The Sultan's Daughter (25 page)

“The bailo’s assistant? What does she mean?” Esmikhan, unfortunately, was not so consumed with an inspection of the small princeling’s drying cord that she could ignore the new mother’s words as I had being trying to do. And she had not, in the flurry of surrogate motherhood, lost any of her Italian, either.

So, when we were alone and Esmikhan, I hoped, exhausted with child care into a pleasant sort of languidness, I had to explain it to her. I explained the second errand Safiye had sent me on when labor was upon her. To my surprise—and dismay—my lady suddenly roused herself and demanded more details.

“And you have not sought out this Barbarigo?” Esmikhan sounded hurt, as hurt as if I’d neglected a request of her own.

“She wants the baby christened—at least that’s what she says.

“So what’s the harm in that? Inshallah, he’ll be circumcised when the time is right, made a true believer in all earnestness. What’s a little water now? The holy blade will take care of that.”

As it did with me?
I thought, but didn’t say.

My lady persisted. “Can’t you see Safiye is distracted?”

“I can see that.”

“Can’t you do what you can to make her a happier mother?”

“Only Allah can do that.”

And though my lady didn’t argue with me, she didn’t let me forget the request, either. “The harem,” she said, “was created to cover just such contradictions arising from a woman’s deepest need, to cover things that the light of day would scorch from being if it touched.”

So in the end, I went.

For all the cannon fire and ram sacrifices, my word was the first the Venetian delegation, still in Magnesia, had of this birth. As I’ve said, affairs of the harem were no outsider’s business.

Even before I opened my mouth, emotions—too many emotions—flooded my brain as I faced young Barbarigo. In that instant I remembered facing him when we both were masked, just before I thwarted his attempted elopement with Baffo’s daughter that would have brought shame on my entire family. I remembered his threat of lion’s mouthing me, the palpable threat of his father’s power. I remembered his hatred, my jealousy that he was what I ought to be: the vigorous young Venetian nobleman into whose lap everything fell by the grace of God. And from which none dared take a thing. The same prompting came back to me as it had over and over then: “Someday you will have to fight this man for what is yours.”

Lest I blow my cover and face greater shame, I suppressed all of this before I made my announcement. I sought to veil my face as with a mask once more and told him in my stiffest Turkish:

“Pray, take the message to your Governor Baffo that he is now a grandfather and may rest assured that his daughter and grandson are secure and happy.”

“By St. Mark, think of it! “the young diplomat exclaimed, no inkling of conflicted emotion in him once the news sank home. “Turkey ruled by a Christian! The son of a Venetian convent girl, no less. This may well do more for the powers of Christendom than centuries of treaties.”

The young man took my arm and held it so tightly that I could feel the ring bands (holding gems more showy than precious) upon his wiry fingers through my brocade sleeve. “I have been impressed,” he confided, “ever since my arrival here among the Turks that this country is indeed run by Christians.”

I looked at him and smelled Italian cooking on his breath. I wondered if he had ever actually left Venice at all, that he could be so naively convinced there was only one way—the Italian—of doing anything.

“I mean the janissaries,” he explained, “and the pashas and the viziers—all of them, born into Christian homes. There is no reason why this empire should not be the greatest in the world, with so many well-trained members of the True Faith at the helm.”

“The Turks,” I told him, “say that all men are born Muslims. It is only their parents that corrupt them and raise them otherwise.”

I wanted to go on and suggest that if he thought my master, the Grand Vizier, had any vestiges of his birthplace left on him, he obviously had not been paying attention in the Divan. And what made him think, I wanted to ask, that a Turkish Christian state should be any more moral than the European ones with which he was already familiar—broken treaties, injustices, and all?

But the young man had already raised his eyebrows, startled, at my first expression of pessimism. It was, after all, only pessimism in Christian eyes. A fine Oriental fatalism had begun to impress me, in a curious mirror image, as optimism.

And I took some comfort in the knowledge that Andrea Barbarigo could not truly know Baffo’s daughter, or he would have known that any true religion, Christianity or otherwise, was the farthest thing from her mind. Her child was healthy, he was male, but, most importantly, he was an Ottoman, heir to the world’s greatest Empire: these were the things she cared about.

