The Sultan's Daughter (34 page)

Once he had found himself, Husayn had been led by dreams and visions to find me and, having found me, he had sat and read in the mosque every day until I found him. I had, I realized, passed him by on more than one occasion even after my dream at Baba Ahlam, and not noticed him, for my mind had been burdened with the duties I owed the world. But my friend had been content to wait quietly until the world should give me peace.

The compassionate stars had whirled much closer towards dawn—the dawn of Friday, the Muslim Sabbath—before the vision and the dance were over and Husayn came out to stand quietly by my side.

“My friend,” I began, wanting to blurt out all that I had seen and felt. But I realized at once by his calm demeanor, he knew it all already. Then I could say nothing but “Thank you,” and, as I studied his quiet form longer, I realized that even “Thank you” was redundant.

Thus began my association with the Sufis, which continued throughout the summer. I shared their communal meals, their rites on all but the most solemn occasions. It kept me busy and entertained in a period that otherwise would have meant a great deal of lying about sipping sherbets, and listening to my lady gossip with the governor’s wife. But it was more than just diversion that I found among these ragged men of Allah. I found true acceptance as I had not felt since I was still a man among the sailors on my uncle’s galley.

I was a eunuch? That did not matter. “Many are made eunuchs for the love of Allah,” one Sufi explained to me. “Many take vows of abstinence of their own accord—such as our brother Hajji here who first brought you among us. They realize that children and dalliance with women are mere vanities and distractions from union with the All-Merciful.”

I was a slave? That, too, did not matter. “We are all—like your name—slaves to Allah.”

I knew my informant meant this sincerely, but it was a simple fact that, being a slave more than just figuratively, I could not join them as completely as a free man might. Once or twice, after a particularly moving ritual, it was suggested to me, both by the brotherhood and by my soul, that I should seek to undergo initiation and begin the thousand-and-one-day novitiate to become like them. But it was a simple fact—I was not free to commit myself to serve another master. I could not vow to obey every challenge the sheikh of the order might lay upon my head when the needs of my mistress might call me to her side at any time, or even out of Konya altogether. Many Sufis insist that one can and should be pious while at the same time fulfilling a profession. But it is one thing to be a shopkeeper who can pull down the shutters and lock the door when religion calls; it is quite another to have some other master stand in one’s way to Allah.

“Someday,” I promised my friend.

“Someday, yes.” Husayn nodded quietly. “Allah willing.”

After the first of the Muslim year, towards the end of summer, there was some disquiet. The Persians, we learned, had capitulated and sent lavish presents along with their ambassador and petitions of peace to the Sublime Porte. Besides returning the slaves, horses, and goods of the rebellious Prince Bayazid, they made gifts of more material wealth than symbolic: beautifully illuminated Korans with their covers encrusted with gold and jewels, prayer rugs of the finest Persian wools and craftsmanship, rosaries made of lumps of turquoise as big as hens’ eggs.

In spite of the religious nature of the gifts, many Sunni Turks could not forget that Persians were Shi’a heretics, and the treaty was unpopular. Indeed, an attempt was made on the life of the Persian ambassador in the midst of the formal procession through the streets of Constantinople. The assassin was a holy dervish, and for a while I dared not visit my friends in the Sufi hall. My host, the governor, was contemplating whether or not a small massacre of holy men was needed to prove to the Sultan that he was capable of keeping this sandjak of pilgrims and shrines under control.

Fortunately, such a drastic step never became necessary. The governor, like my religious friends, built up faith from the lesson of these events: “Thanks be to Allah who showed His will in the matter by causing the assassin to be trampled to death by the ambassador’s horse before any more harm could be done.”

By the celebration of the Birth of the Prophet, the Persians were back to private civil war. And Turkish politics and religion had reconciled themselves to such a degree that my host thought nothing of hiring one of the members of Husayn’s order to recite the tales of Muhammed as festival entertainment.

