Harem (14 page)

Algiers

The coast of Africa rose from the horizon, the village of Sidi Bou Said stark and white against the scorched red earth. As the galleot sailed past the headland the lateens filled with the sort of brisk wind that might once have saved the miserable huddle of humanity now chained together in its hold. They were dragged on deck one by one at swordpoint, blinking in the harsh sunlight.

The fortress of Algiers loomed from the sea. Below it, whitewashed buildings piled up the hillside like blinding white cubes, safe beneath the Osmanli cannon and the green crescent banner of Mohammed.

As they slipped into the harbor several of the prisoners gave an audible sigh, knowing their lives as free men were over.

Julia, being a woman, was kept separate from the others. She dared a glance at them now from behind her mantilla and gasped. They had been stripped naked, except for thin strips of material around their loins and their hands and feet were chained. None of them raised their eyes from the deck.

She barely recognized Bellini. He looked smaller and fatter without his uniform. Julia blushed and looked away.

The galleot moored at the quay in front of the harbor mosque. The men were led away first, the pirates shoving back the crowd that had rushed from the souk to gawk at them. They all wore burnooses and
djellabas
, and they spat at the Venetians as they passed, screaming curses at them in their strange, guttural tongue.

Then one of the Turks - Julia supposed him to be their captain - grabbed Julia's by the arm and led her away, dragging her along behind him.

Julia had not given up hope. Her husband was a
Magnifici
after all, an esteemed member of the
Consiglio di Dieci
. Venice had brokered a peace with the Osmanlis, and her husband even traded with them, had once entertained members of Suleiman's court at his own table. The worst that might happen, she told herself, is that I will be shut up in a castle somewhere until they organize the ransom. I am accustomed to being shut up in a room. How bad can it be?

The crowd jostled her and one man hawked phlegm at her. She wanted to slap him. Heathen!

The
rais
ignored the jostling and curses and hurried her along.

The crowd followed them through the
casbah
, along narrow alleys piled with filth. The men were herded along in front of her. Julia kept her eyes down, ashamed to witness their humiliation. They were all proud Venetians, now they looked no better than … galley slaves.

The Bey's Palace loomed ahead of them. They were all shoved through a gate, past the black slave corrals where caravans from the Sahara brought the Nubians and Sudanese for market. There were women and children among them, some of the women still had babies at their breasts and the men were quite naked …

Corpo di Dio
!

They led them into yet another courtyard, this one a vast esplanade of white sand enclosed on all four sides by arched colonnades. There were so many bodies packed together inside it created a great stink, worse than the ship. There was a din of voices all shouting in lanbguages she did not understand, some shouting orders, others babbling in fear. She stopped, overwhelmed. The
rais
cursed her and slapped her across the shoulders with the handle of his whip.

Julia realized she had lost sight of the others and somehow felt abandoned. Desperate and helpless as they were, they were her last link to the world she knew.

The
rais
dragged her into yet another court. This one was smaller, but almost empty, though there were countless footprints in the bleached sand.

Julia looked around. A man sat in the shade on a pile of cushions, staring at her. He had dark skin, almost ,mahogany, and was hideously fat. His white kaftan was trimmed with gold thread and there was a large turquoise in his muslin turban. A young Nubian boy stood behind him, cooling him with a fan of ostrich feathers.

The
rais
and the fat man started shouting at each other. Julia heard one word repeated over and over:
Gaiour
.

The fat man lifted an arm, to signal that he was about to rise. The Nubian boy dropped the fan and helped the man to his feet. '
Como se chiame
?' the man said.

'You speak Italian?'

He smiled. 'Of course. And many other languages beside. What do you think I am? A barbarian?' He came closer. 'Do you speak Turkish?'

'Of course not.'

He lifted her mantilla. Despite her situation Julia felt outraged. No Venetian gentleman would ever dare such a thing. Only a husband might lift a lady's veil. But she might hardly reprimand him.

She felt utterly humiliated and lowered her eyes.

The fat man glanced at the
rais
. 'He is right. You are very beautiful. Again, what is your name?'

'Julia Gonzaga. My husband is a
Consigliore
in Venice. So is my father. They will reward you richly for my safe return.'

'The Sultan has much deeper pockets, i think.' The Nubian boy shooed a fly from the fat man's face with his ostrich fan. 'But allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mehmet Ali-Osman. I am Bey of Algiers, in the service of Sultan Suleiman, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Emperor of the Seven Worlds.' He effected a mock bow. 'I am his lifelong servant. You may have the honour of doing the same.'

