Pawn in Frankincense (65 page)

He spoke in Turkish. Her heart cold, Philippa saw Roxelana’s brows, puzzled, lift for a moment; then the dragoman translated, deftly restoring the compliment which had eluded Gabriel’s ambiguous phrases. Then d’Aramon entered, and halting in his turn, stared at the man he had last known, in Tripoli, as a Knight of the Order of St John.

Turning, Francis Crawford smiled at his colleague; his eyes wide and blue as the stones in his chain. ‘Allow me to present the new Second Vizier, Jubrael Pasha, late of St John and St Andrew. Convalescing, I understand, from
la rhume ecclésiastique
?’

His face stern, M. d’Aramon bowed and, unsmiling, set about presenting those in their train. Glancing at Roxelana beside her, Philippa saw her lips twitch with amusement. There was an intention, then, to subject the Embassy to this small humiliation: to force from them the courtesies they would under other circumstances withhold from a renegade. It occurred to Philippa that at this moment France needed Turkey, her ships and her trade probably a good deal more than the Sultan had need of France. Neither side would break off relations, but pinpricks of this kind they might regard as amusing and harmless. But surely an Ambassador’s life was still sacrosanct? Any nation which engineered the death of an accredited diplomat unprovoked surely invited an open declaration of war?

The greetings and presentations on both sides were over. The lesser mortals had filed out to be fed; and on two low velvet stools, their over-robes spread like open flowers around them, the new Ambassador and the old sat and held conversation with the Vizier and his companions.

The talk was formal, and general. In the little room behind the grilled window the heat, rising from the chamber below, was becoming uncomfortable. Roxelana, her hair veiled in thick silk, sat and slowly unwound the fine cloth; then, touching Philippa on the shoulder, gave it into her hands.

It had to be folded, naturally. How could the Sultana wear a creased veil back to her apartments? Philippa rose quietly to her feet, approached the grille as near as she dared, and in a cloud of patchouli, shook and folded the silk.

Lymond had been speaking, at length, on some matter of trade. He ended, and allowed one of the Cadis to take up his point before glancing briefly upwards to the source of the scent. Philippa saw his
eyes rest for a second on the grille; and then drop to the Cadi again. Very soon after that, at some signal from the Vizier, the company, still talking, rose to its feet. The stools were removed. M. d’Aramon, engaged in talk with the Mufti, moved to one side, towards the door of the inner room where their meal had been laid. And as Lymond, standing alone, waited for him, there walked for the first time into Philippa’s sight the magnificent figure of Gabriel, the Angel of Revelation and the Messenger of God, robed in heavy white satin threaded with gold, and patterned with the crescents of Islam in deep golden velvet. The under-robe and the long tight sleeves were edged with jewelled embroidery, the belt fashioned of plaques of jewel-set gold, and the white folds of his turban, swathed about its hard velvet crown, were clasped with a setting of rubies.

Below the pure muslin, the fair, big-boned face was no less pure: the eyes blue, the skin tanned golden with the Mediterranean sun; the smile clear and affectionate. ‘Where is the whipping-stand now?’ said Gabriel gently to his one-time commander. ‘Verily, thou art as the Peacock of Paradise, whose plumage shone like pearl and emerald, and whose voice being so sweet was appointed to sing daily the praises of God.… Thou knowest the legend?’

He spoke in Turkish, and Lymond, without the interpreter, answered in the same language. ‘Is not thy version, as ever, unique?’

Gabriel’s blue eyes were troubled. ‘Not so. Through this Peacock, they say, Satan entered Paradise in the tooth of the serpent, in punishment whereof the lovely voice of the Peacock was ravished from him for ever.… It is long since the Elders received an Ambassador young, ambitious, fragrant as a parcel of musk in red silk. Even those of pure disposition and right belief may covet thee.… Use thy lips wisely. They are meant for laughter; not the spreading of evil.…

‘The calumny against my lord Rustem Pasha has displeased the Sultan mightily.’

Blue eyes did not move from blue. Lymond’s fair brows lifted. ‘Is it a calumny to maintain that Rustem Pasha is truly zealous in the care of his master? Then I am guilty.’

