Harem (19 page)

The great bazaar had been built in the time of Mehmet Fatih, Suleiman's grandfather. The riches of the empire were crammed into its tiny shops along the warren of stone alleyways; gold and silver, brocades and silk, crimson rugs from Damascus and peacock blue silk carpets from Baghdad. Outside the gates hawkers grilled corn cobs on charcoal braziers, fanning the flames with turkey wings and brushing ineffectually at the small, persistent black flies. Other hawkers sold tripe flavoured with garlic or warm almond cream sprinkled with cinnamon.

Suleiman marvelled at it all, lost in his own city.

But even among the tumult he recognized the order his ancestors had imposed. Everyone knew their place; the Turks wore white turbans, the Greeks' turbans were blue though their boots were black; the Jews had yellow turbans, as did the Armenians, but their boots were a startling crimson.

A spice merchant had been nailed to the door of his shop by his ears. The sign that hung around his neck said that he had been convicted of giving false measures. One of the crowd spat in his face and Suleiman did the same. He felt no pity for him; it was the law and it had been made to protect the people.

His mother was right, he had lived in palaces too long and he had grown soft. The smell of filth and offal made him gag and the gabble of voices hurt his ears. These were the people that came with their petitions to the Divan. He had seen them every day, begging his clemency or his judgment or his justice on their knees but he had never seen for himself how they lived in their own world.

Night fell quickly. A crescent moon rose above the roofs of the
bedesten
.

It was the first time in his entire life that he had not been surrounded by a bodyguard. Yet he felt safe here, what enemy would recognize him in these rags? Besides even if he were not the Sultan he would be safe; the
Yeniçeris
patrolled the streets of his city every night, and any act of violence was treated as an insult against Islam itself and punished accordingly.

The Valide would have apoplexy of she knew what he had done. But what better way was there to discover if this so-called gossip was true?

He strolled through the vaulted bazaar, lit now by a thousand lamps, delayed at the stall of a spice merchant, looking over the sacks of sesame seeds, aloe, saffron and licorice root as if deliberating over a purchase. The vendor was involved in a heated debate with one of his customers; Suleiman heard the name Hürrem and stopped to listen.

' … since Selim was born he has not even looked at another woman! ' the merchant said. He was a hook-nosed Greek with bad teeth and a sparse beard. He hawked abundantly onto the cobbles next to his stall, the expectorate narrowly missing Suleiman's sleeve.

'That is not possible,' a customer said. By his white turban, Suleiman knew he was a Turk like himself. 'He has a harem with three hundred of the most beautiful women in the Empire! No man could resist such a treasure for seven years!'

'Unless he is bewitched!' the Greek shouted and hawked again. It seemed he was incapable of talking above a whisper.

'You talk out of your ass so often your tongue should be at the other end.'

'They say she is not a woman at all, she is a foul spirit, a
djinn
, from the forests of Wallachia.' Hawk - spit.

'Well, there you are, everyone knows she is not from Wallachia, she is Russian. And if she is an evil spirit, like you say, why is Suleiman the greatest Sultan we have ever had? Look at what he has conquered - Belgrade, Rhodes, Buda-Pesth! Why two summers ago he was at the gates of Vienna itself!'

The merchant threw his hands in the air. 'Exactly! Why did we not take Vienna when it was there for the asking? The witch made it rain right through summer so our cannon were bogged and useless.' He hawked and spat on the floor of his shop with such violence that even the Greek took a step back. Suleiman thought of the saying that Ibrahim had taught him: It takes ten Turks to defeat one Jew in an argument, and ten Jews to defeat one Greek. 'They say he cannot even pass his water without receiving her permission first.'

'If anyone has him in their power it is Ibrahim!'

'Ibrahim is a great soldier.' Hawk. 'We need a strong Vizier.' Spit. Spit again. 'Especially when our Sultan has moon eyes for one of his slave girls. It will lead to no good! When a Sultan ignores his concubines it means some other woman has him by the thick member and she will lead him around like a donkey with reins!' He turned to Suleiman. 'What is it you want?'

What I want is to take a sword and lop off your ugly head, Suleiman thought. Then I would hang it on the gates of the Sublime Porte and invite it to spit one more time. Instead he said: 'I want nothing here. There is drool on your cinnamon.'

He was pleased to hear the Turk laughing from inside the shop.

But the insults and calumnies he had heard echoed in his mind as he stumbled on through the bazaar. What Ibrahim and his mother had told him was true. His people were turning against him over her.

Bewitched!

Was there to be no hour of the day, no day of the week, no season of the year when he would be allowed to have his own life?