'I am no one's servant.'

'Ah, so proud! Pride and beauty often accompany each other. But that is no matter.' He walked around her, inspecting her for flaws. She endured this new humiliation in silence, staring at the white sands with her cheeks burning. He faced her again and then with one pudgy hand he gently squeezed her breast, as if it was an avocado. Julia screamed and jumped back.

The
rais
growled at her but Ali-Osman thought this most amusing. He roared with laughter. 'Your modesty will not be worth much to you where you are going,
bellissima
!'

He turned to the
rais
and the two men fell straight into a heated argument. Julia could understand none of it but from the expression on the pirate's face, and the angry tone of his voice, she dared to hope that he was about to draw his sword and pin this Ali-Osman to the wall.

But then suddenly they both laughed and slapped each other on the shoulders. The Bey reached into the folds of his robe and produced a leather pouch. He loosened the drawstrings and tipped a number of gold coins into his other man's palm.

The pirate walked away without another word, leaving her with Ali-Osman. 'Julia Gonzaga, my
bellissima
, you are now a member of the Sultan Suleiman's
kullar
! Bless the day!'

'What's a
kullar
?'

'It is a family of slaves. Yes, you have a new family!'

'My husband …'

'Your husband no longer exists. The Kislar Aghasi has a deeper purse than any Venetian, I assure you. I shall make a tenfold profit on our little transaction today!' He clapped his hands and two turbaned soldiers appeared from the shadows. 'Take her inside and keep her under guard. Make sure she is given food and water. Treat her well, who knows, one day she may be the mother of the next Sultan!'

Mehmet Ali-Osman settled himself back on his cushions, and shouted at his Nubian to fan him faster, he was getting hot.

***

First, an endless glittering ocean that hurt the eyes; then a sudden violent summer storm that left her weak with nausea with no escape from the vile stench of bile and vomit. For two weeks they sailed across the Osmanli empire, now and then glimpsing the inverted mirages of islands or a distant coast, stopping at this port or that dirty village to load a giraffe or a slave or a bale of silk.

Julia prayed to die. They had sold her as a whore, it was plain. The Turks watched her, their eyes bright and hungry and hard, but none dared offend her or tried to touch her. She was the Sultan's meat now.

They brought her food but it was not fit for a dog, though it was the same mess of rice and dried meat they ate themselves. They gave her a cabin below deck, guarded day and night by two of the crew. She could scream or she could cry; they just ignored her.

Once, when she was taking air on the deck, she contemplated throwing herself over the side. But a part of her would not give up hope completely. She was sure her father would find a way to have her released for all of Ali-Osman's boasting. She convinced herself that when they arrived in Stamboul there would be a legation from the Venetian ambassador waiting for her on the dock to negotiate her ransom.

***

Sunrise, sunset, on an endless blue ocean.

One morning she came up on deck and there in front of her were the mountains of Anatolia, shrouded in mist. Later that day they put in at Smyrna. The nightmare was almost over.

Two days later, at sunset, they sailed past Troy and through the narrow neck of the Dardanelles into the Marmara Deniz. They weighed anchor there and waited for dawn.

***

The sea was as flat and as silver as the blade of a sword. Stamboul rose from the dawn like a hand rising from the mist, the minarets of the Aya Sofia like fingers pointing to the sky. The rising sun caught the golden domes of the mosques, burning off the fog that clung to the sea walls and the jutting arm of Seraglio Point. The water teemed with fishing boats and fast
caïques
. She even spotted the golden lion of Venice hoist on one of the galleys and she felt a physical pain. So close.

Then they were round the point and inside the sweeping arms of the Golden Horn. There was no delegation from La Serenissima waiting for her at the quay. She closed her eyes, knowing that everything she had ever known was gone forever. Antonio Gonzaga's daughter was now a whore and a slave.

Manisa

Gülbehar watched the riders from behind the latticed windows of the palace. The iron on the horses' hoofs rang on the smooth stones of the Roman road and echoed along the valley walls. It reminded her of the bells that rang every hour in the Eski Saraya. That was another world away now. She did not miss the dusty stairwells or the draughty rooms; she missed being close to him. Now, for all the freedom of her new life, her bed was always cold.

The evening sun dipped below the wheat fields. The breeze carried with it the smell of woodsmoke.

The riders drew closer. There were a dozen of them, one riding ahead of the rest, she could hear his voice booming up the valley even from up here. He was dark, with a sparse beard and wore a loose fitting robe. A stag, its throat pierced by an arrow, lay across his saddle. Blood from the wound had stained the horse's flank.

