Authors: Kelly Gardiner

The Sultan's Eyes (8 page)

Valentina and I scurried along trying to keep up. Finally, the elderly man and Al-Qasim paused, and we all stood together before the Gate of Felicity. It was closed.

I had no idea why we were here. Al-Qasim had been quite adamant that nobody outside the palace elite ever passed through this gate. It was the portal to the palace itself, to the Sultan’s chambers and gardens and the renowned harem where the women lived. Beyond this gate was another world, a forbidden place of power and infamous intrigue. Beyond this gate lay centuries of history and ritual, unimaginable luxury and cruelty, or so it was said.

I gazed up. The gate itself, two great wooden doors, was topped by a dome on which melting ice slid in clumps into the gutters. I shivered.

There was a slight creaking noise in the silence and slowly the gates opened. A tall man with a curled moustache stepped out and genuflected. I heard Al-Qasim take a deep breath. Without looking at us, or to either side, he walked slowly inside the secret seraglio of the Sultan.

Valentina reached for my hand and gripped it so tightly I could feel her rings cutting into my fingers, even through my gloves. I glanced back at Willem and he nodded. Captain Skender was nowhere to be seen now, and though it seemed strange, I missed his reassuring presence.

The man in grey waved us onwards. Hand in hand, Valentina and I followed in Al-Qasim’s footsteps through the Gate of Felicity. The officer with the moustache marched close behind us.

Al-Qasim led us along a short path towards a building fronted with marble columns. We climbed the stairs and were ushered inside. I couldn’t help but gasp. It was like walking into a jewel box. The walls were painted in gold, the floor covered in brilliant blue and red tiles, and the ceiling soared above our heads in vaults of turquoise and silver.

The room was as warm as a spring afternoon and Valentina rubbed her cold hands together. Al-Qasim threw off his cloak and a serving woman scurried to pick it up. Others appeared to help me and Valentina with our sodden capes and gloves. They gave us embroidered slippers for our wet feet, then motioned to us to hold out our hands and sprinkled perfume onto each palm. Valentina nodded her thanks.

Willem, I noticed, kept his cloak on. His eyes darted around the room, from the tables laden with dried fruit and sweets to the door through which more servants appeared, carrying trays of cakes and pots of coffee. Low benches covered in red velvet cushions edged the walls, and on one of them Al-Qasim now sat, deep in conversation with the man in grey.

‘Are we allowed to talk now?’ Valentina asked.

The two men turned to her.

‘Yes, but quietly,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘And you must keep your veil across your face.’

‘Even here?’

‘Especially here,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Now, may I present you to Nuri Effendi?’

The man in grey stood to greet us. ‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘We are honoured by your presence.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ I said, in the court language Al-Qasim had taught me. ‘The honour is ours.’

‘Nuri Effendi is the librarian here in the palace,’ Al-Qasim explained. ‘We spent many hours together studying when I was here before.

‘And this,’ he indicated the tall man with the moustache, ‘is Colonel Orga, of the Janissary Corps.’

Colonel Orga bowed only slightly. Obviously there were degrees of bowing, depending on either your own standing or that of the other person. I would ask Al-Qasim about it later, along with the thousand other questions piling up in my mind. My head felt fuzzy, bewildered. Valentina’s gaze indicated she felt much the same. It was almost too much to comprehend at once, from the gazelles to the rotting heads above the gate, and these were only our first few moments in the palace.

‘Tell me,’ Willem said, ‘what’s going on? Why did they bring us in here?’

‘It seems we are to be honoured with a private audience with the Sultan,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Next door is the Throne Room.’

‘It is a very rare privilege,’ said Nuri. ‘But as soon as the Sultan heard you were coming to Constantinople, he was most eager to meet you.’ He glanced at Colonel Orga, then leaned towards Al-Qasim and whispered, ‘It is not usual for women to be presented, of course, so the Divan argued against a reception. But the Sultan insisted.’

‘He has power, then?’ asked Al-Qasim. ‘In spite of his years?’

‘In some matters, yes.’ Nuri straightened up and smiled at us. ‘Indeed, many of us are very pleased to welcome you to our city. We hope you will be the first of many great thinkers from all over the world who will visit us, to revive the great glory that was once Kostantiniyye.’

‘Great thinkers?’ Willem said.

‘Who is this young man?’ asked Colonel Orga.

Al-Qasim scowled at Willem. ‘Someone who has forgotten his place.’

Willem looked for a moment as if he might argue, then shook his head and took a few steps back.

Somewhere a gong sounded.

‘Please prepare yourselves,’ said Nuri. ‘The Sultan will see you now.’

‘Have you told them what to do in the Presence?’ Colonel Orga asked Al-Qasim.

‘I have, although I never imagined it would really be necessary.’

‘We were given firm instructions,’ I said. ‘Don’t look at the Sultan’s face, don’t turn your back on him, don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t argue under any circumstances.’

A smile played on Al-Qasim’s lips. ‘Such behaviour,’ he told Nuri, ‘does not come naturally to my friends.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nuri. He cast a worried glance at me, then at Valentina. ‘Just do the best you can, then, and perhaps any transgressions will be put down to your foreign ignorance. But no matter what happens, do not look into his eyes.’

‘Very well.’

‘Good.’ Nuri nodded.

‘Then we proceed,’ said Colonel Orga.

