The Architect's Apprentice Part 8

Midsummer, the disease seized the Grand Vizier Ayas Pasha a man believed to be all-powerful. His death unsettled the seraglio. Suddenly, even the walls of the palace were not strong enough to keep the contagion at bay. That same week four concubines got infected, fear darker than kohl swirling in the corridors of the harem. They said Hurrem shut herself in a chamber with her children and refused to see anyone other than the Sultan. She cooked her own food, boiled her own water, even washed her own garments, distrusting the servants.

In the menagerie three trainers died, each in the springtime of life. And Taras the Siberian hid in his shed for days, for everyone hated him, still alive, old and frail as he was. Gone were the days when people didn't want to be seen on the streets. They hurried to mosques, synagogues and churches to pray and repent, repent and pray. Their sins had brought the calamity, the ones they had committed and were sure to commit. It was G.o.d's wrath. The flesh was weak. No wonder black roses bloomed on their bodies. Jahan listened to these words, his heart pulsing in the hollow of his throat, believing and disbelieving. Had G.o.d created humans, with their foibles, just so as to be able to punish them afterwards?

'We trespa.s.sed,' said the imams. 'Sin entered the world,' said the priests. 'Repent we must,' said the rabbis. And the people did, thousands of them. Many turned pious none more so than the Sultan. Wine was forbidden, wine-makers punished; musical instruments were burned in bonfires, taverns were closed, brothels were sealed, opium dens remained as empty as discarded walnut sh.e.l.ls. The preachers spoke only about pestilence and profanity and how they were intertwined, like the plait of an odalisque.

Then, as if in unison, people stopped saying it was because of them. It was others who had brought this upon the city, others with their impiety and debauchery. Fear turned into resentment; resentment into rage. And rage was a ball of flame you could not hold in your hands for too long; it had to be thrown at someone.

In late July a mob entered the Jewish neighbourhood around Galata Tower. Doors were marked with tar, men were beaten, a rabbi who resisted was cudgelled to death. A Jewish cobbler was rumoured to have poisoned all the wells and cisterns and creeks in Istanbul, spreading the disease. Dozens had been arrested and had already confessed to their crime. That the confessions were obtained under torture was a detail to which no one paid attention. Had the Jews not been expelled from towns in Saxony only a few years ago, and many more burned at the stake in the lands of Frangistan? There was a reason why they carried calamity wherever they went an ill omen following them like a shadow. They kidnapped children to use their blood in dark rituals. The charges grew like a river swollen with rain. Finally, Sultan Suleiman issued a firman. The local kadis would not be able to give verdicts on blood libel and the few judges who now took on such cases wished not to do so. The accusations waned.

It wasn't the Jews. It was the Christians. They never went to hamam, dirty to the core. They did not wash after they coupled with their wives. They drank wine, and, as if this was not sin enough, they called it the blood of Jesus, whom they dared to name G.o.d. Worst of all, they ate pork the meat of an animal that wallowed in its own filth and devoured decayed flesh with maggots. The plague must have been contracted from pig-eaters. The same folk who had terrorized the Jewish streets were seen attacking the Christian quarters later on.

A saddler in Eyup a.s.sumed the leadership of the throng. He preached that the Jews and the Christians were People of the Book and, though in error, they were not evil. It wasn't they who were the culprits. It was the Sufis, with their chanting and whirling. Who could be more dangerous than someone who called himself a Muslim and yet had nothing to do with Islam? Did they not say they had no fear of h.e.l.l and no wish for heaven? Did they not address G.o.d as if He were their equal and even said there was G.o.d under their cloak? Blasphemy had brought on the doom. Mobs patrolled the streets, wielding truncheons, hunting for heretics. They were neither stopped by the Subashi and his guards nor arrested afterwards.

On Friday, after the evening prayer, they set upon the twisting streets of Pera. Men, and boys as young as seven, with torches in their hands, joined by more along the way, delved into the houses of ill-repute, dragged out the wh.o.r.es and pimps, and set the buildings on fire. One woman, who was so fat she could barely move, was tied up to a pole and whipped, crimson paths on rolls of flesh. A hunsa* was stripped naked, spat upon, shaved from head to toe and dunked into s.h.i.t. But it was a dwarf woman, they said, who bore the brunt of it, though n.o.body quite knew why. She was rumoured to be quite close to the Chief White Eunuch and capable of many a contrivance. The next morning, shortly after dawn, stray dogs found her caked in blood and faeces, her nose broken, her ribs crushed, yet somehow still alive.

Only when the mob, now ready to punish the gentry, began to boast of marching to the palace did the Subashi intervene, arresting eleven men. They were hanged the same day, their bodies left swinging in the breeze for everyone to see. By the time the plague left, Istanbul was 5,742 souls fewer in number and the cemeteries were full to bursting.

The same week Jahan received another nasty letter, this one clearly signed by Captain Gareth. With the help of a kitchen boy he sent the seaman the few coins he had put aside, hoping this would keep him quiet for a while. Laden with such worries, he was slow to pick up the new gossip in town.

