The Sultan's Eyes (5 page)

That’s what we heard. We were nowhere near the
palazzo
. It was Maria, masked and dressed in Valentina’s new ballgown, who danced with dukes and ambassadors, while the real Signora Contarini strode down back alleys and over bridges as if she’d worn breeches and riding boots her whole life. She led us on a twisting and circuitous route deep into the city and then doubled back towards San Marco when she was sure nobody was shadowing us. Willem, Luis, Al-Qasim and I floundered along in her wake, each of us in a Carnevale mask and long cape. Luis and I were in black and gold to match the
signora
, Al-Qasim was in peacock blue, and even Willem had been forced out of his distinctive Dutch clothes and into dark green velvet. He looked quite handsome. We all did.

That night, it was as if every single person in Venice — perhaps in all of Europe — had decided to don a mask and feathers and dance in the piazza. In each corner, orchestras played, and a gypsy band weaved through the crowd, so that the different notes of dozens of violins clashed and soared above our heads. People danced, bowed, whispered and laughed, and everyone seemed to
be gazing at each other and at the same time striking a pose in the hope that someone was looking at them.

‘If Fra Clement or Brother Andreas are here,’ said Luis, ‘they’ll be too busy praying for deliverance from this pit of sin to bother about us.’

‘They won’t be anywhere near the piazza, not tonight,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s the idea.’

Al-Qasim took my arm. ‘It’s time.’

Behind her mask, Valentina sniffed away a few tears. ‘To think I might never again be part of Carnevale.’

‘You will, one day,’ I whispered. ‘I swear.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Luis. He glanced around quickly. ‘We’ll split up in the crowd and reassemble next to the gondola pontoon when the midnight bell sounds. Paco will meet us there with the boat. Take your time, wander about, mix in with everyone else. That should shake off anyone who’s following us.’

Al-Qasim nodded, his peacock feathers shimmering in the light of a thousand lanterns. ‘I may even dance,’ he said.

Luis grinned, his teeth white below the black mask. ‘Why not?’

‘Is this really the time for it?’ said Willem.

‘The whole city is dancing,’ said Valentina. ‘It’s the best way to blend in.’

‘Try it, Will,’ I said. ‘You might even enjoy it.’

‘I doubt it,’ he said, and moved off into the throng.

‘Sometimes he is so very …’ said Valentina.

‘Come,’ said Al-Qasim, offering me his hand. ‘Let us dance our way to Constantinople.’

That’s exactly what we did, swaying and weaving our way through the piazza, just like everyone else. There were men in velvet capes, women disguised beneath silver masks and black lace
fans, children giggling and singing and racing through the crowd, jugglers and acrobats and musicians everywhere.

One woman wore a high yellow wig with a pet monkey sitting on top. Another was wrapped up in yards of inky blue satin embroidered with minuscule silver stars. Two lute players sat on stools facing each other and played completely different songs. The monkey clapped along with the music and chattered in its own language. Flower-sellers cried out their wares. No doubt there were also cutpurses going about their stealthy business, and all kinds of mischief afoot in the alleys and under archways. But in Venice, many nights are like that.

Under the lantern posts, people played at dice and shuffled packs of cards, or stood about the cask stalls, sipping wine. The aromas of roast meat, frankincense and sweat hung heavy in the air. I breathed it all in, as if it was a precious and rare fragrance, and smiled at everyone around me, even the monkey. I should have been nervous, I suppose, but it felt as if I had to remember every moment, every masked face, and carry it all with me into my new world.

I held tight to Al-Qasim’s hand and we let the tide of people bear us forward, surrounded by silk, feathers and pale masks gleaming in the darkness. As we reached the pontoon where the others waited at the water’s edge, bells across the city struck midnight.

I sent up a silent prayer that this would not be the last time we ever heard the bells of Venice.
Please
, I prayed,
please let us return one day. Let us come home
.

‘Look!’ said Willem, as the palace roof exploded in white light.

‘Fireworks.’ Valentina clapped her hands together, delighted, and we all raised our faces to the sky to watch the rockets arc into the night and erupt in red starbursts.

‘Now!’ Luis hissed. ‘Quickly, while everyone’s distracted.’

So I turned my face from the fireworks, the dancing, the music and laughter and the city I loved, and ran through the dark to the boat — to the lagoon, to the sea, to the edge of Europe. To freedom.

