The Harem Midwife (20 page)

Finally, Leah gave a low cry and dropped, her forehead pressed to the floor as though in prayer. Was it Hannah’s imagination or did she see the girl look up and cast a knowing look at Hannah before prostrating herself again on the floor?

Hannah was close enough to hear the Sultan murmur, “Such beguiling eyes, like the eyes in a peacock’s train.”

Often when slothful creatures move, they move with reptilian speed. So it was with the Sultan. In one fluid motion, he withdrew a silk handkerchief from the sleeve of his embroidered robe and tossed it toward Leah. It floated for a moment, caught in a whoosh of air, then settled in front of Leah’s face.

How could something so meringue-light land like a boulder hurled from the highest roof of the palace onto
a stone floor? Hannah wanted to grab Leah by the hand and run with her out of the room.

Leah lifted her head, spotted the handkerchief, picked it up and wiped her brow. Then she crawled toward the royal divan. She took the Sultan’s outstretched hand between her own and pressed it to her forehead. He drew her toward him.

Please
, Hannah prayed silently.
Let the plan work. Let her escape unharmed, and let them both—Hannah and Leah—survive
. Hannah looked at Mustafa. Wasn’t it time for both of them to withdraw?

But Mustafa shook his head and gestured to his
Book of Couchings
. “Hope must not substitute for fact. There must be no inaccuracies in the official record.”

Hannah wished she could turn into the feather of a dove and float out the window to the gardens outside. The Sultan lifted Leah onto his lap and caressed her cheek, kissing her with foolish enthusiasm, as if playing with a child’s doll. Then he lay back on the divan, leaning on one elbow while she arranged herself against the length of him. Leah was almost exactly his height.

Leah reached for the bowl of fruit on a table next to the divan and bit off a piece of apple. She held it between her lips and then slowly moved her mouth toward the Sultan’s face. His mouth opened and he took the morsel into his mouth. Then, he motioned to have the curtains of the divan drawn.

Mustafa stepped forward and closed the red curtains. A few moment elapsed before the divan began to shudder under the Sultan’s movements, or under Leah’s, Hannah
did not know which. Instead of watching the divan vibrate, slowly at first, then faster, then at a frantic pace, Hannah focused her attention on the doves, many of which had perched on wall sconces and on the tall pillars supporting the divan. With the movements, they left their roosts in search of more stable perches. One little hen gave her tail a twitch, and with a soft, fluty cry flew out the window.

Hannah could avert her eyes but she could not block her ears. There was a squeal, like the whimper of a frightened lamb, then a deeper sound, a quick exhalation like a boar in full rut. From the balcony, behind a filigreed tulip-wood screen where the musician played softly, came another noise, a muffled cry. Hannah looked up to see the flash of blue
pelisse
and hear the swish of footsteps in felt slippers. This was the way in the palace—whispered confidences, words murmured behind upraised hands, downcast eyes concealing treachery, spy holes in ceilings, balconies connected to blank walls, passageways leading to non-existent rooms. If it was Safiye on the balcony, could anything be more painful than watching your adored husband with another woman?

After a few minutes, the salon fell silent but for two sounds: the snores of the Sultan, God’s Shadow on Earth, and the scratching of Mustafa’s pen as he recorded in
The Book of Couchings
the Sultan’s triumph.

IN HER EAGERNESS
to show Foscari the sketch she had laboured over so diligently, Cesca jumped from the carriage before it had come to a full stop. In front of the Venetian embassy, as grand as any palazzo in that city, a pair of turbaned guards flanked the entranceway, holding pine-pitch torches, the sap making tiny explosions in the darkness of the night. The flag—the gold lion of Venice crouching on a field of red—fluttered overhead. Cesca yanked on the bell. As she waited for a servant to admit her, she smoothed her hair. When she told Foscari her news, she was certain, he would reward her handsomely.

