The most pressing order of the new kapu aghasi s business was to get the pilgrims off to Mecca. The seventh month of Rajab was fast upon us, the time when the faithful would have to set off from Constantinople if they hoped to make the arduous journey in time for Dhu’l-Hijja. Of course, all the imperial city, especially the Sultan, would have a hand in their send-off, deputizing their proxies, displaying the largesse they would commission to go in their place. Some of the treasure would be given as safe-passage insurance to the wild Bedouin who beset the pilgrims’ path, some to be traded with pilgrims from other lands, the remainder to enrich the dual shrines themselves.
The gifted mosque lamps—many, I was quietly gratified to see, of Venetian glass—stacked up in our hallways and closets. Gorgeous rugs of the finest knotting, the gold-embroidered green case which contained the Sultan’s bejeweled compliment to the Sharif of Mecca...Then of course there were the black lengths of finest silk embroidered with Koranic sayings in pure gold that would go to replace the covering of the Holy Ka’ba. The first half of a thousand needlewomen’s work had gone up in the palace fire, so this lot had to be scrambled for.
Finally came the day when those obliged to stay behind gave the departing pilgrims a rousing procession. Albanians and Bosnians, leaping with new converts’ enthusiasm; wild, anciently pious men from the Asian steppes; naked and flagellant dervishes from Anatolia—these swelled the ranks of the locals. This year as every year, the journey began with a joyous circuit outside the city walls while man and beast were still fresh and exuberant enough not to require that every step mean progress.
The display was always so stirring that many dropped their pedantic responsibilities then and there and joined up. The rest promised themselves and their god, “Next year, next year, inshallah.”
The Sultan’s proxies formed the high point of the entire parade, the head of the column, great as a small army. These in turn were led by two sacred camels of ancient and reverend pedigree, never used for profane burdens. The first camel, draped in rich clothes of scarlet and gold that hid it almost completely, carried the minhal, the high pinnacled litter of gold that caught the sun and winked its holiness in all directions. The second camel bore only a small curved saddle of green velvet with silver trappings. This represented the saddle of the Seal of the Prophets himself.
“Allah, Allah,” a hundred thousand throats moaned as the shadows of this simplest, yet holiest of sights touched them. Some of the more credulous dropped to the ground and rubbed their foreheads in the dirt as this camel passed by, as if indeed the Prophet Muhammed had not died nearly a millennium before but rode there in our very midst.
After these two first camels came many, many more, just in the Sultan’s party alone, for every night on the way a great red and gold tent would be erected to house the Sharif’s letter and the green saddle. This tent had to be carried, along with twenty camel-loads of treasure for the maintenance of the holy places, and all this needed grooms, drivers, slaves to load and unload, water carriers, and cooks; and many of these contrived to bring their families along.
This was only the beginning. Thereafter followed thousands of the Faithful, equal, we are told, in the eyes of Allah, but hardly so to human eyes. There were great men, easing a guilty conscience with the journey but still unable to travel without a great following. Their women came behind in closed sedan boxes-—sometimes it was hard to tell harem from baggage and eunuchs from porters. There were poorer folks who had saved all their lives for a donkey which, Allah knew, would never make it through Syria let alone the waterless Hijaz. Or a mangy camel which they could as yet drive only with difficulty; the balkings, runaways, and sudden sit-downs were a constant disruption to the proceedings.
A large division of the army marched by like rods of iron in the height of discipline, reminding one and all that more than nature might be the enemy on the journey. Then, in a generous sprinkling like salt over the whole mélange, there were the very, very poor—dervishes, beggars, and paupers—who meant to walk the whole way. Some had not even made provision for carrying water and could hardly be told from the empty-handed audience except, in some cases, that they seemed even less prepared for an arduous journey. They would have to look to the mercy of Allah and a propensity for charity among their fellow travelers—greater on the road than at home—to carry them every step of the route.
* * *
No sooner were the pilgrims safely on their way than, in her eighth month of pregnancy, Safiye’s rooms were ready for her under Sultan Murad’s roof at Topkapi. The Fair One would let nothing hinder her from returning there, to the thick of the fray, although her new midwife thought it very ill-advised in what had already proven to be an eventful pregnancy.
Organizing the exodus without much help from the over-burdened Ghazanfer Agha caused me a great deal of stress. Before the last casket of gems was quite out our harem door, I had come down with that bane of all my race, a urinary infection so excruciating I could not leave my bed. I’d begun by passing blood through the silver catheter my lady had given me as a poor substitute to flesh. In the flurry, I’d ignored it until fever and nausea allowed me to ignore it no longer.
I dosed myself with the usual flax tea and quantities of pomegranate juice. But on that particular day at the height of my illness, I’d long since drained the juice pitcher. The tea water had gone cold and unappetizing on an
