Needless to say, Sokolli Pasha was a very busy man, keeping all of his talents in constant employ. He had little time for romantic dalliance even if he had the natural inclination for it. The duty of visiting his wife’s bed the Pasha fulfilled meticulously twice a week—when he was home. But even when he did, neither he nor she got much pleasure from it.
And the three dead sons.
In no material way could it be said that Sokolli Pasha neglected his wife. Indeed, the palace in the great park had begun to make a name for itself because of the lavish parties its young mistress gave, the entertainments it offered, and the gifts presented to every comer, even the uninvited beggars at the door. Nothing made her happier than to give away time and affection thus, when she had so much to give. But she was growing wise much faster than the turn of years.
“I know,” she would confide to me afterwards, “that a party is really just a lot of noise. It means nothing if there is nothing to celebrate but one’s wealth. To have a birth or a circumcision or a wedding to celebrate, only then is it a real party.”
And “I know these are only friends bought with money. Don’t think they can fool me.”
“I, too, am only bought with the master’s money,” I would say.
“You can’t fool me, either, Abdullah,” she would say, taking my hand.
And she would turn to me when all the others were gone.
That first evening in autumn, when she turned to me once more over the excuse of a chess game, Sokolli Pasha had been gone from Constantinople for six full months. He was still at his master’s side, fighting the infidel across the Danube. That was where the most urgent duty lay. Who could make complaint? But Esmikhan’s womb had been empty eight months now. She mourned, but now, I think, she was almost glad to have had this time without something inside her, sapping her strength. I hoped that I came close to filling the void.
Sokolli Pasha, when he did write, had other concerns besides an heir. He wrote through the hand of a secretary, with the large margins prescribed by official documents, each letter one of any number of dutied dispatches. And more often than not, the direction was to me, not my lady at all. I always read her everything; perhaps that’s what he expected.
“Your lady’s grandfather”—he wrote—”may Allah always guard him, he is not the man he once was. Indeed, he has not been able to ride at the head of his troops this year. Still, he will go forward, even though it means a rough ride in a carriage. The armies of the Faith cannot win without his presence. We all feel that. Whatever happens, I avow it is Allah’s will, but I suspect the campaign may not last very long this year. Should there be a ploy made for the throne or a civil war in our absence, I would rather your lady were in my house than in another’s, even if that other is her caring father’s. I would not alarm you, but there are those who would put her brother forward as heir instead.”
“Safiye for one,” my lady interjected at this point, and I nodded in agreement.
“Prince Murad does sit in Magnesia,” the Grand Vizier continued, “and manages it with competence. I had a chance to see just how well this spring—when last Allah favored me with your company. Magnesia is the closest sandjak to the throne, after all, the seat traditionally held by crown princes. But for all his sterling qualities, Murad is still young, susceptible to manipulation. And to go against direct father-son inheritance will only open the door to malcontents, provide them with a figurehead for whatever their reasons to divide the empire are. I would not have your lady have to make the trek from Constantinople to anywhere else in uncertain times such as we may, Allah protect us, live to see.”
Other letters told how old Suleiman surprised them all and, even from a carriage, continued to direct raids, stealthy maneuvers behind the enemies’ backs, and great victories from the spring until this first rain.
And now, what was rain in Constantinople might well be turning to snow in the Slovakian mountains. The army would be forced to return. But they would not return early and never on account of their commander’s health. That was the man Suleiman was.
It had been a very long six months.
XXVIII
Esmikhan’s plump little face caught the lamplight as she studied the game. I found her beauty not breathtaking, but soft and comfortable. Her mind was that way, too, enjoying the game not for the strategy and the thrill of brilliant plays, but for the stories it told.
“Alas, so many poor pawns’ lives sacrificed on the field of battle!” she exclaimed. “I pray to Allah to have mercy on them, for they died defending the Faith.
“Oh, see how the grand Sultan forges ahead! No infidel can stand in his way! “There’s the elephant, stampeding out of control and lost in the mire. But here comes the good knight to lead him straight and help him capture that enemy soldier.” (The Turks call the piece Europeans know as a bishop “the elephant.”)
“And here comes the Grand Vizier. Such a clever man, sneaking through enemy lines, speaking their heathen tongues as if he’d been born there, always at the Sultan’s side when he needs him. But he has left his poor princess at home on her own, and she will throw herself into enemy arms or die of boredom!”
Of course