I had decided to take advantage of my option to sit in either half of the house and spend the evening with my lady in the harem. For one thing, the first snow of the year had fallen, bundling Konya up in what felt like a safe, cozy blanket. Being in the harem by the fire would exaggerate that feeling. But there was also the fact that a female reciter had been hired for that side of the curtain and, though the Sufi was my friend and justifiably well known for his performance, this woman was even better than he. Women, I have always found, can get more out of any verse than a man, for though men have been known to be carried away in ritual trances, women play with emotions like they weave color into a rug.

The women and their guests had only just begun to settle, however, when my host’s young son came running in. The ladies petted him, passing him from hand to hand, commenting on his new little festival jacket, and teasing, “Where is our big boy? Our big boy said he was old enough to spend the festival with the men in the selamlik, but see? The festival has hardly begun and he comes running back to us.”

The little lad who was no more than four bore this treatment bravely, with only a hint of tears of shame or homesickness in his eyes. As soon as he could get a word in, he insisted, “I am not a baby anymore. I have been sent by my father with an important message of state.”

“Oooh,” the ladies declared. “‘An important message of state!’“ It seemed clear that the child had been given that lofty phrase by his father as inducement to run the errand.

The boy ignored this round of teasing and turned to me with a tone that said, “We men have no time for the silliness of women, have we?”

I did not disillusion him by suggesting that a woman’s ability to call state affairs silly was one of her most valuable assets.

“
Ustadh
,” the boy said, “My father bids you come and enjoy the feast with him.”

“Oh, my little uncle,” I replied. “Your father is most gracious. But I have already told him I would have to ignore his invitation to spend the evening with my lady.”

“But he insists,” the little boy said. “There is a new arrival among our guests. You’ll never guess who, so I’ll tell you. It’s Ferhad Bey come back to us.”

My lady’s great eyes caught me as I rose to leave, and filled mine with wonder. I carried it with me as a token from the harem as I entered the world of men. The selamlik was still in an uproar when I arrived; a storm whirling around the center calm of the harem, it took longer to settle down here.

In the seat of honor at the governor’s right sat the man who relieved me of the wonder my lady’s eyes had given me. I have no doubt he read some cryptic message from the harem in me, for his getting to his feet, and his deep bow of greeting were full of tenderness, respect, and ardor. His eyes continued to prod mine for news of his love, but I avoided them by demanding of him in something close to a panic, how it was that he had come to disturb the peace of our retreat.

“I am in the service of my lord and master, the Sultan of all the Faithful,” was all the reply modesty would allow him.

Our host had to supply the details. “For acts of great courage fighting against the Persians, our friend, Ferhad Bey, has been elevated to the post of Master of the Imperial Horse. Thanks be to Allah, he is to be quartered with us.”

“Here in Konya?” I asked stupidly.

“Of course here in Konya,” the governor replied, then continued to exalt. “All doors are suddenly opened to you, my friend.”

Harem doors? I shot a glance towards my host, but his mood was too jovial to be dampened. My panic growing, I asked, “How long will you stay?”

“That depends upon the will of my lord the Sultan, and upon the beneficence of Allah,” Ferhad replied.

“Allah willing,” the host prayed, “it will be many joyful years.”

Ferhad did not add “Allah willing” to this statement, but only smiled and nodded politely.

“Was my master, the Grand Vizier, responsible for this advancement?” I tempted.

I could not believe even Sokolli Pasha could be so careless of his harem. Fortunately, if the true reason for my question were detected by Ferhad, he politely overlooked it as he had overlooked our host’s enthusiastic tactlessness in the previous question. He assumed that I wanted news of my master, and began to give it in great detail, describing all the foreign embassies he had received, and with what glory.

“The name ‘Sokolli’ is becoming a word of fear among the unruly elements of the country,” Ferhad said.

“Do you fear it, too?” I warned him with my eyes, but I did not interrupt his speech.

What luxurious peace we had known in Konya! Ferhad told of things with a fierce immediacy which, had we heard of them before, had come as idle rumors which one could easily forget. The rebellion in Yemen with all Turkish garrisons driven out, the sea exploits of Piali Pasha for which he had been elevated to the station of Second Vizier, Sokolli’s attempts to control all of this in the absence of any direction from the Sultan Selim...