Foscari was right. It was against the laws of nature for a Christian child to be raised by Jews. Last night, Matteo had cried out, restless from a nightmare. Cesca went to his room to calm him. Because she was out of earshot, she sang a lullaby, “
Sleep, Baby Jesus, sleep
…,” patting his pillow, smoothing the covers over him. Her singing, instead of quietening him, made him thrash and groan. A demon turned his body into a battlefield—a mighty conflict waged between the merciful God of the Christians and the vengeful God of the Israelites. The child’s soul would know no peace in a Jewish household.

Since their visit to the Rabbi, a multitude of thoughts crowded Cesca’s mind. Of course, her first reaction was shock at the Rabbi’s pronouncement. What woman would not be astonished to discover she was about to marry a man she had thought of merely as a lamb to be sheared? And such an obliging lamb he was too—malleable and sweet and clearly besotted with her, judging by his glances at her when he thought she was not looking.

But in an instant she realized that marriage to Isaac could be turned to her advantage. True, Isaac had no money at present—she had seen more than enough of his account books to verify that—but the value of silk would not be depressed forever. Prices of all commodities—silk, wheat, cloves—rose and fell, so Leon had counselled her. And Isaac and Hannah’s ample house, workshop, and gardens were splendid and well situated.

Besides, Cesca would not be saddled with Isaac for long. All she needed was a little more time to get acquainted with
the workings of the silk trade and then she would dispose of her new husband, Isaac, in the same way she had disposed of Leon. A blow to the head accompanied by swift pressure of the thumbs to the soft tissue of the throat, and poof!

Hannah was a kindly simpleton who could easily be forced out of her home. Let her go and live in the Imperial Harem where she seemed to have found favour. When all Isaac’s property and equipment was sold, Cesca and Foscari would take Matteo to Venice to claim his fortune. Cesca was a good sailor, reefing her sails as the winds of fortune blew new opportunities in her direction.

Now, as she approached the embassy steps, she fumbled open the drawstring of her pink shot-silk purse and from a ceramic box took out a bit of red powder. She smiled, then dabbed some on the fullest part of her cheeks.

A tall, fierce-looking Nubian slave opened the door. He bowed. “I am Kamet. Follow me. The ambassador is expecting you.” He ushered her through the house, past marble statues of Minerva and Apollo, past the huge reception room hung with paintings, past wall sconces of Murano glass flickering with candles. She would not let the grandeur overwhelm her. She would act as though coffered ceilings and paintings of the Seven Hills of Constantinople and beeswax candles instead of humble rush lights were commonplace for her.

As she followed Kamet through the mansion, Cesca rehearsed what she would say to Foscari. No, she could not linger, she must get back home. No, she would not stop for a mug of wine, and no, she would not let him have his way with her as he had on the
Aphrodite
.

Kamet swept open the wrought-iron doors set with glass panels that led into the garden. Foscari was bent over, tearing at a loaf of bread and casting crumbs into a pond. The garden should have been dark. It was not. The flower beds were so well lit that Cesca could see every petal on the nodding heads of tulips. Even the stamens were visible, rather like queens encircled by her ladies-in-waiting. Kamet wore a yellow turban. He held out a chair for her under the arbour, but Cesca remained on her feet, gathering her skirts around her, transfixed. The lawn glowed with light so bright it appeared as though the world had turned topsy-turvy. Instead of the stars being in the heavens, they were a carpet of illumination undulating on the grass.

As her eyes adjusted, she realized she was looking at the glow from scores of candles, but they were moving. Under a rose bush, in front of a pomegranate tree, hidden behind the fountain, behind the wisteria arbour, in the distance near the stream, dots of light flickered in the night.

Cesca expected to see party guests gathered in knots, talking and drinking, but there was only Foscari striding briskly toward her, arms outstretched, a smile on his face.

“Do you like my army of tortoises?” he asked.