Very well, he would return to the Harem. He would show them he was master of his own house. He would do his duty and then perhaps they would give him some peace.

There was a protocol for choosing a girl.

There is a protocol for everything, Suleiman thought sourly as the iron-studded gates swung open. As he rode in the Kislar Aghasi was waiting to greet him, in a long-sleeved ceremonial pelisse and white sugarloaf turban. A hundred girls, pearls and jewels glittering in the sun, waited in the shaded area of the courtyard. They were fidgeting, nervous.

Any other man would tremble with anticipation, he thought. Why do I just feel this cold terror? Why is my Harem the most difficult place for me to be?

The great iron door creaked shut behind him and he dismounted. How long since he had done this? Before he became Sultan, before Gülbehar. The girls' eyes were hooded, none would dare look at him directly, yet he felt each one of them imploring him. A whole lifetime could turn on such moments, or so they believed.

The Kislar Aghasi touched his forehead to the cobblestones. 'Great Lord.'

'You are to be complimented,' Suleiman told him, keeping to the protocols. 'They are all quite exquisite.'

'Thank you, my Lord.'

The Kislar Aghasi moved into step behind him. Suleiman breathed in the scent of his women, jasmine and orange. Silks and satins shimmered, cheeks blushed pink, courting him. He bowed and greeted each one of the girls and as he did so the Kislar Aghasi whispered their names.

Why do I not drink from this fountain until I burst? he wondered. Other men would. Ibrahim tells me he has a different woman every night, sometimes two. He continued along the line, wondering which one he would choose. They are all so beautiful that even beauty itself becomes meaningless, he thought. This one, for instance. She might have been fashioned from alabaster by a master sculptor. Such perfection was intimidating.

'What is your name?' he said to her.

The girl murmured a response but her voice was so soft he did not hear what she said. He turned to the Kislar Aghasi. 'What did she say?'

For some reason his Chief Eunuch hesitated. Perhaps she was new. 'Julia,' he said at last.

'Julia,' Suleiman repeated. He looked at the girl a second time. Perfection indeed. He took a green handkerchief from the sleeve of his robe and draped it over her shoulder to indicate that he had made his choice. It was one Hürrem had embroidered for him herself. He knew she would be watching, unseen, and he hoped he had made his point.

'I shall walk in the garden now,' he said to the Kislar Aghasi, who was staring at the girl with an expression he could not quite fathom. These eunuchs were strange creatures.

He walked on, out of the courtyard, to stroll among the peacocks and ostriches, and admire the view.

***

Hürrem turned from the window. Her fingers closed around the nearest object to hand, a silver candlestick that stood on a low table by the divan. She flung it across the room, splintering the blue Iznik tiles on the wall. Muomi ducked away, out of range.

Hürrem stood stock still, the muscles working in her jaw. 'I have to stop this,' she said.

'He is the Sultan,' Muomi said. 'How can you stop him?'

'Who is she?'

'I don't know her name, she's new. She came here from Algiers, she was taken from a Venetian galley that was captured by corsairs.'

'Tell me how I can prevent this.'

'My Lady …'

Hürrem grabbed the gold ring that hung from Muomi's right ear and tugged down hard. Muomi screamed and fell to her knees. 'Tell me how prevent it!'

'You're hurting me!'

'I want you to go to the apothecary and make me one of your potions.'

'Please … stop!'

Hürrem released her.

Muomi doubled over, clutching her ear. 'If you kill her he will only choose another. If she dies just like Mustapha's servants, it will make them suspicious.'

'What then? There has to be a way.'

Muomi looked up at her, her eyes glittering. 'Don't ever hurt me again.'

'Just tell me what to do.' She swallowed hard. 'Please.'

' There may be another way.' Muomi straightened, still holding her ear. Hürrem had made it bleed. 'Can you sup with him tonight?'

'Suleiman will not come to me now. He will not know how to face me.'

'Then you have to find a way to persuade him. I am sure, for you, it will not really be that difficult.'

'What is your plan?'

'There is a mixture … it can take away a man's passion. If he does not have her, then he cannot fall in love with her.'

Hürrem allowed herself a tight smile. 'Excellent. Can you get what you need?'

'I believe there is an apothecary in the bazaar who has what I need.'

'Then I will send one o f the pages to get it for you straight away.' After it was arranged, Hürrem settled herself back on the divan. As Muomi was leaving she called her back. 'Fetch the Kislar Aghasi for me,' she said. 'Tell him I need to talk with him urgently.'