Mustapha.

'So tonight we shall be dining on venison,' she murmured. Her son looked pleased with himself.

He rides like a true
shahzade
, she thought. He shouted something to his
spahis
. It was lost to her on the wind, but his men shouted with laughter.

What a son! He hunts, he laughs, he excels in mathematics. He could speak Italian as well as he could speak Turkish. Four years as the governor here, and everyone loved him.

They said he would be the finest of all the Osmanli sultans, that he would even surpass his father. So many talents, so few flaws! Ah but they do not know you like I do, he thought. You have one terrible flaw and you are blind to it; it will kill you if I am not there to save you.

The riders dismounted in the courtyard below. Mustapha looked up at the window and waved. He could not see her, of course, but he knew she would be there, watching. He strode across the courtyard; he had a swagger about him, it reminded her of her own father, He reminded her of her father, a Montenegran mountain bandit.

Such a lion; such a lamb.

***

The years of exile had changed her. Not much physically; just the tiny lines that bitterness had etched into her eyes and the corner of her mouth, that was all. But it was the heart of the Rose of Spring that had grown thorns. It was not even the loss of Suleiman that had made her sour; it was the attempt on her son's life that had done that.

They ate in silence. Mustapha had described how he had killed the stag three times for her before he ran out of conversation. Elated with his success, he resented his mother's dark mood.

'The venison is good, isn't it?' he said, choosing another cube of the meat from the dish.

'Delicious.'

Mustapha sighed. 'What is it, Mother?'

'We must think about your future,' she said.

'Not that again.' He laughed. 'I have the simplest future of any man living. For now I am governor of Kutahya. And one day I will be Sultan of the Osmanlis. What is there to think about?'

'Will you really be Sultan?'

The smile vanished. 'Mother, please.'

'It is four years now and your father asks to see you less and less. Meanwhile the witch insinuates herself further and further into his court …'

'How he conducts his Harem is no business of mine.'

'You are blind.'

'You see conspiracy everywhere.'

'She tried to have you poisoned!'

'There is no proof of that.'

'Who else would want you dead?'

'The Osmanlis have many enemies.'

Gülbehar slammed her hand on the table, startling him. 'Of course it was her. You are all that stands between her and becoming the Valide!'

'My father would never betray me.'

'I thought that once, too. '

Mustapha pushed his plate away. He had quite lost his appetite. 'What would you have me do?'

'You have many friends at the Sublime Porte. Perhaps it is time you thought to use them.'

'For what purpose?'

'Your grandfather knew the answer to that.'

Mustapha turned pale. 'I will not raise my hand against my father. It would be a sin before God.'

'There are greater sins and they are being committed as we speak in the palace at Stamboul.'

Mustapha raised a finger and a deaf-mute hurried forward with a scented finger bowl. He washed his fingers and held them out to be dried. 'The throne will come to us as God wills. I will not turn against him.' He reached across the low table and took Gülbehar's hands in his own. 'I love you, Mother. But you see phantoms everywhere. If Hürrem is my enemy then she will answer for it one day. But I will not harm him.'

After he had left Gülbehar sat for a long time, brooding in silence. Then she clapped her hands for the servants to remove the dishes and had a maid send a summons to Güzül.

Julia had never seen anything quite so ugly in her whole life.

The Kislar Aghasi was young, perhaps not much older than herself. He wore a kaftan of flowered silk over which was an emerald green pelisse, lined with ermine, its long sleeves sweeping the ground. There were thick rubies on his plump little fingers. A white cat dozed in his lap.

But none of these refinements could hide the fact that he was grossly, obscenely, fat. There were scalloped rolls of it all over his body. Then there was his face; she wondered what might have happened to him to disfigure him so terribly.

Julia had taught herself a little Turkish on the way from Algiers. She heard him talking to one of the guards who had brought her. She heard familiar words: '
Gaiour
', 'Bey of Algiers' and 'woman'.

He pointed at her. 'Take off her veil.'

Julia had learned during her voyage that she could avoid great humiliation by submitting to lesser ones. She would rather do it herself than have these heathen paw her with their filthy hands. So as soon as he spoke, she reached up and pulled back the black lace.

The Kislar Aghasi underwent a startling transformation. He jerked in his seat, as if he had been stabbed in the back. His mouth fell open.

Then he leaped up, spilling the sleeping cat onto the floor. It screeched and darted away. He pointed to her and bellowed: 'GET HER OUT OF MY SIGHT!'

