I was becoming acutely aware of Stoyan, standing a short distance along the colonnade. I judged he was not quite out of earshot. His face was turned away from us. “Why not?” I asked in an undertone.
“Again you spring to his defense. He is not your equal, Paula, and never can be. Ask yourself if such a man would ever be able to conduct a conversation with you about books or music or philosophy. Would he ever be able to share with you the pursuits you love, the ideas you are so passionate about? Besides, how much can you know about him on so brief an acquaintance? Has it occurred to you that his absence at the time of his employer’s death might have been more than coincidence? If, let us say, a rival had wished to remove Salem bin Afazi from the scene, he would only have needed to offer a respectable sum to this large young man to ensure he would be far away from his master’s side at the critical moment.”
I was shocked. “I’m certain that’s not how it was. I mean, maybe it’s true about a rival being responsible for what happened to Salem. But Stoyan would never risk his employer’s safety for money. We know him well enough by now to be quite sure of that.”
“Really? I imagine his family back home, wherever that is, must be impoverished. There’s another matter of concern, Paula. I have heard of your guard’s involvement in certain unsavory dealings prior to his time with Salem bin Afazi. Street fighting and other such activities.”
“He has reasons for being here, and reasons for needing funds,” I said a little defensively. Her comments bothered me. It was true that, in terms of our background, there was a yawning gulf between Stoyan and me. But there was no need for her to point it out, especially not within his hearing. Besides, there was nothing going on between us.
“And he has confided these reasons to you.” Her voice was soft.
I wasn’t going to let her probe any further. “Irene, I know you must be very busy. And I should get on with some work.”
“I see my criticism of your watchdog hurts you,” Irene said quietly. “I’m sorry. You are young, and young girls can be swayed by the longings of the heart, or by excess sympathy for those who seem in trouble, or by the all- too-powerful yearnings of the body. Before she knows it, a young woman can find herself swept into very deep waters.”
Stoyan had moved slightly farther away and was busy adjusting the weapon he carried on his back. His mouth was set in a grim line.
“You don’t need to warn me,” I said. “I’m not one of those gullible types. Besides, I’m in Istanbul to assist my father. I’ve no plans to fall in love.”
Irene smiled. “No, I suppose your first love will always be scholarship. How frustrating for you that we women are denied so many opportunities. If you had been a boy, perhaps you might have been a noted scholar, a teacher, a writer. As it is, I imagine that although your father allows you considerable freedom, he will eventually expect you to marry some worthy man and settle down to produce a batch of children. Such a waste of your gifts.” She sounded unusually passionate, as if this genuinely angered her.
“It’s not quite like that,” I said, feeling I must defend my father. “Father has been delighted to see two of my sisters happily married, of course. But he knows I want to become a trader specializing in books. I suppose he would like me to marry as well. My sisters often tease me about that. They say that if I select a husband, it will be on the basis of how many languages he can read or his ability to sustain an argument on obscure points of philosophy. In fact, I am coming to the conclusion that a woman cannot succeed in both—I mean, conducting some kind of career of her own as well as being a wife and mother. My sister Jena is an exception, but then, she married an unusual man. There are no others like Costi.”
Irene smiled. “It’s my belief that a strong-minded and able young woman needs no husband, only the courage of her own convictions,” she said. “There are hundreds of girls who can perform the role of wives and mothers. There are only a few with the capacity to rise above that and do the extraordinary. You could be one of those, Paula. Give it some thought. Now I will ask Ariadne to fetch your manuscripts. You may work here. Just be careful the wind does not carry the papers into the garden. Everything’s wet today.”
Stoyan wasn’t happy. Whatever he had overheard had caused him to close in on himself completely. I gestured to him to come over and sit by me at the table, but he was slow to respond. Our hostess had moved away along the colonnade and was speaking to a group of women gathered there.
“Please, Stoyan,” I murmured.
With visible reluctance, he squatted down beside me, peering at the fragment.
“This is the goddess with her bees.” I showed him the tiny image. “I do think she looks a little like a tree, with her hair as foliage.”
Stoyan spoke in a sharp whisper. “I am out of place here. I am a guard, not a scholar.”
“Never mind that,” I whispered back. “Tell me what you can see.”
“Pictures, kyria. And words I cannot read. You do not require me here to tell you what you can see for yourself.”
“I can’t read this either. It’s in Persian. Look closely. I want to know if you notice anything unusual.” When he made no comment, I added, “I’m sorry if she upset you. I can’t do this without you, Stoyan.”
While he examined the ornately decorated pages, I got out my writing materials and made another copy of the hidden symbols, this time on a loose sheet of paper that I had divided up into thirty squares. I did not try to put them in the shape of the tree, only to copy each faithfully. Back at the han, I would cut the sheet up and assemble the pieces to form a more lasting version of our completed puzzle. I needed the sand tray for Stoyan’s writing lessons. I was determined to make him realize he was capable of learning. He was bitter and angry about his lack of scholarship. There was enough sadness in his life. No point in adding to it when the solution was so easy.
Stoyan’s attention had been taken by the miniatures on the other fragment, the one I had found first. “This looks like a game of combat,” he whispered to me, indicating one of the images. “This being, who seems part man, part jackal, tosses the other, with his horselike head, over his shoulder and onto the ground. These others—men in women’s clothing?—applaud the bout. I think this figure holds a circlet of leaves to crown the victor.”
“Cybele’s spring ritual,” I murmured. “They enacted it every year when her lover was reborn. They used to… Well, never mind the details.”