They must have been following us even then.

Our ship was one of Venice’s grand trading galleys, with a triangular sail that soared above us and dozens of oars on each side, every one as long as a tree. I’d seen these ships at anchor on the lagoon, but never dreamed I’d set foot on one. We were, Al-Qasim told us, travelling in the most luxurious ship afloat, thanks to the machinations of Luis and the influence of Pietro. Our voyage to Constantinople would be both smooth and swift.

‘It had better be,’ Willem muttered, and went below to the cabin he shared with Al-Qasim and three other men.

Valentina and I were given the captain’s cabin, an unprecedented honour for which the dear man was awarded the most dazzling of Valentina’s smiles at every opportunity, lest he change his mind.

When we met on deck late the next morning, Venice had vanished beyond a misty horizon. The oarsmen were at rest
now we were well out to sea and under sail, and some of them sat in small groups nearby, playing at dice and talking quietly. Valentina spent a few moments staring at the empty ocean, then turned away.

‘It won’t be for long,’ I said.

‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘I know.’

‘I have a better plan,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back and I will wring Fra Clement’s neck with my bare hands.’

I grinned. ‘I wonder if he realises we’ve gone.’

‘I hope not,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Luis has devised all kinds of strategies to pretend that we are all still in Venice. He will lead the Inquisitors on a dance for many days yet.’

‘Luis is a good man,’ said Valentina.

Al-Qasim turned away to watch the wake of the ship. ‘Yes.’

We stood in silence for a few moments. If I’d allowed space in my heart for everything I was feeling, I’d have crawled into my bed and never come out. Instead, I clutched the rail and lifted my face up to the sky, my eyes half-closed against the sun.

‘Enough moping,’ said Valentina. ‘I think I need to rest. This business of bouncing up and down on the waves doesn’t seem to agree with me.’

‘Ships are horrible,’ said Willem. ‘Nothing good has ever happened to me on a ship. People push you overboard and all sorts of rubbish.’

‘Nothing so dramatic will happen this time,’ Al-Qasim assured him.

‘And the bouncing never ends,’ said Willem.

‘Never?’ asked Valentina. ‘Really? How do you bear it?’

‘You don’t,’ said Willem. ‘You just —’

‘Thank you, Will,’ I said. ‘The
signora
doesn’t need to hear the details at the moment.’

‘Why are you smiling?’ Willem asked me. ‘You hate ships as much as I do.’

‘But this ship,’ I said, nearly laughing with the incredible wonder of it, ‘this ship will be sailing through the Aegean!’

‘That makes a difference?’

‘To me it does.’

After all, I’d studied the ancient Greek world for most of my life, had read its stories and learned its language almost as early as I’d learned my own.

‘You have the salt water in your veins now,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘I regret that we cannot stop at Athens. If only you could see the Acropolis.’

‘Maybe one day I will.’

‘On the way back, perhaps?’ said Valentina.

‘Assuming that we do come back,’ said Willem.

‘Of course we will.’ I smiled as brightly as I could.

‘Come,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Since we have so much time on our hands, I think instead of moping about, as the
signora
rightly says, it is time for a lesson.’

‘In what?’ Willem asked.

‘I hope this doesn’t make you too anxious,’ he said, pulling a dagger from his belt, ‘but I feel I should teach you how to use a knife in a fight, just in case you need to defend yourselves.’

‘Pah! Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Valentina. ‘I’m Venetian. I know how to wield a dagger.’

‘Me, too,’ said Willem.

I chuckled. He glared at me.

‘Sorry, Will, but “I’m from Amsterdam, I know how to wield a dagger” doesn’t sound quite so threatening.’

He snatched the silver knife from Al-Qasim. ‘Give it here.’

Al-Qasim smiled and took a few careful steps back. ‘Very well. You may attack me.’

‘I’m not going to actually attack you,’ said Willem. ‘You’re a cripple. You might get injured.’ He slashed at the air. ‘I’m just going to show you a few tactics.’

The next moment Willem was flat on his face on the deck with one arm twisted behind his back and Al-Qasim bearing down on it with all his weight. The dagger spun in circles on the deck, out of reach. I didn’t even see how it happened.

‘That hurts!’

‘How can it be so, when I am merely a cripple?’