The guards hesitated, stunned.

But before they could drag her away he had already turned for the door. It crashed shut behind him.

How astonishing, Julia thought. And they had told her that the first rule in here was silence.

The
Kubbealti
, the Hall of the Divan, was the hub of the Empire. For eighty years, in this small chamber under the watch tower of the Second Court, Osmanli Sultans had held court for four days in every week, receiving petitions, resolving legal matters, meeting foreign envoys, deciding foreign and state policy. Every decision, from the most humble legal dispute between merchants to the declaration of war, had been declared in this room.

On the morning of the Divan a long line would extend across the garden outside as petitions waited their turn to bring their case before the Sultan. Suleiman would sit on a cushioned dais opposite the door with the Grand Vizier on his right, and the Kaziaskers of Rumelia and Anatolia - the European and Asian provinces of the Empire - sitting directly behind him. Agas, pashas and mufti would sit in their proper order of rank to either side; secretaries and notaries would record the imperial decrees and judgments.

Only the Sultan had the right to speak. Others could offer their opinion only as requested, or when sought out on a particular point of secular or religious law that was their speciality. The Sultan's decree in all matters was final.

But Suleiman had grown tired of these tedious perquisites of power. Lately he had abrogated the duties of the Divan to Ibrahim and allowed him to preside in his place. He reported to the Lord of Life on his decisions twice a week, and the Sultan would ratify them. A small latticed window had been cut in the wall high above Ibrahim's divan so that Suleiman might watch the proceedings whenever he chose without being seen. It was a measure to safeguard Ibrahim's conduct, even though Suleiman rarely used it.

Ibrahim was increasingly troubled by the changes he had witnessed in the Sultan. Perhaps, he thought, he has come too far too quickly. He has conquered Rhodes and Belgrade, then crushed the Hungarians and their king at Mohacs. He had achieved what his father or even the legendary Mehmet Fatih had been unable to do, and so his greatness was already established.

He delegates too much to me, Ibrahim thought. It does not bode well for him, or perhaps even for me. It is the witch's fault. She has done this.

***

On this particular morning the petitioners were made to wait as the Grand Vizier debated with his generals the matter of that summer's campaign in the Lands of War. Ibrahim allowed the mufti to speak first.

'Sooner or later the Lord of Life must deal with the Persian Shah, Tamasp, who dares shelter the Shi'a heretics and raids our border constantly. He offends not only the Osmanlis but Islam itself. It is the Sultan's duty to bring him to heel!'

Ibrahim bowed his head in deference to the Islamic judge although if he had his way he would have the charlatan's head on a spike at the front gate. He turned to address the other generals: 'I agree with the mufti, the shah is indeed an offense against God. But should we use cannon to squash a mosquito? Though Shah Tamasp is a heretic, the greatest prize we might present before God is the capture of the Green Apple.' The Green Apple was a reference to Rome; every Sultan, before he ascended the throne of the Osmanlis, was traditionally asked at the ceremony 'Can you bite from the Green Apple?' Suleiman's achievements might already rank alongside those of his father and grandfather but in Ibrahim's opinion, he had the opportunity to stand in heaven next to Mohammed himself if he could take away the infidel's greatest prize.

Can you deliver us Rome?

Ibrahim paused to let his words take effect. 'Surely our greatest threat must be the man who calls himself the Holy Roman Emperor? At this moment he is troubled on his southern flank by Francis; the Christian heretic Luther is inciting rebellion against the Pope and his own nobles are warring among themselves. The time to strike is when your enemy is weakest and there is no doubt he is deeply divided at this moment. Vienna's walls are ready to fall and when they do the whole of Christendom will tremble at our approach!'

He turned to the Aga of the
Yeniçeris
. 'What say you, Achmed?'

'As long as our kettle is full, my Lord, we will eat. My men are restless for another chance to blood their swords.'

Ibrahim turned to his other generals, Mahmut, Aga of the
Spahis
and Çehangir, Kaziasker of Rumelia. They, too, both spoke for Vienna.

'We can deal with the heretic Tamasp at our leisure,' Çehangir added. 'But Frederick is ripe for the plucking right now. Let us lay Vienna at the feet of our padishah!'

Ibrahim smiled. It had been six years since their last great victory. No empire could stand still, the ghazis of old knew that as soon as a man stepped out of the saddle his muscles started to get soft. Perhaps on the long road to Vienna Suleiman would find himself again and forget this Harem girl who was making him weak.

'It is decided then,' Ibrahim said. 'This summer the Sultan goes to Vienna.'