Reign of the Favored Women (26 page)

Ghazanfer rose unobtrusively and watched how humble his mistress became before Murad, devoted to him still. Her actions proved it. It gave her awful power over him. The lord of three continents could not meet her in the eye. He was ashamed.

“Safiye, I...” he stammered to bring forth some sort of apology.

“Say nothing, my lord, if you do not wish to.”

The Sultan took the mantle of sovereignty she handed him with those words and flung it hastily over himself for protection. But still he realized, and realized that she realized: If he was Sultan, she was Sultan Maker.

“Please, please, be seated, my master.” Safiye gestured with a sweep of her graceful arm. “Your counselors are just coming to the important decisions now.”

Murad let her reverence and the formality of the situation give him the royal will he needed to sit as if it had been his own idea. Then Safiye curled up at his feet like some faithful dog. He tried to protest and invited her to sit beside him on the divan. But she would not. And there was such power in her humility, he could not resist! He didn’t stop to think that the seat on the rugs gave the best view and hearing of the affairs in the room below, and that a modicum of comfort was the only advantage he had on the divan.

The Agha of the Janissaries was in the midst of complaining before the viziers: “I swear by Allah that if something is not done, the entire corps will have turned over its supper kettles by the end of the week.”

“And the cavalry will join the rebellion,” added Ferhad, the handsome Master of the Horse.

“There’s ground stone in the flour.”

“Rotten vegetables.”

“No meat at all last week.”

“You cannot feed your army on that and expect them to be faithful.”

“I agree,” came the sober voice of Sokolli Pasha, sitting just beneath the Eye where they could see little more than the bubble of his gold-banded turban. “Something must be done and immediately. With the general populace also hungry and restive, discontent in the army is like a firebrand in the powder stores. You’ve had a chance to take our offer to your men. What is their answer?”

“‘A tax for wear and tear on our teeth and stomachs.’ That’s what they’re calling it.” The young Master of the Horse enjoyed a smile. There was no doubt of his charm.

The Grand Vizier gave the man a hard look which he had difficulty meeting. “They joke at it, then? They wall not accept our best offer, one that will break the empire in any case?”

“My colleague did not say that,” the Agha of the Janissaries spoke for Ferhad, who at the moment could say nothing. Ghazanfer wondered briefly what there was between the young cavalryman and the Grand Vizier. “They are willing to bargain over such a ‘tax.’ They will take a hundred akçe a man per year.”

“We only offered fifty.” Sokolli Pasha was grim.

“A hundred is what they want.”

“Very well. See if they’ll settle for seventy-five. And we in here—” He looked around at the other viziers seated with him on the Divan. “—we will see if it is possible to meet them there.”

The two commanders bowed their way out of the room.

“By Allah!” Sokolli Pasha exploded the minute the men had gone. “It is blackmail. They will destroy the empire. They will destroy Islam. Don’t they care?”

“I doubt they do,” said Lala Mustafa, the second vizier. He spoke quietly. “It is not their empire, after all.”

“Of course it is their empire.”

“They were taken from their homes as boys. Remember?”

“So was I, by Allah. So were you. I knew if we let them marry they would begin to get personal profit on the brain. Ah, but I forget. You are in favor of this scheme.” The Grand Vizier’s voice sharpened, like a knife, as he added, “You and whoever pays you.”

“I see no other way out, my lord Grand Vizier. Do you?”

Sokolli Pasha was desperate, but he had to admit he saw none. “‘The encroachments of the rich are more dangerous to the State than those of the poor,’” he quoted instead.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, Pasha. Just something Aristotle once said.”

“Heathen blasphemer.” Lala Mustafa brushed the quote aside.

“Be that as it may,” said Sokolli Pasha, “let us be united, gentlemen, now, and try to figure out where we are to get that extra twenty-five akçe a man. There are no taxes coming in; the sandjaks have nothing to tax, nothing but stubble in the fields. Jihad is at a stalemate on all fronts, so there is no booty.”

“There are still the bankers and moneylenders standing by.” Lala Mustafa again.

“Vultures waiting for the carcass. No, by my life. That I still refuse.”

