The Sultan's Eyes (17 page)

For the truth was, I’d had no friends in England. I had only my father and Nanny. No one else knew of my work and my learning. Nobody came to visit or invited me to call. What would have become of me if I’d stayed there? What life could there be for a girl who knows classical Greek but not how to cook or keep a house? I might have been alone forever, or forced to marry someone I despised just to have somewhere safe to live in my old age. All these years, I’d longed to go home, but, when given the chance, I’d refused. Perhaps the whole idea of home was a falsehood, a mirage? But what kind of life lay ahead for me? And where?

Why, oh why, couldn’t I be more like Princess Ay
e? Every day I watched her, and every day she was serene, never perturbed or angry or fearful. Or so she seemed.

‘How do you do it?’ I asked her one day, as we waited in the antechamber for the Sultan. ‘How do you stay so tranquil, no matter what?’

She smiled. ‘It is something I learned from a young age.’

‘I wish I had such a skill,’ I said.

‘I would not wish that upon you,’ she replied. ‘It is a serenity
born of fear, of harsh words and beatings, of never knowing whether today might be your last.’

‘Is that what your life is truly like?’

‘Not now; not while my brother rules. But that could change at any moment.’

‘Surely not?’

‘If my grandmother wished it, Mehmed would be back in the
kafes
in an instant,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps dead if the janissaries or the Black Eunuchs rose up against him. Any one of those forces is more powerful than he is at present.’

‘And they work together?’

‘As you have seen, no doubt.’

I nodded.

She glanced around. ‘The palace is calm at the moment, but it is always ready to explode. It takes just one person to light a fuse. Since I never know who that person might be, or where the cannon is pointed, I smile and agree and try not to laugh in the face of stupidity.’

‘You would have made a very good sultan,’ I said.

‘Never let anyone hear you say such a thing.’

Her eyes darted to the door, to a shadow that lingered just beyond it. She pulled her veil up over her face.

‘Colonel Orga,’ she said. ‘What is it? What do you want?’

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’ Colonel Orga stepped forward and genuflected, but I noticed he didn’t bow. ‘The Valide Sultan wishes to speak to you.’

‘To me?’

‘Both of you. The foreigner as well.’

‘I see.’ Ay
e’s tone was gracious but cold. ‘When?’

‘Now,’ said the Colonel. ‘If you please.’

‘Very well.’

The Colonel turned his back on the Princess as if she was just another commoner, perhaps less than a person — merely a woman. I glanced at Ay
e, but her eyes were impassive.

Colonel Orga led us through the Hall of Pillars to a thick iron door set deep into the wall. Four White Eunuchs stood guard there, but it was one of the Colonel’s janissaries who held it open. Orga halted at the wall and bowed his head only slightly as we passed.

I followed Ay
e through and the door closed behind us. We were in a dark tiled hallway lit by lanterns. Five Black Eunuchs stood to attention, each bearing a formidable curved sword.

Ay
e paused. ‘You wanted to see the harem, Isabella,’ she whispered. ‘This is your chance. Very few outsiders ever visit inside these walls.’

‘I am glad of that,’ I said, ‘but a little nervous about meeting your grandmother.’

‘You should be,’ said Ay
e. ‘I always am. She is the mother and grandmother of sultans and unofficially the ruler of half the world. If she was a man, she would be as famous as your Alexander the Great. She is also rather grumpy. But I’m sure this is nothing. She probably just wants to look at you. Come.’

We walked only a few steps to yet another door and waited while one of the guards opened it for us.

‘This, we call the Golden Way,’ said Ay
e. ‘You can see why. It leads into the harem and the private apartments.’

Ahead of us stretched a long hallway, its walls covered in glorious yellow and red tiles. Another squad of Black Eunuchs waited there for us; they swung about and escorted us along the Golden Way. As we walked, Ay
e kept up a cheerful commentary.

‘That way leads to the
kafes
,’ she said, pointing down a wide hallway. ‘And along there are the Sultan’s mother’s apartments.’

Music echoed through the corridors, some kind of string instrument accompanied by a plaintive voice, almost wailing.

‘Is that her?’ I whispered.

‘It could be. Yes, it does sound like her. Silence is not required inside the harem, or we would all go mad. There is no need to whisper here, either, unless it is a secret. Although perhaps secrets should not be spoken at all, because whispering only makes people want to find out what was said.’

As we walked, I listened to the music. It swirled and soared around the tiled hallways and salons, filling the air.

‘Is something wrong? It sounds like mourning.’

Ay
e laughed. ‘Not at all, it is a love song — one of the old songs. The Sultan’s mother does not mourn. Ever, I should think.’

‘Why do you call her that?’

‘She is not my mother,’ said Ay
e.