The maids left off their protests of Esmikhan’s breach of etiquette to listen, for they were almost as curious as she was.
“He is not young,” I confessed. Then, to still the murmurs of disappointment this brought forth, I continued, “But, lady, this is said only because you yourself are in the bloom of your youth, Allah protect you, and would prove his better were comparison made between you on this count. You know well no man can bear defeat in any matter from his bride. He is the one who is supposed to defeat her.”
The disappointment turned to titters of delight at this statement.
But, “No, don’t you tease me, Abdullah,” Esmikhan said. “The others tease me; you must not. I understand Sokolli Pasha has been in my grandfather’s service for almost thirty years. I can do sums. He must be forty at least.”
“May Allah double his years,” I said. “My master is fifty -four.”
“No! Do not pray to double those years! Fifty-four! That is three times—almost four times my age! My father is younger than that!” Esmikhan wailed.
“Sokolli Pasha is a man of strong, fit body and keen mind. He is a soldier who will endure, Allah willing, at least two more decades of warfare, diplomacy—and love.”
“But I am just a child, with my whole life ahead of me. Allah, I am to be married to a grandfather!”
“If it is any comfort, lady, rumor has it, and my meeting with him did nothing to dispel it: Sokolli Pasha is as much a stranger to the ways of love as you are.”
“If he’s a healthy man, as you say, how is that possible?”
“Do not forget, lady. Sokolli Pasha was raised from his youth in the Enclosed School.”
“He is one of the tribute boys, then?”
Had Esmikhan been a Christian girl, with centuries of crusade in her upbringing, there might have been a tremor of horror in her voice. That, or at least deep pity to think that her betrothed had been one of the thousands of lads taken as a tribute from the Empire’s Christian communities every five years. These lads became the Sultan’s personal slaves, forcibly converted to Islam, never to see their families and homes again.
But Esmikhan knew only the Turkish side of the story in spite of the fact that in her seclusion she had never actually seen a tribute boy. She knew that Christian parents were as often as not glad to give up their sons and would try to cover up their defects in an attempt to get them chosen for the levy. To be taken away from the misery of poor, war-ridden lands on the border to the glittering capital with every chance for education and advancement usually outweighed any considerations of religion and family togetherness. It was not unheard of for Muslim families to put off circumcision and pay the local priest to pass their sons off as Christians, too, for even True Believers rarely knew such a good life as the most favored of the Sultan’s favored slaves.
Neither did Esmikhan turn up her little round nose to think that her husband would be a slave. Although the first lesson boys learned in the Enclosed School was absolute obedience to no master but the Shadow of Allah, the Sultan, they learned plenty ol other things, too. Those with brains were taught to read and write, those with brawn to fight; most were as handy with the pen as with the sword. There, in the barracks that became their home, nothing counted but individual ability, neither family’s prestige, wealth, nor the prejudice ol acquaintances. Some became gardeners, some cooks, some men of religion and study. The greater part ol them filled the ranks ol the janissaries, where their tierce devotion to the Sultan made them tight as one man and put even life a lowly second place. It one showed his devotion particularly well, he joined the Sultan’s private bodyguard.
But some very few, like Sokolli Muhammed Pasha, whose superior abilities had come to Suleiman’s notice before he was twenty, were set on the path toward becoming governors and pashas. They made up the very backbone of the Turkish government, tor the Sultan trusted them explicitly in a way he could trust no free-born Turk. They were his creations, after all. They were his slaves, even as pashas and viziers. All they managed to amass of worldly goods reverted to the imperial cotters upon their deaths, and the Sultan always maintained the right to send them to that death at a moment’s notice. No trial, apology, or explanation was possible. And their own muster mates pulled the bowstring it the lord but waved his hand.
I told Esmikhan all I had managed to learn of Sokolli Pasha’s career from the day at nineteen or twenty, when, fresh from the hinterland of Europe, this young recruit had caught the Sultan’s eye and been set apart for better things. It was a simple tale, as all tales of unremitted success must be. He rose from post to post until now he sat among the pashas and viziers in the Great Divan itself and was followed in the Friday morning procession by a standard bearing three long horsetails.
“Sokolli Pasha’s elevation demands some outward display of extravagance lest diplomats and politicians refuse to believe he holds such power as his title declares,” I said. “He therefore purchased a large park in the City just across from the Aya Sophia Mosque.”
“I am not familiar with much of Constantinople outside the palace harem,” Esmikhan said. “But I have heard of that park. It is not far from the new palace, is it?”
“Not far at all. And I think that was the master’s first consideration in the purchase. He can answer the Sultan’s summons within half an hour from deep sleep at home to full command in the Great Divan. Of only minor consideration to him are the land’s lovely waters and plantings and the gentle rise that was the perfect