She bent over the closest source of light, surprised to see a tortoise, large as a serving platter, at her feet. Her hands flew to her face to stifle a cry of astonishment. On its back was a beeswax candle pressed into the shape of a yellow rosette. Now she understood. All those pricks of light were tortoises with candles attached to their shells. She hoped her awe was not too apparent.

Foscari reached her side. “How lovely to see you, my dear. I was thrilled when your messenger announced you were coming to pay me a visit tonight.”

She glimpsed her reflection in his silver nose, but she could not make out her own features, just a wan face with a dusting of cochineal on the cheeks. “Even more delightful it is to see you, Foscari,” Cesca said.

He bowed low and swept an imaginary hat off his head.

Cesca offered her cheek for a kiss but he pulled her into an embrace. For an instant, she relaxed against him, enjoying the muscular feel of his arms and chest. Foscari never smelled of sweat. To sweat, one must labour. But he did smell of something pungent. She was trying to identify the scent when he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a tiny ivory box. He dipped his little finger into it, then dotted a substance under and around his silver nose. There was that peculiar odour again. Not snuff. But what? Something fishy. Roe? Fish oil? The answer came to her—fish bladder glue to keep his nose secure on his face. Gone were the silk threads that had previously held it in place.

There was a squealing, chirping noise from behind her. From the pond in the back of the garden, five cygnets, fuzzy balls of white and grey down, waddled out of the water and stretched their necks for the crumbs Foscari had scattered on the ground.

“Join me in a glass of brandy.” He turned to Kamet, who was a few paces away. “In the cellars, there is a fine cask, a gift from the French ambassador. A drop or two would be lovely.” The servant bowed and then withdrew.

A moment later, Cesca sat across from Foscari under a rose arbour at a tulipwood table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She arranged her skirts to keep them clear of the tortoises and their candles. Kamet returned with goblets of Murano crystal filled with brandy, which he placed before them. That such fragile glassware could have survived the voyage from Venice was a marvel.

Raising her glass, she said, “
Salute
, Foscari.”

“To your health, Cesca,” he responded. After enjoying a sip of brandy, he launched into business. “So, you have news for me?”

“I do. You will be fascinated to learn Safiye’s bewitchment has come to an end. Last week, the Sultan bedded a Circassian slave girl. I heard it from one of Hannah’s neighbours, a pedlar at the harem. The Sultan was as ravenous for the girl as these swans are for your bread. The other odalisques, to say nothing of his wife, are wild with jealousy.”

Foscari looked amused. “I could not be more surprised if you told me the Sultan had joined the Holy Mother Church and instead of facing Mecca to pray was turning toward Rome.” Foscari raised his glass. “Let us drink to the virility of God’s Shadow on Earth. May he sire a legion of sons.” He clinked her glass so forcefully that a drop of brandy splashed over the side and landed in her lap.

“Now, what else do you have for me?” There was impatience in his voice.

Foscari picked up a tortoise by his feet. Giving a faint hiss, the creature withdrew its head, tail, and feet into its
shell. Foscari straightened the crooked candle on its back and set it down again. A moment later, the head, tail, and feet reappeared, and the creature ambled away.

It was time to turn to the true reason for her visit. “There is no doubt Matteo is the child you seek.” Cesca reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a scrap of vellum folded into a rectangle with the edges laced tightly together with a strip of hide.

Foscari’s eyes lit up. “How lovely to have my research confirmed! Such a tragedy when rich noble families die out. I would hate to think of the di Padovani dynasty coming to an end.”

No one gave a tinker’s dam when poor families died out, Cesca thought. “With my evidence, you will have no difficulty convincing a judge to appoint you Matteo’s guardian.”

She handed him the vellum. He unlaced it, turning it this way and that in the light, the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as it often did when he concentrated. “This is the di Padovani crest, is it not? I copied it from the child’s blanket.”

“Yes,” Foscari said. Holding the vellum in the manner of someone holding a valuable painting, he moved the brandy glasses to one side and placed the parchment carefully in the centre of the table. “Can you bring me the blanket?”