As if at his word, a door swung open. Nuri bowed his head and walked through it, and we followed him into the Throne Room and into the Presence of Sultan Mehmed IV, Sovereign of the House of Osman, Sultan of Sultans, Khan of Khans, Protector of the Holy Cities, Commander of the Faithful, Sublime Ruler of the World — aged nearly eight years old.

We shuffled in, heads bowed. I didn’t dare look up, but glimpsed a low couch covered in gold brocade and, dangling in front of it, two small feet clad in green slippers.

Nuri Effendi introduced me, Al-Qasim and Valentina one by one, in a beautiful mellifluous voice that made our names sound like poetry. Each of us bowed even more deeply as we were announced, then, following Al-Qasim’s lead, I stayed bent as low as I could.

Nuri kept talking — I couldn’t catch all of it — about us and our voyage and the books we had published. He spoke of Al-Qasim’s maps and astronomical charts and his service to the empire, and said how honoured and grateful we were to be in the Presence.

After a while, I prayed that he would stop. There’s an awful lot of bowing in Constantinople, and being bent in half is extremely uncomfortable. It is also precarious. All we had to do, Al-Qasim had told us time and time again, was to bow and stay silent and then leave. He hadn’t said how difficult that would be. My back hurt so badly that it was a struggle to keep from groaning.

I knew Valentina, beside me, was finding it hard to keep her balance. I saw her feet twisting first one way on the tiled floor, then the other, as she struggled to stay upright. And then she giggled.

It was not much more than a whisper, but I heard it. And, like a plague, like a rumour, it infected me. I giggled, too, very quietly. I tried to force it back down, but it didn’t work — it never does when you try not to laugh. In fact, it makes it worse.

My attempt made Valentina giggle again. Behind us, Willem snickered. There was no stopping it. Valentina laughed. So did I.

I clamped both hands over my veiled face and pinched my lips shut, trying to muffle the sound, but it still came out as a splutter.
Valentina did the same, but a snort of laughter leaked out and echoed around the Throne Room like a chorus of cherubs. She gasped, forcing the noise down into an unseemly gurgle in her throat.

Poor Nuri Effendi kept talking, trying hard to drown us out. Al-Qasim whispered vicious threats at us in Venetian. It made no difference. I tried to control my laughter, but it was impossible. Tears dampened my veil.

‘Sorry.’ In an effort to calm my breath, I stood upright, hands on hips, and looked up.

The child Sultan sat staring at us with wide eyes. He was dressed in gold velvet and a sable cape, with a small gold turban in which were set emeralds of the deepest green. Behind him stood a young woman, also in gold, with her face veiled and her head bowed. Her shoulders, I noticed, shook.

Nuri Effendi’s words petered out. Valentina stood up beside me, then tried again to bow.

The memory of the blackened heads above the Gate of Salutation flashed into my mind. That was enough to knock the laughter out of me.

I took a few steps forward. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’ I said.

‘Your Magnificence,’ Colonel Orga corrected me.

‘Your Magnificence,’ I said. ‘We must seem like barbarians to you. I apologise.’

The Sultan was tiny, perched on the edge of the sofa like a fledgling in an eagle’s nest. He stared at me: at the damp hem of my Venetian gown, at the strands of hair escaping from under the veil. His eyes were enormous, curious, a soft dark brown that seemed to fill up his face.

Then he smiled.

‘I have been waiting for you,’ he said in French. ‘I want you to read me a book.’

The Sultan lifted one finger. A servant ran from the corner of the room and kneeled before him, head down, holding up a book.

My book.

Or, rather, Master de Aquila’s book:
The Sum of All Knowledge
. Valentina nudged me with her elbow.

‘Nuri ordered a copy of this for my library,’ said the Sultan. ‘I find it very interesting, especially the chapters on the ancient builders. Also, the wars of the Romans and the Greeks. When I am older, I will be like Alexander the Great.’

‘I hope so, Your Magnificence,’ I said. ‘Although it would be better if you lived to old age.’

‘True,’ he said. ‘Alexander was not great for very long, was he?’

I smiled. ‘Not long enough, no.’

‘You will tell me more about him,’ said the Sultan. ‘Also, I would like to know about everything in the world.’

‘Everything, Your Magnificence?’

‘Yes. I must know it all. When I am grown, I will travel the world at the head of my army, like Süleyman the Magnificent.’

‘Or you could just take a ship,’ I said. ‘Conquest is a very expensive way to travel.’

The Sultan thought about this for a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right. I will decide that later. But until then, I must understand everything. You will read me the histories of that Greek.’

‘Herodotus?’

‘You are an expert, Nuri says.’

Nuri crouched, bent low, but with his gaze firmly fixed on me as if willing me to silence.

‘Nuri Effendi is too kind, Your Magnificence,’ I said. ‘My father was the expert.’

‘But he is dead, is he not?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He is dead.’

The Sultan paused. ‘My father is also dead.’

I hesitated, searching for the right response. I glanced at Al-Qasim, but he looked as if he had lost the will to live; he was slumped in a low bow, hoping only for his shameful friends to fade away and let him die of humiliation in peace.

‘I am sorry for your great loss,’ I said. ‘But surely the empire rejoices to have you on the throne?’

The Sultan nodded. ‘True. Also, it was not a great loss.’

‘We are blessed by Your Magnificence,’ said Colonel Orga. ‘Allah is good to us.’

‘Yes,’ said the Sultan. ‘That is also true.’

My gaze shifted to the young woman standing behind him. Although she was veiled, the fabric was so fine that her smile was visible.

‘My sister,’ said the Sultan. ‘The Princess Ay
e. She wanted to meet you, too.’