“Abdullah.” She caught my hand. “I’ll go with you. I’ll help you look.”
“By Allah, there isn’t time!”
I had never shouted at Esmikhan before and instantly regretted it, for she fell to helpless weeping. Had she been any other mistress on any other day, I might have gotten a beating for it. But I didn’t even take time to apologize, only to tell the girls beside her that if they were not Allah’s greatest fools, they would do all in their power to see that she did not try and follow me.
Tears were infectious. Either that, or things had reached the boiling point and there was overflow. Everywhere were women weeping and their discomfort was added to by the fact that many men were also in the garden, either having no place else to escape to or trying to fight the fire from this angle with water from the fish ponds.
It was a difficult task to keep veils on demurely and yet watch the fire, or watch for children and friends, at the same time. For most, the choice finally fell with keeping honor, perhaps because all who were going to get out safely must surely have done so by now.
One face I did see, and that was Safiye’s fair one. She didn’t even care to keep her hair covered, so any firefighter might feast on what was Prince Murad’s property alone. Perhaps it made them fight harder, but their success seemed no greater.
“Lady,” I heard Safiye’s Ghazanfer pleading, “we cannot go back into the kitchens. The kitchen is the heart of the fire. Are we like Indian mystics that we can walk on flame?”
“But I must know if they are safe,” she insisted, wringing her hands.
By Allah, I thought. The two children had gone to rifle the kitchen storerooms.
I bowed and asked for confirmation of a thought that was too terrible, almost, to think, let alone speak.
“No,” Safiye replied curtly.
She had been asking after the precious dates. She had no idea where Muhammed was. She had assumed his nurse—but even as she spoke, that woman came sailing across the lawn towards us, almost unveiled so the grey grief was very plain. I think she was so distraught that she had no idea there were men present.
“Lady, lady, I’ve looked everywhere.” Her sobs stumbled her and brought her to her knees at Safiye’s feet. “I cannot find the young Prince. Oh, Allah, Allah, I shall die. Oh, Merciful One, I pray take me instead!”
Safiye did not bother to remind the woman that it was her baby, as she had always taken care to do before lest this nurse become as attached to him as the ill-fated first one had. Now Safiye realized that her dates would be of precious little use if there was no Prince to give them to. And her status—well, she couldn’t stand idly thinking about that. Against protests, she insisted on joining Ghazanfer, myself, and the others in the search.
It was too hot now to get very close to the harem at any door. As I circled around the building, looking for a way in, the sea breeze blew that heat upon me in gusts. I saw the copper dome over the great harem throne room glowing orange as if newly forged. I wondered what the ravenous fire could find to consume in that room that was mostly mirror and tile, but I smelled burning wool and silk—an awful stench—and remembered the thick rugs, cushions, and hangings. Then the very air inside seemed to catch in little explosions. Squares of copper crumbled down like no more than bone left buried in a trash heap for many years.
The flames shot up as in a giant potter’s kiln, higher than the three stories of the palace at any point. They ran along the rooftops like flood waters; the afternoon was warm for that time of year and against that natural heat, the flames appeared clear and shimmering as if they were water indeed. Above the conflagration, seven or eight minarets and lookout towers still stood, reaching heavenward like hands imploring aid.
Among the other smells of things that should not be burned billowed that of human flesh. I hurried on.
So effective was the division between selamlik and haremlik that even the fire could not breach it. The firefighters had managed to cut off the flame at the Divan and kept it there throughout the day. This men’s part of the palace, then, I searched thoroughly from the Eye of the Sultan to the grooms’ quarters until I was satisfied that the children were not there.
After that, I looked throughout the outer palace, trying to see everything with a child’s eye so as to catch a clue as to what might have attracted them. The crowd of firefighting men around the Fountain of Execution remained the most noticeable thing: They were weary now, black with smoke, washed with sweat, and short of patience. No child could pester them long without being swatted on his way, even if he were a prince.
Above the fountain and behind were the blocks on which malefactors’ heads were displayed as example. Two were there now, their faces melted by the heat and by a day or two’s decay into grins that seemed to mock those who’d thought it was punishment to mete out death.
The Church of St. Irene across the great yard had been turned into an armory when the Turks had conquered. All those empty weapons and uniforms made me think myself a witness to a battlefield when all the living had gone home. Perhaps the church had looked just so on the morning after the Turks’ conquest when the thousands who had crowded there hoping either heaven or the enemy would see in it some sort of asylum had been disappointed. And the Turks had left it just as they found it at the end of the battle for these hundred years.
“Gul Ruh