“All the Christian governments do it.”

“Yes, by Allah, and they are condemned to hellfire.”

“Still, if we want to compete with them in the economy of the world...”

“By Allah, we do not have to compete. We are the realm of the Faithful.”

“There are some who would call that opinion short-sighted and parochial.”

“Would you call it that. Pasha? Would you?”

Lala Mustafa did not dare.

“As the realm of the Faithful, what Allah has strictly forbidden we may not do. We may not take money at interest.”

“‘Allah’s legislation has no other purpose than to ease the way of His servants through the exigencies of the times.’” Lala Mustafa quoted from a famous Muslim jurist.

“It is blasphemy to suggest such a thing in this context,” said Sokolli Pasha. “In any case, I could never agree to something that is neither more nor less than the bartering of the lives of future generations of Muslims into slavery. And the Mufti will agree with me.”

The reverend representative of the Faith was not present, but Lala Mustafa sadly shook his head. He knew it was true. “Then we have no choice but to get the money where we got the first fifty akçe.”

“How can we?”

“Debase the currency. Instead of fifty percent copper to a silver coin, make it seventy-five. So the army will really be getting only the twenty-five akçe we can afford. But they will think it is more. And the grocers they buy from wall think it is more. And the merchants. And the whoremongers. And the jewelers.”

“You really think they will do this?” Sokolli Pasha was grim. But then, he often was.

“They’ll be obliged to. It will have the Sultan’s name on it. Otherwise they would be committing treason.”

“By the Merciful One, how I hate money!”

“There speaks a man with all the fine things money can buy and a full stomach. You would not say that if you were poor.”

“It smacks of usury no matter how one wants to deal with it. We are still borrowing on the lives of our children. When a state has been dependent upon growth and growth and more growth and it finally reaches the limits of Allah—Why can’t even I accept that limit? Why can’t I see within and see what must be done and have the courage?”

“No one will call you a coward if you take this bold step.”

“No, because they’re all such damnable cowards themselves.”

“It is only a temporary measure.”

“Yes, and as Allah is my witness, I shall see that it remains so. I will not live to see temporary measures like these become tradition.”

“Amen,” said Lala Mustafa.

“As if one could say one day there was a famine, the next it was over,” Safiye could not help exclaiming up in the Sultan’s Eye. “Oh, he is a tedious old man, that Sokolli Pasha. I only wonder, my love, how you endure him.”

“Endure him? I must. He made me what I am. And my father before me.”

“There is always the executioner’s block for Grand Viziers who’ve outworn their stay.”

“Now, my dear. One way or another, I always manage to have my way. Sokolli Pasha or no.”

Murad himself seemed startled at how easily he had fallen into conversation with this woman when politics were the topic. Even the endearments came easily.

They are like some dottering old couple, Ghazanfer thought, beyond the needs of sex, who only use the bed as an excuse for a good chat.

“You are in favor of debasing the coinage then, too, my love?” Safiye asked her master.

“Yes.”

“But I remember in one of their earlier discussions of the problem, Sokolli said, ‘What man would want his name stamped on a lie?’ The coin says on it that it weighs so much in gold or silver and can be traded for so much, but any man with a scale can see that it does not. And there is your name affixed to it forever.”

“Yes, that is a consideration.”

“Which you considered, my love?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And—other things seemed more important.”

“Your new sweetmeat service for example?”

Murad seemed embarrassed that she knew of that. “Yes.” But he continued firmly. “The future might forgive me a lie on the coins. It will not forgive me if I let the janissaries take over and lose the empire.”

“Or if you show yourself as a weak ruler by bartering your jewels. My love, did you take a bribe for this?”

The way he returned her glance betrayed himself.

“Ah, I thought so. Who promised?”

“I’ll let you guess, my sweet little politician.”

“I guess it was Lala Mustafa.”

“You are very wise.”

Safiye blushed a controlled, enticing degree. “And he was bribed by lesser officials who were bribed by lesser ones who were bribed by the bankers and moneylenders. It must be a substantial pile by now.”

“It is. And you know its genealogy better than I.”