‘I didn’t mean anything by that.’ Willem’s words came out in a burst, as if he was being strangled.

Maybe he was. I don’t know. I was too busy laughing.

Al-Qasim jumped to his feet and put out a hand to help Willem up.

‘I hope you have now learned a lesson?’

‘I certainly have,’ said Willem, bent over, trying to get some breath back into his lungs. ‘I’ll never call you a cripple again.’

Al-Qasim laughed. ‘That is excellent news. But it wasn’t the lesson.’

‘Huh?’

Al-Qasim kicked out and Willem’s legs crumpled underneath him. He sprawled on the deck, staring upwards.

‘The lesson,’ said Al-Qasim, ‘is that anyone can surprise you at any time, armed or unarmed.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Very well. Now we begin. All of you.’

We trained every morning, learning different ways to hold and thrust a knife, movements to escape someone’s grasp, and even kicks and punches. Valentina took to it with a ferocious enthusiasm possibly linked to her plan to murder Fra Clement.

‘I’m not sure I could really punch someone hard enough to hurt them,’ I said one day to Al-Qasim.

He stood before me, his shirt damp with sweat after a long bout with Willem. ‘You could, if you had to,’ he said. ‘But often it’s enough just to give them a surprise. If some man grabs at you, he won’t expect a young woman to fight back. If you shock him with a solid thump on the nose, that might allow time for you to run away.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said.

‘Or he might die laughing,’ said Willem. ‘You never know your luck.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s very encouraging.’

He bowed. ‘I live to serve.’

I turned to Al-Qasim. ‘Can I practise my punching exercises on Willem from now on?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Hey!’ Willem backed up against the mast. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘You are in Ottoman waters now, my boy,’ said Al-Qasim with a grin. ‘You will have to learn new customs and traditions.’

‘You mean, it’s a tradition that innocent boys can get punched in the nose by women?’

‘Not at all,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘We simply have a much better sense of humour than you northerners.’

I raised my fists. ‘Ready?’

Willem squinted into the sun. ‘I see. This is some kind of conspiracy.’

‘Call it what you like,’ I said. ‘If you’re too scared to have a practice bout with me …’

‘Don’t be stupid, Isabella. As if I —’

I skipped to his left, punching lightly. I was only partly joking. It felt quite good, quite strong, to be facing up to someone who I knew could easily beat me in a fair fight. But who said I had to play fairly? Valentina had been teaching me some of her own unique approaches, such as stamping your heel on unprotected toes and kicking men in areas of the body that I only theoretically knew existed.

‘I hope those aren’t pirates on the horizon,’ I said, gazing over Willem’s shoulder at the empty sea. As he turned to look, I pinched his earlobe between my fingers and twisted.

‘Hey!’

‘Do you yield?’

I could barely hear his reply over Valentina’s laughter.

In the evenings, by the light of the captain’s lantern, Al-Qasim taught us Arabic. At least, he taught Valentina and me.

‘Why can’t they use proper letters, like normal people?’ Willem asked, more than once.

Al-Qasim laughed, at least the first few times. I did, too, but I knew what Willem meant. The script was so different to the letters I knew, even to Hebrew, that it was a struggle holding it all in my memory. The brushstrokes were so delicate, the calligraphy so intricate to my eyes, that I had trouble remembering the subtle differences between the characters.

After a couple of nights, Willem gave up altogether and spent his evenings talking with the crew in the motley mixture of languages so common on board ships. At least he was learning
something useful: the dialect of the ports and streets, and all the words most important for survival. He learned fast enough when he did it his way, by talking to other people, mixing in a few shrugs and waves and facial expressions, making friends. In fact, he was much better at that than I could ever be.

Al-Qasim and I continued our work; he, always the patient and courteous teacher I had never managed to be in all those months I’d tried teaching Latin to Willem. Al-Qasim also spent long hours talking to the three of us about the protocols of the Ottomans, the rituals and manners that seemed so foreign to us.

‘It is many years since I was in Constantinople,’ he said. He poured us each a tiny cup of the strong, sweet coffee we could expect to drink in our new home. ‘I was a young astronomer fresh from my studies in Alexandria, given the most precious gift of all: a position in the Sultan’s Palace. It was a different sultan then, of course, the mad one, Ibrahim, father of the new boy Sultan.’

‘There are mad people?’ asked Willem.

