* * *
It was that same year that another kind of witchcraft made its presence felt in Constantinople. This was the effect, or so it was said, of Murad’s first words as Sultan: “I’m hungry.” There was famine in the land. The first year of his reign the harvests throughout Anatolia had been bad, and this year they failed altogether, with the drought spreading to both the northern coast of the Black Sea and into Europe.
Bread reached twenty aspers a loaf in the markets, and not everyone could pay. No one in Sokolli’s house went hungry, of course. I actually gained a little paunch as I fed more on rice and bread to thicken up the thin meat and vegetable stews. My master increased his gifts of charity to the mosques so they could feed more of the poor in their soup kitchens. As for the imperial palace, I suspect some there have forgotten there ever was a famine. Their bread remained as white as ever and the goats’ production of milk, whenever it dropped off, was augmented by greater flocks that fed on the Serai’s irrigated lawns.
It was one morning during this time that the Sultan was speaking to an Italian goldsmith about a new sweetmeat service he wished to commission. The tray would be a silver pond, the bowls lilies, and lapis lazuli, pearl and ruby dragonflies would perch on each spoon...
And how do I know of this meeting? I learned of it later, from the third man who was there, the interpreter, one Muslim, formerly Andrea Barbarigo, now dragoman to the imperial navy.
“Yes, your most sovereign majesty.” Andrea translated for the smith, keeping his eyes trained on the fastidious craftsman and averted from the sovereign. “The design will be the most beautiful thing I have ever been privileged to make in my career. Your majesty certainly has an artistic eye. It is my wish, however, that only the best materials be used—anything less and the toil and design will be wasted.”
“Yes, only the best,” Murad agreed. “What is the use of melting down a little on the side to line one’s own pocket if it isn’t the finest to begin with?” He signaled quickly to Muslim not to translate that part but said instead, with an unfeigned smile, “Of course. You shall have the best. The best in the world, and I am the Shadow of Allah.”
“That is my only concern.” The smith grew red with embarrassment as he suggested, “Perhaps it would be best to wait. I know there are many demands on your coffers at the moment, what with the famine and all.”
“We have a saying in Turkish,” Murad assured the man. “If prices were all equal, there would no longer remain such a thing as the best people.’ You shall have the materials you desire, and by the end of the week.”
When Muslim had translated that into Italian, the Sultan added, “What day is today? Sunday? Well, then the Divan should be sitting. Would you, my honored guest, like to see a little of the workings of the Islamic government?”
When the smith replied he would enjoy that very much, Murad said, “Come with me, then. And when we have seen this, you will not be concerned about your materials anymore.”
Murad conducted his guests through the twists and turns of the palace until he came to the foot of the stairs that led to the Eye of the Sultan. This was the grilled and curtained space that looked out over the Divan. From this hidden closet the Sultan could watch the court’s proceedings without its knowledge. Or he could not watch, as he chose. And everyone from minister to lowest waiter must behave as if he were there, just in case.
At the door to the Eye, a young, gangling eunuch, obviously a new fellow, was taken by surprise. The Sultan and his guests had already passed him by before the khadim recalled how to salaam a Padishah. And after he’d finally negotiated that, he tried desperately to make some sign of warning.
“Later, khadim, later,” the Sultan said, and led his guests up the stairs two at a time like a boy half his age. He flung open the second door at the top, then stopped short.
Muslim suddenly found himself doing something more than translating words. He had to interpret customs, and that was much more difficult.
“Good signore, I think perhaps we should leave his majesty and complete the arrangements for the casting of this project at another time.” Then in Turkish: “You’ll excuse us, majesty?”
The Sultan gave them a wave over his shoulder but no glance and Muslim hastily steered the goldsmith back down the stairs and into the courtyard by the shortest route. The yard was crowded for a day in the Divan. They would have to be content to watch the workings of government from this perspective. Muslim was glad the eunuch was a novice and more concerned with his own failings than in apprehending others’. He was also glad he had been the one just on the heels of the Sultan and that what was behind that door was his secret alone.
He had seen her. He’d known at once it was she. It could be no other. In pink and green, the colors of a peach tree in bloom. Her golden hair spun out across her shoulders and breast like a halo. With the cushions and rugs about her like the flower and bunting decorations of a holy day, she reminded him of the Madonna in the little chapel in his mother’s convent. He thought he might swoon from devotion before they reached fresh air.
XXX
And this next scene I owe to the green eyes of Ghazanfer Agha, who had been sitting in the Eye of the Sultan watching the Divan with his lady.
“Peace to you, master.” Safiye hardly wasted a moment on surprise before getting to her feet and making her obeisance.
“And to you, Safiye,” Murad returned.
“Forgive me. I was