Ah, she was sitting at his feet now just in the attitude she must have had when as a young prince he’d first taken those golden curls into both his hands...

“Are you terribly disappointed in me?” he asked hoarsely.

“Disappointed? Oh, no, my love. I shall affix a string of those debased coins and wear them on my caplet proudly.” She shook her pink and green caplet set with sequins now most coyly. “Did I sound disappointed?”

“A little.”

“Well, I’m not in the least. In fact, I am very pleased. Some of that bribery money-well, you may as well know. It’s mine.”

“I see.” Murad smiled in wonder and some little relief.

“Surely you don’t expect me to live like Sokolli Pasha wants us to.”

“Away with your fine clothes?” Murad teased, plucking at the diamonds that buttoned her
yelek
. “And my slave girls?”

“You could not do without your girls, my love,” Safiye agreed.

“I just wanted to know. That’s all.” He said it into the pillow of her neck.

And Safiye pulled herself up on the Sultan’s knees and kissed him tenderly on one cheek. Murad repaid the kiss, then their lips met lightly.

Ghazanfer did not move a muscle. He willed even his eyes not to blink.

“Tell me, how is your Mitra these days?” Murad murmured into the golden hair. His nuzzle released the smell of heliotrope and lemon.

“Just fine. Lonely, though. She misses you.”

“And I miss her. She has such a way with the poets.”

“Yes, she does. Oh, but you’ve been so busy with that new girl of your mother’s.”

“Yes. Well, she’s a silly little thing.”

“Aren’t they always?”

Murad grunted into a smile that committed nothing. He took another deep breath of that hair, then sighed. “Send her to me tonight, will you?”

“Mitra?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. Your wish is my command, my master.” She kissed him again and was gone. The big Hungarian eunuch slipped after her dance in silence.

“King Joseph” the sign read beneath the shield of red lines and silver crosses. “Barry ten azure and argent,” the description of Christian heralders might have read, “lion rampant gules.” Yet the words were not as foreign to Constantinople as one might imagine.
Azure
comes from the Arabic for dark blue and
gul
is the red rose in Persian, as in the name of my young lady.

The lions had faded pink, the stripes to a pastel blue. Five years of wet cold and blistering heat had passed since Joseph Nassey’s dream of a kingdom of Cyprus had reached fruition in the Sultan’s heart. Yet the Jew had never enjoyed the fruits of his labors. At first there had been famine on the conquered island. Selim had fumed, not so much because his new subjects were going hungry but because part of their hunger was that nearly every vine on the island had been cut down during the war. It would be years before there would be another decent vintage and Allah only knew if the cuttings imported from the mainland could ever make wine so sweet.

His friend and inspiration Nassey, the Sultan had declared, would only be given the island when it was worthy of him. Until time had healed the ravages of war it would be best to put the place in the hands of one used to desolation, a soldier, Muzzaffer Pasha.

Muzzaffer Pasha had done a remarkable job. The Cypriots were now hailing the Muslims as deliverers. I can understand this, from my present perspective. We Venetians had insisted that every priest on the island be in communion with Rome. Muzzaffer allowed the beards and Cossacks of eastern orthodoxy back. If the man in charge of the island’s secular law was a mufti, the people cared little as long as Greek could be the tongue that sent them to heaven and incense and icons greeted them in their churches every Sunday.

Muzzaffer Pasha also allowed the people, who had lived on their lands as serfs according to Byzantine custom, to buy those lands for a nominal sum and to work them as free men. That was Turkish custom. It seemed to produce better results.

Within three years a pressing from new Cypriot grapes arrived in Constantinople as per the tax schedule. But no one was able to tell whether the vintage was as good as that in former times. Selim was dead and could not say whether the price he had paid in Turkish lives, subject suffering, and drain on the treasury was worth it.

Selim was dead and with him, one thought, Nassey’s claim to Cyprus’s throne. Nassey had no friend in the new Sultan. No one was surprised, when the time came to reward Muzzaffer Pasha with a fourth horsetail to his banner and a transfer to a sandjak closer to home, that the Divan totally overlooked promises made by a predecessor. Nassey would fade, we all suspected, like the sign in front of his house.