‘I have heard otherwise in Pera,’ said Gabriel slowly. ‘I have heard it said that there is no unrest in the army: that Rustem Pasha’s solicitude is false, and aimed only at discrediting others. This is the rumour put about by the French Embassy.’

‘I know nothing of it. But I have heard another rumour,’ said Lymond, ‘which I shall not relate to you or to any other man, and which, if I hear it repeated, I shall stamp in the dust, for I do not believe it and nothing will bring me to believe it. You would do well, instead of listening to evil, to defend the innocent against the hidden frothings of malice. Above all women, honour is due to Khourrém Sultán.’

A slow joy, forcing its way upwards like air through a porridge-pot,
filled all Philippa’s clean massaged chest and caused her to glance, bright-eyed, at the intent face of the woman beside her.

He had guessed. Whatever obscure political game they were playing, he had guessed that the Sultana must be there, at the listening-post; and perhaps even that she, Philippa, was there as well. And, looking at Roxelana, she saw that this was what the Sultana had come to hear and to see: that all her attention was focused on these two men, and that, of the two, she was intent chiefly on Gabriel.

Philippa recalled something else. There had been a visitor yesterday to Khourrém’s apartments. A man, for she had aided her mistress to veil, holding the diamond-set mirror in pale and dark jade and placing ready the sherbet and
qahveh
. Then she had been dismissed, leaving only the mutes and Roxelana’s personal eunuch.… Gabriel’s golden voice, floating up to the grille, drew back her attention. ‘Khourrém Sultán needs no defence,’ said Jubrael Pasha sharply. ‘The Sultana is likewise above evil and beyond criticism. It injures thine own honour to suggest otherwise.’ He clapped his hands. ‘We shall dine.’

Pages, their bright tunics kirtled into their sashes, their trousers of satin, their slippers embroidered and jewelled, came to draw off the stiff surcoats and sprinkle rosewater on the Ambassador’s hands. Gabriel, smiling, waited while his own were moistened and dried and then clapped his hands, this time thrice.

Beside Philippa, Roxelana was stirring to go. Soon, the men were to move through the archway, where d’Aramon already waited, to dine in the inner room of the Divan; and would no longer be audible. The sharp triple clap made her turn, and Philippa, turning too, saw the Chiaus Agha had returned to the doorway, and was standing there bowing, a small child at his side. A small child in leaf-green tunic and trousers, a round embroidered green cap on his fair head.

It was Kuzucuyum. Oblivious of all but that round, stiffened face, staring terror-struck at the bright room filled with glittering strangers, Philippa stood stock still at the window, her own shock and apprehension measuring every millimetre of his. The Usher, whom he did not know, was urging the little boy forward, a hand on his flat back, but Kuzúm hung back, his face lengthening, his blue eyes dense and enormous. ‘Come, child,’ said Jubrael Pasha, irritation crumbling, for an instant, the patina of that beautiful voice. ‘Conduct yourself as you should. Make your obeisances, quickly.’

‘He doesn’t know Turkish,’ whispered Philippa. Khourrém Sultán, watching her curiously, had returned and was standing also, observing. The child looked round. The Usher, losing patience, said something sharply and pushed. Again the child looked round, his eyes desperate; and Philippa knew he was looking for her. The temptation to call became so strong that she put both hands, hard, over her mouth. Then he crept forward, very slowly, and kissed Gabriel’s feet,
and then gripped and kissed the hem of his robe. He kissed properly: solid kisses which could be heard; and then, straightening the flat, leaf-green back, looked up at Gabriel with anxiety, his eyes filled with tears he would not let himself shed.

But Gabriel’s smiling blue eyes were elsewhere: on Francis Crawford, who had become quite still when he saw the small boy, and remained as timelessly still as the worn, martyred dead on the Ortokapi, his eyes fixed on the child. Then when, stubborn and obedient, the little boy made his grovelling gesture, Philippa saw Lymond’s eyes come up and meet and hold Malett’s.

Graham Malett smiled back, as he spoke again to the child. ‘There is the Ambassador. Salute him,’ he said.

