and the flask goes flying, and suddenly there are globules of metallic silver everywhere. The sight of what should surely have been a liquid, now bouncing and rolling in balls of bright argent down my robe and across the floor, has me staring in wonder.

Mr Draycott laughs at my surprise. ‘Ah, sir: mercury is the most remarkable element, neither a liquid nor yet fully a solid: it is the First Matter, from which all other metals derive. But, more than that, it is the transcending principal of transmutation, like Hermes himself, moving between heaven and earth, bringing life, and death. As calomel, it is the most powerful medicine, able to cure even our most debauched rakes; but expose it to sunlight and it becomes a fatal poison.'

‘By the Ancient One, I do not wish to have such a deadly element in my mouth,' I declare firmly.