“My grandfather’s own royal architect?”
“Yes. And it is a building very worthy of his famous skill. But always Sokolli Pasha remembers that on his death, it will all revert to the throne. What is the use of building a small private kingdom, of marrying, of begetting sons, when all his efforts will only leave them paupers at his death? So he never has peopled this palace with wives and children. Besides, the Enclosed School taught its prize pupil well. None of the things that give other men pleasure are a temptation to Sokolli’s discipline. More than fine clothes, music, or women, he loves duty. In fact, compared to a day spent enforcing the Sultan’s will upon distant provinces, foreign ambassadors, and whining tax collectors, any other pastime drives him to impatience with its frivolity.
“There is one way a high-ranking slave of the Sultan might leave a permanent name for himself on the earth, and Sokolli Pasha has taken full opportunity of this,” I explained to Esmikhan.
“He can build medresses and endow awqaf,” she suggested.
“Yes, there is hardly a province that does not boast a brand-new religious school, mosque, or dervish tekke bearing the master’s patronym. But where other men hoard behind them, in their harems, Sokolli Pasha has remained a Spartan indeed.
“Now, at last, in his fifty-fourth year, private pleasure is offered to him. Not only offered, but presented to him in a way he cannot possibly refuse—in the person of the Sultan’s own granddaughter as a solemn duty to guard with life and honor. Because of your royal Ottoman blood, he need not worry on his own death for the care of either you or the children we pray Allah may grant to you. The state will see to that. I suspect Sokolli Pasha has yet to get over the shock of this honor, and he will certainly never overcome the burden of it.
“I’ll wager,” I said finally, daring to meet her eye and wink, “he will be shy in your presence, and you are the one who will have to do some coaxing.”
Esmikhan blushed prettily at my words, then said, “But tell me, is he handsome? Is the pasha handsome? That is the most important. It shall all be easier if he is handsome.”
I smiled gently and chose my words carefully. “I’m afraid, lady, that I cannot answer that.”
“Oh, but you must,” Esmikhan said, tears rising quickly in her eyes again, though this time they were tears of frustration rather than grief.
“Please, lady, you must understand that a man, even if he is a eunuch, does not look at another man the way a woman would. Understand, too, that I am but new to this calling and have but little practice in being—shall I say?—a woman’s eyes.
“Poor, poor Abdullah!” Esmikhan interjected briefly, simply to give me encouragement.
“Please understand, lady, that the first—and only—time I ever laid eyes on Sokolli Pasha, it was to view him as my new master, and not as your new husband.”
“But tell me what your impression was. Surely a wife is often no better than her husband’s slave.” Esmikhan reached out a hand to my shoulder and fixed me with her clear brown eyes.
This look and those words struck me deeply and forged within me a bond with this young woman I sensed at once would never be broken. Indeed, I have sometimes felt that Esmikhan and I were married with those words, sworn into a marriage much closer than she would ever enjoy with the pasha and one more real, for it was made between our spirits. Bodies did not enter into the question at all.
I spoke quietly now, and from the heart, wishing there were not so many ears to overhear us. “Lady, you bade me speak the truth, and so I shall. Sokolli Pasha is not what you would call handsome. But do not fret. Hear me. What women call ‘handsome’ I have often found to be closer to my definition of ‘delicate’—a quality one would rather find in one’s infant sons than in one’s husband. For example, I have often been told that I am handsome—and the reaction when I walked into the harem at Kutahiya convinces me that my recent pain has not so greatly altered it. But I wouldn’t do you much good as a husband, would I?” I said this, and she nodded, but our eyes avoided contact, as if my words were a formal lie covering a truth we knew was deeper.
“There is nothing of the cuddly little boy in Sokolli Pasha.
He is of a single and firm mind, and his features reflect this. He is tall, perhaps a hand taller than I am. He has a thin, sharp nose and rigid, cleanly formed brows and jaw. They tell me his surname ‘Sokolli’ means ‘falcon’ in his native Serbian language, and if he has his ancestor’s looks, they were aptly named indeed. He has the regality of that bird, but also the impatience with frivolity and with fancy looks of a wild predator.
“Nonetheless, I felt great relief come into my slave’s heart when I saw him. ‘Thanks be to Allah,’ I said, ‘here is a master I can trust.’ He may not be handsome. He may not love to sit and listen for hours on end to poetry or music as I do. But he is a man who knows and loves his duty and would rather die than not fulfill it. I know that if I am ever beaten or mistreated at his hands, it will only be because I strongly deserve it. If I do my duty to him, he will do his to me and never be intentionally unkind. He will feed me and clothe me and see that my needs are met and that I am not unhappy, as far as it is in his power and Allah’s will. As a slave, I