Let him go
, said Philippa to herself.
Oh, let him go. He’s done all you can ask him.…

‘The Ambassador begs to be excused,’ said Lymond quietly, in English. And to the child he said, in the same language, ‘Tell me: what is your name?’

Kuzucuyum stared at the stranger, his lower lip straight and tight, his eyes round; his eyebrows tilting. Then in a whisper, he said, ‘What did Fippy went?’

In English. In English, merciful heaven, thought Philippa, so that Lymond knew and took one step forward and stopped himself, as Gabriel rapped out, ‘Do your duty!’ and the Chiaus gripped Kuzúm by the arm.

He was two years old: maybe less. A woman would have known he was beyond coaxing: coercion was the last straw. Lymond stepped back instantly, but this time the child did not obey. He dragged behind, his mouth trembling, and when the Chiaus’s silver rod, with an order, came down hard on his knuckles, he screamed, and continued to scream in long, whooping cries, crouched under the arm of the Usher, his eyes closed, his tears pouring over his two fat clenched hands and rolling black on the silk. Gabriel stared at the Chiaus. ‘This is an insult to the Ambassador,’ said the new Vizier bitingly. ‘Take him away. He shall be whipped on the belly.’

‘As the injured party,’ said Lymond steadily, ‘I am happy to overlook the offence and absolve him from punishment. He would be unlikely, at that age, to survive it. On the other hand, I should be delighted to buy him from you.’

‘I thought you might. He is endearing, is he not?’ said Gabriel. ‘When silent. But not, I fear, at any time or any price, for sale to Your Excellency. Now’—as the screaming receded and powerful arms bore the child struggling from the Divan—‘shall we eat?’

Khourrém Sultan’s rose-painted fingers, closing on her bare arm, pulled Philippa up short just inside the Divan tower door. ‘Wait,’ said Roxelana; and gasping, Philippa slowed and halted, her face scarlet as she returned, suddenly, to her own situation. ‘You know
this child?’ said Roxelana. ‘He is in the harem, of course. Do you … ah,’ she broke off, with a sound of impatience. ‘Of course: you cannot understand. Veil yourself, girl.’ And as Philippa, with care, obeyed her gesture, Roxelana covered her own head, and walking briskly, climbed down the stairs of the tower and through the silent courtyards until she came to her own quarters.

‘Now,’ she said to the Pearl of Fortune, having settled at last on her divan, a cup of syrup in her fingers, an interpreter at her elbow. ‘I understand you see much of this child in the harem; it is good that you have a care for him, and that he will obey you. It is not seemly that you become for him what his nurse or mother should be. In a year or two, his life will be very different. The rule of the white eunuchs is not tender, and he will suffer all the more if he has been coddled in childhood. You call him Kuzucuyum, but you also know perhaps that his real name is different. You have just seen him, all unwittingly, encounter his father. The child is the son of the new Vizier, Jubrael Pasha.’

No food in all Turkey was more costly than that served at the ceremonial dinner to which a Grand Vizier entertained a new Ambassador; and none was eaten more quickly. The meal was timed to take just half an hour; and was spread in the second room of the Divan, with the two principals side by side on low thrones, gold-fringed napkin on knee, while a stream of servers and pages brought the dishes of which they partook, one after the other; served on wide silver platters edged with fresh bread, and laid on stools of red Bulgar leather.

There at last, away from that eavesdropping grille, distant from his associates and his interpreters, Graham Reid Malett spoke English, plainly and pleasurably, as roasted pigeons followed the grilled swordfish in vine-leaves, to be followed in turn by kids’ flesh with dressed rice and sauces. ‘Satan, they say, on arriving from Paradise, commanded garlic to spring from his left footmark, and onions from his right. Conceive,’ said Gabriel, ‘if he had never fallen. To taste either, we had to foregather in hell.… These are wild geese from Chekmeje. You must try them. You have twice laid hands on me personally. As Ambassador, your body is sacred until you are outwith these precincts. After that, however much our sovereign lord and yours may try to protect you, none can guard you for ever from the unknown assassin, however much we may deplore it. You will suffer the death I have chosen for you, here in Constantinople.’