***

Julia was taken first to the Keeper of the Baths. She was shaved and every part of her examined minutely for hair. Then the
gediçli
bathed her in water scented with jasmine and orange and her hair was shampooed with henna. Afterwards another girl coated her entire body with a mixture of warm rice flour and oil. Heated water steamed in pots beside her to keep the mud pack warm and supple.

When the Kislar Aghasi arrived, he found her sitting naked on the edge of the marble while several
gediçli
fussed around her, each one of them focused on a limb, or an ear, or an eye and the only sound was the rustle of their linen chemises.

Julia looked blank and slightly dazed. She let them prod and prime her, paint the nails of her toes, slip aloe under her tongue to sweeten her breath, darken her eyelids with kohl. Another knelt to dye her pubis with henna, in the traditional manner. Julia did not co-operate, nor did she resist. She might as well have been a child's doll.

I wonder what she is thinking? Abbas thought. Is she back in Venice, on her loggia with her needlepoint, watching the gondoliers on the Grand Canal? Does she sometimes sit with me under the purple canopy, does she ever think of me - or is that only my vanity wishing it so?

***

Hürrem had a handkerchief bunched in her fist, and she twisted it around and around her fingers. Her eyes were red and swollen. Abbas almost felt sorry for her.

He executed a temenna, his right hand touching his heart, his lips and forehead. 'My Lady, you wished to see me.'

'What am I to do, Abbas?'

'My lady?'

'The Lord of Life has chosen to spend the night with another of his
houri
s.'

'It is his right, my Lady. You should not upset yourself. You are still second
kadin
. Nothing can change that.'

Hürrem dabbed at her eyes. 'What is her name?'

Abbas hesitated, suddenly alarmed. 'As I said, my Lady, you should not upset yourself over trifles.'

'I did not ask your advice, Abbas, I asked you her name.'

She is like a small child, he thought; she seems to cry but her tears are actually rage. I cannot pretend I do not know who the
gözde
is, for I know the name of every girl in here. If I do not tell her, I will make an enemy of the second most powerful woman in the Harem. Besides, she could easily find out from someone else. 'Her name is Julia. A very dull girl. Italian. She can barely speak a word of our language and though she has a pretty face she is spectacularly stupid. You can rest easy.'

Hürrem tossed the handkerchief on the floor. Ah, I see we are done with that charade, he thought. When she spoke her voice was icy. 'Do not presume to tell me when I may rest and when I may not. In fact, Kislar Aghasi, remember your place and do not advise me on anything. All you need to do is answer my questions.'

'Yes, My Lady.'

'I wish to see the Lord of Life. Could he perhaps sup with me tonight?'

'Again, I did not ask your opinion!' Her voice was like a whipcrack 'How many times must I tell you? You presume too much, Kislar Aghasi!'

'A thousand apologies.'

'As I said, I wish to see the Lord of Life. Tonight. I did not ask if it were possible. I only meant that you should arrange it for me. He is still in the
saraya
, visiting with the Valide, is that not correct?'

'Then arrange for him to dine with me tonight. Tell him I am contrite for those things I have said to him most recently and I wish to make my peace.'

A long sigh, that reminded him of a snake rising to strike. 'Abbas, do you remember what happened to the last
Kiaya
of the Robes? Perhaps you were not part of our Harem family then?'

His mouth was suddenly very dry. 'I am not sure I follow you.'

She stood up and walked up to him. 'Yes you do, Abbas. Even if you were not here, no doubt someone has told you the story. The old fool who did your job before you would certainly have remembered and passed it on. This woman had the temerity to cross me. She kicked me, when I was one of her charges in the sewing room. Do you know what I did to her?'

'You had her leg cut off.'

'Indeed. Imagine it, what it must be like when the
bostanji-bashi
brings down his axe. They say they heard her screams in Üsküdar. What do you think it's like for her now, living like a cripple in the provinces? Yet the poor woman did not offend me near as much as you offend me now.'

'I do not want your contrition, or your excuses. Tonight the Sultan may sleep with another, but do you know whose pillow he will share tomorrow? When a woman has a man between her legs, Abbas, she has his undivided attention. So I suggest you remember what happened to the
Kiaya
and make sure the Lord of Life sups with me tonight.'

'Yes, my Lady.'

Abbas was dismissed.

He came out sweating and leaned against the wall, panting for breath as if he had just run up three flights of stairs. How he hated himself for his weakness. Why was his life yet so important to him that he should give in to her whims like this? But they would not kill me, he thought. That is not their way. How can you enjoy someone's suffering when they are dead. Even though Hürrem does not see her old
Kiaya
, she still likes to think on how she still tortures her, far away in Diyabakir.

So, all right, tonight he would be her puppet. But let her harm Julia and the worm would turn.