I did not interrupt this recitation, but our host did, perhaps because he was tired of having Ferhad turn to him for opinions which served only to show how ignorant he was of the Empire’s affairs compared with his new subordinate.

“Such a mind he has!” was our host’s diversion.

“Where will you stay?” I asked then, prodding the final avenue of hope left for me.

Our host closed that avenue quickly. “He will stay here with us, of course. There’s no comfort in barracks, Allah knows, but to rent a place would leave our friend all alone, which is even more discomfort.

“Not that I haven’t suggested to Ferhad that he marry,” the governor continued, laughing. “He should not leave the harems altogether deprived of his fine figure. I have even suggested a match with my eldest daughter, but he declines. Another man would be offended, but I—I am not offended. I have not got- ten to my age and my position without some understanding of the politics of marriage. He’s holding out. Aren’t you, Ferhad? Holding out for some better match the Sultan might someday offer him. A slave girl of his own house, perhaps, or even a princess of the Blood. Our Grand Vizier, Sokolli Pasha, held out, and well he was paid for his continence. Ah, restraint! That is a sure sign of one born to rule among the Ottomans, Allah willing.

“Yes, I have often wondered where I myself might be today if a lust for sons had not made me fall short of a princess of the Blood. That is something, to marry a princess of the Blood...”

Our host could have had no idea how uncomfortable his speech made both Ferhad and me. Fortunately for all of us, the governor’s small son, perhaps missing the harem in truth now, had come and climbed into his father’s lap, and the governor forgot all about the disadvantages of having children. He settled back comfortably to enjoy the festival.

I’m afraid I can’t say whether the dervish gave a good performance any more than I can say whether the women enjoyed one. I was too nervous to listen to poetry that evening. And the coming of daylight did not improve things. Esmikhan’s eves wandered off and glazed with dreams, but then they would water and her cheeks would blush with guilt as she brought them back again.

I shall find some excuse,
I plotted.
I shall make her return to Constantinople, where we shall be safe in my master’s house.

But that was impossible, for winter had already begun and no excuse could be worth the risk of a journey across Turkey in the snows. And Esmikhan braved that snow there in Konya to throw herself into a pilgrim’s devotions with renewed frenzy so that any suggestion of her boredom or wasting time was easily seen to be out of the question. As for myself, all thought of religion and its consolations had vanished from my mind. If they did enter at all, it was in the form of some exclamation, “Oh, God, help me now,” or “If You do exist, You certainly are not the Compassionate One the Muslims call You. You are rather more like the wicked boy who has caught a bird in this trap and then insists on torturing it to death!”

Then the correspondence began.

At first it came by the governor’s little son, for whom Ferhad was a great favorite. I soon caught him and gave him such a scolding—all about women and honor, and did he never want to grow up to become like the hero of a popular romance? After that they began to use his sister, who was also still so young that she could go throughout the house at will. Fortunately, I was able to convince her father, in general terms, that she was old enough to begin confinement. Then they coerced one of my own seconds, and in my anger I sold him immediately and at a great loss.

Notes came in bushels of apples and went out (Allah forbid) in the family’s copy of Rumi’s poems. A bunch of autumn crocuses appeared in my lady’s room—they could only have been picked by one with liberty to ramble about the hillside. I never was actually told who had done that rambling, but the fact that the stamens pulled from the centers of those flowers found their way into the flavorful rice upon which Ferhad broke his fast the next evening gave me a rather secure guess.

But I also began to see messages where there were none. One day I discovered a vase of forced hawthorn in my lady’s room. Angrily, I had it thrown out, only to discover that she had collected it and gone to all the care and trouble to make it bloom, and set it there herself only to brighten the place. It was not from Ferhad at all. Still, between the one note I caught and the next, their love and intimacy was swollen, leapt from buds to full blooms like flowers in springtime seem to have if one fails to go in the garden every day. Some communications were still getting through, in spite of all my care.