‘Yes, as everywhere.’

‘But they let them be in charge?’

‘Not for long, as it turned out. Ibrahim was vicious. Violent. Spent all his riches on women and foolishness. It was he who declared war on Venice. It is said that his own mother had him deposed.’

‘There are good and bad, great and dull people, in every city, every religion, Willem,’ said Valentina, sipping her coffee. ‘Even you must recognise that.’

‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But I like to keep out of the way of the bad ones.’

‘Which is exactly what we will do,’ I said.

‘For once?’

‘I promise.’

He cast a sceptical glance my way, reached across the table to grab a handful of raisins, and tossed them, one by one, up into the air and into his mouth.

Al-Qasim ignored us and went on. ‘The new Sultan is only a child. They say the empire now is ruled by his grandmother as Queen Regent. She takes the title of Valide Sultan, although that honour really belongs to the Sultan’s mother, Turhan Hadice, who holds a great deal of power in her own right. They call it the Sultanate of the Women.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ said Valentina with a wink at me. ‘Women in charge of an entire empire? For the first time, I believe we are heading to the right place.’

‘I hope so,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘On the other hand, the political situation may be unstable. We will find out soon enough.’

‘Are you looking forward to returning?’ I asked him.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure. My last appointment did not end happily. It was impossible, working for a madman. That is partly why I ended up hidden in your attic, making maps.’

‘What happened to this Ibrahim fellow?’ Willem asked.

‘He was strangled. With a silken rope.’

‘Charming,’ I said.

Al-Qasim shrugged. ‘Such things are known.’

‘Not in Venice,’ said Valentina. ‘At least, not often.’

‘When great power is at stake, men will take many risks.’

‘So will women,’ I said.

I was joking at the time — I had no idea how true my words would turn out to be.

‘If we have time,’ said Al-Qasim, ‘I will teach you a few words of Ottoman Turkish, the formal language of the court. I don’t suppose you will need it, but it may be useful.’

‘I thought all you Saracens spoke the same language?’ Willem asked.

Al-Qasim laughed. ‘That’s like saying all the peoples of Europe share the same tongue.’

‘They should,’ said Willem. ‘Make my life much easier, although we’d make less money from translations.’

‘Yet they do not. Just as the peoples of the deserts, east and west, have different languages and traditions, so the Ottomans have their own language of the mountains. Though they rule over us all, it is an empire of a thousand nations.’

‘Like ancient Rome?’ Valentina asked.

Willem rolled his eyes. ‘Them again? You are all besotted with the Romans.’

‘In some ways,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘But the Ottomans are far less inclined to try to change everyone else to their ways.’

‘Very enlightened,’ I said.

‘We are all one under the one God,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Anyway, it’s better for business.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Valentina.

‘And, Willem, I must warn you,’ said Al-Qasim, ‘many Turks will not appreciate being called Saracens.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Should I describe you as German? Or perhaps Spanish?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Well, then?’

‘I’ll never understand all this,’ Willem said with a sigh. ‘I’m sick of having to learn about a whole new world every few years.’

I had to sympathise, at least a little. What if there was a limit to the amount of information one mind could hold? What if each
new Arabic or Turkish word pushed out one of the Latin or Greek or even English words I had so painstakingly learned as a child?

‘You will do very well, I’m sure,’ said Al-Qasim. But he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Our captain didn’t drop anchor in a single port en route to Constantinople. I couldn’t believe that I’d come all the way to the Aegean Sea and wouldn’t set foot on Greece or any of the islands of legend. So in spite of the cold winds, I spent as much time on deck as I could, with my cloak wrapped tightly around me. Al-Qasim was often by my side and we talked of the old legends of the ocean, of the adventures of Ulysses and Jason. He told me about sailors from Barbary who painted maps of exquisite beauty and intricate detail. We watched sea birds dive deep and burst from the water to take flight, listened to the sounds of the wind in the canvas and the creaking boards.

I felt the world come alive. Every few days we would pass an island with a name dripping in honey and milk — or blood; islands named for goddesses or inhabited by monsters. Oh, how I wished my father was with me. The ship ploughed through the waters Homer had called the wine-dark sea, and I chanted his poems in time with the motion of the waves. If sometimes I glimpsed flashes of my own despair in those depths, I looked away as if I hadn’t seen them.