Venice, I thought, should have seen that their man Barbarigo was married and settled before sending him on this mission. His eyes, as Safiye had noted, were too full of idealism and romance. His unused lust manufactured heady visions of what must be behind the harem walls: helpless, languid females, exploited and waiting for a deliverer.

At the time, I thought there was no harm in allowing him to keep these delusions. But such images of herself played the young diplomat’s intelligent but unharrowed mind right into Safiye’s hands, her lily-white hands which he never actually saw, but dreamed about. They manipulated him like a puppet on strings.

I remember that first evening of autumn. There was a drizzle of rain outside, a blessing after the heat of a long and tedious summer. Esmikhan’s eyes had lit up like the fire itself when she’d seen old Ali’s wife bring in the tinderbox from the kitchen to fuss with the brazier for the first time that season. This was a definite sign that both Sokolli Pasha and Safiye and her young son would soon be returning to the capital, and then things would be lively again.

Such musings assured my lady there was no need to manufacture excitement that evening. The musicians and dancers she often required to pass away the hours until she could retire without arousing rumors that she was dejected or out of sorts were allowed to keep to their quarters. Surely no one would think it amiss if she spent this first rainy fall evening quietly playing chess with her eunuch.

Those who saw Esmikhan on a normal night—with her musicians and dancers—would hardly notice how four years of marriage had changed her. If anything she appeared more lively, now that all entertainments were in her control. “She’s gained a little weight,” might be their only remark which they would brush aside with, “That’s a sure sign she’s happy and well-treated. “

But I had the privilege of her quiet nights, and I knew that the bright little princess for whom every day was a wonder and a joy—she was a rare visitor in our house these days. One might almost say it was a mask or a veil put on for the guests.

It was not so noticeable in winter when she had Safiye and all her old friends to keep her company. Then it was quite easy for her to be carefree and teasing again, and the color bloomed in her cheeks like forced roses. But during that summer they had faded. There was no hiding the truth: Esmikhan was not making a very happy wife. And, for some things, a eunuch was just not a good substitute.

Let me put it this way: Sokolli Pasha was not making a very good husband. I had overestimated the ability of duty to bring bliss. Or I underestimated the truth of the old Turkish proverb, “Duty never got a son.”

Esmikhan liked to brush her causes for complaint off with a laugh. “Allah be praised, and He should make every woman cursed like me a daughter of the Sultan’s house. I have no fear of ever being divorced for childlessness, considering who my fathers are. That is some gift.”

But I was more convinced than ever that the fault was with the master, not with my lady. Sokolli Pasha had suppressed his personal desires for so long that he was no longer capable of feeling them. No wonder the sons he got had little taste for life!

Sokolli’s old mother had died quietly over her needlework one day some six months after her son was married. She never said, of course, but I got the distinct feeling that she realized there was only enough of her son to be dutiful to one woman, and she had the graciousness to bow out. But what had been sufficient for a tiny, frail, old woman was hardly enough for a girl—now a budding young woman—like Esmikhan.

From the station of mere Pasha, my master had risen through a short stint as Kapudan Pasha, admiral of the fleet, until, at the death of old Ali Pasha in the previous Muslim year 972 (in the month Christians call June), he had been appointed Grand Vizier. To no higher post in the Islamic Empire can a man be named in recognition of his talents. The only post higher, that of Sultan, is a matter of birth, and takes neither labor nor talent at all.

Needless to say, Sokolli Pasha was a very busy man, keeping all of his talents in constant employ. He had little time for romantic dalliance even if he had the natural inclination for it. The duty of visiting his wife’s bed the Pasha fulfilled meticulously twice a week—when he was home. But even when he did, neither he nor she got much pleasure from it.

And the three dead sons.

In no material way could it be said that Sokolli Pasha neglected his wife. Indeed, the palace in the great park had begun to make a name for itself because of the lavish parties its young mistress gave, the entertainments it offered, and the gifts presented to every comer, even the uninvited beggars at the door. Nothing made her happier than to give away time and affection thus, when she had so much to give. But she was growing wise much faster than the turn of years.

“I know,” she would confide to me afterwards, “that a party is really just a lot of noise. It means nothing if there is nothing to celebrate but one’s wealth. To have a birth or a circumcision or a wedding to celebrate, only then is it a real party.”

And “I know these are only friends bought with money. Don’t think they can fool me.”

“I, too, am only bought with the master’s money,” I would say.

“You can’t fool me, either, Abdullah,” she would say, taking my hand.

And she would turn to me when all the others were gone.

That first evening in autumn, when she turned to me once more over the excuse of a chess game, Sokolli Pasha had been gone from Constantinople for six full months. He was still at his master’s side, fighting the infidel across the Danube. That was where the most urgent duty lay. Who could make complaint? But Esmikhan’s womb had been empty eight months now. She mourned, but now, I think, she was almost glad to have had this time without something inside her, sapping her strength. I hoped that I came close to filling the void.

Sokolli Pasha, when he did write, had other concerns besides an heir. He wrote through the hand of a secretary, with the large margins prescribed by official documents, each letter one of any number of dutied dispatches. And more often than not, the direction was to me, not my lady at all. I always read her everything; perhaps that’s what he expected.

“Your lady’s grandfather”—he wrote—”may Allah always guard him, he is not the man he once was. Indeed, he has not been able to ride at the head of his troops this year. Still, he will go forward, even though it means a rough ride in a carriage. The armies of the Faith cannot win without his presence. We all feel that. Whatever happens, I avow it is Allah’s will, but I suspect the campaign may not last very long this year. Should there be a ploy made for the throne or a civil war in our absence, I would rather your lady were in my house than in another’s, even if that other is her caring father’s. I would not alarm you, but there are those who would put her brother forward as heir instead.”

“Safiye for one,” my lady interjected at this point, and I nodded in agreement.

“Prince Murad does sit in Magnesia,” the Grand Vizier continued, “and manages it with competence. I had a chance to see just how well this spring—when last Allah favored me with your company. Magnesia is the closest sandjak to the throne, after all, the seat traditionally held by crown princes. But for all his sterling qualities, Murad is still young, susceptible to manipulation. And to go against direct father-son inheritance will only open the door to malcontents, provide them with a figurehead for whatever their reasons to divide the empire are. I would not have your lady have to make the trek from Constantinople to anywhere else in uncertain times such as we may, Allah protect us, live to see.”

Other letters told how old Suleiman surprised them all and, even from a carriage, continued to direct raids, stealthy maneuvers behind the enemies’ backs, and great victories from the spring until this first rain.

And now, what was rain in Constantinople might well be turning to snow in the Slovakian mountains. The army would be forced to return. But they would not return early and never on account of their commander’s health. That was the man Suleiman was.

It had been a very long six months.

Esmikhan’s plump little face caught the lamplight as she studied the game. I found her beauty not breathtaking, but soft and comfortable. Her mind was that way, too, enjoying the game not for the strategy and the thrill of brilliant plays, but for the stories it told.

“Alas, so many poor pawns’ lives sacrificed on the field of battle!” she exclaimed. “I pray to Allah to have mercy on them, for they died defending the Faith.

“Oh, see how the grand Sultan forges ahead! No infidel can stand in his way! “There’s the elephant, stampeding out of control and lost in the mire. But here comes the good knight to lead him straight and help him capture that enemy soldier.” (The Turks call the piece Europeans know as a bishop “the elephant.”)

“And here comes the Grand Vizier. Such a clever man, sneaking through enemy lines, speaking their heathen tongues as if he’d been born there, always at the Sultan’s side when he needs him. But he has left his poor princess at home on her own, and she will throw herself into enemy arms or die of boredom!”

Of course there are no female pieces on an Eastern board; that would be unseemly. It is the Grand Vizier who holds the terrific power we in the West associate with the Queen. But Esmikhan could take no interest in the game unless she could personalize it, as she had no use for stories without a heroine, and so she usually called one of the pawns herself in the disguise of a poor peasant. Her instincts of self-defense often forced her to move in ways no other player would, making all sorts of sacrifices for that one pawn. When that piece did finally make it across the board, however, off would come the disguise, the veils thrown aside to reveal a figure of such wonderful power that few fairy tales can boast similar transformations.