Lutfi Pasha, the man who had recommended the right builder for the bridge over the River Pruth but then disagreed with him, had taken the place of the late Grand Vizier Ayas Pasha. And the Chief Royal Architect, who had pa.s.sed away of old age, had been succeeded by none other than carpenter Sinan. It was the talk of the town that two men who did not get along had been promoted, by some twist of fate, exactly around the same time, as if G.o.d wished to see whether they would clash and, if so, who would survive.

Proud and august, for over a thousand years the Hippodrome had seen no end of festivities always packed, always rowdy. The spectators were men of all ages. Should they like a show, they roared and laughed and sat upright, as though they had a hand in the performance. Should they not take delight in what they saw, they stamped their feet, uttered curses, threw whatever was in their hands. Easy to amuse, hard to please, the audience had changed little since the time of Constantine.

Far off, in the middle of the wooden stalls, stood a terrace adorned with golden ta.s.sels. Inside was Sultan Suleiman, seated on a high chair from where he could see and be seen. Tall and lithe, he had a long neck and a short beard. He was attended by the Grand Vizier Lutfi Pasha who had been married to the Sultan's sister and other members of the diwan. Separated from the Sultan by brocade hangings was the Sultana, surrounded by her handmaidens. Silk curtains and latticed panels shielded the women from the crowd's eyes. Other than those few from the imperial harem, there were no females present.

Foreign emissaries had been ushered into a separate booth. The amba.s.sador of Venice sat upright with a distant look in his eyes and a sapphire brooch on his zimarra that had not escaped Jahan's attention. Next to the Venetian were the envoy of Ragusa, the delegates of the Medici of Florence, the podesta of Genoa, the legate of the King of Poland and eminent travellers from Frangistan. They were easy to recognize not only because of their garments but also because of their expressions, a mixture of disdain and disbelief.

The festivities had been going on for days. At night, flooded with light, Istanbul shone brighter than the eyes of a young bride. Lamps, torches and fireworks punctured the gloom. Caiques glided along the waters of the Golden Horn like shooting stars. Confectioners paraded with sugar-sculptures of man-eating sea-creatures and birds with feathers of every colour. Up and down the streets, giant frames of flowers were displayed. So many sheep were butchered that the creek behind the slaughterhouses ran crimson. Pageboys scurried about, humping trays of rice dripping with fat from sheep's tails. Those who'd had their bellies filled and quenched their thirst with sherbet were treated to zerde.* For once, the poor and the rich tucked into the same dishes.

The two princes had been circ.u.mcised alongside a hundred poor boys. Sons of candle-makers, lime-burners and cadgers had wailed together with the royal highnesses. Now lying in bed, clad in gowns, 102 of them sobbed whenever they recalled the distress they had gone through, and chuckled at the shadow play being performed to make the memory go away.

Jahan, wide-eyed and terrified, walked in the midst of the frenzy. He had been asked to perform with Chota on the last day. Early in the morning he had brought the elephant to the barns beside the Hippodrome. Much as he hated the fetters around his feet, Chota had settled down, munching apples and leaves. Jahan envied his aplomb and wished some of it would rub off on him. The night before the mahout had slept in fits and starts; his lips had bled from his constant chewing of them.

Other animals made an appearance ahead of them: lions, tigers, monkeys, ostriches, gazelles and a giraffe newly shipped from Egypt. Falconers paraded with hooded birds, jugglers tossed rings, fire-eaters devoured flames and a tightrope-walker crossed a hawser stretched high above. Then came the guilds: stone-cutters carrying hammers and chisels; gardeners pushing carts of roses; architects with miniature models of the mosques they had built. At the head of this last guild strode Sinan, wearing a kaftan trimmed with ermine. When he noticed Jahan, he gave the boy a warm smile. Jahan would have returned one in kind had he not been so anxious.

At long last it was their turn. Praying, Jahan opened the gates, letting Chota out. Pa.s.sing by a lonely obelisk, brought here from Alexandria by the Emperor Theodosius long ago, they ambled down the track beaten by hundreds of feet and hooves. Light reflected off the tiny mirrors sewn on Chota's mantle green velvet embroidered with purple patterns, courtesy of the Sultana.

Upon seeing them, the audience hollered with joy. Jahan walked in front of Chota, holding his reins, though the truth was that the elephant set his own pace. When they reached the royal terrace, they came to a halt. Jahan laid eyes on the Sultan. He looked solid, imperturbable. To his left was the part.i.tion behind which the Sultana and her women had taken seats. Even though Jahan could not get a glimpse of Hurrem, he felt her distrustful eyes piercing him. The thought that beautiful Mihrimah, too, was there, watching his every gesture, doubled his worries. His mouth went dry; his stomach lurched; his legs trembled as he bowed down.

Still shaking, he dug into his pocket and produced a yarn of wool. This he tossed to Chota. The elephant caught it with his trunk, threw it back to him. They repeated the trick a couple of times. Jahan took out the sparkling rings that Mihrimah had given him. He threw them, one at a time, to Chota, who s.n.a.t.c.hed each one out of the air, waving and flinging it aside, as if he didn't care. He then swayed his huge body to and fro, dancing. The audience hooted with laughter. Raising his cane, Jahan scolded him. Chota stood still, ashamed. It was part of the show, like everything else. As a sign of peace the boy handed Chota an apple. In return Chota plucked the daffodil fastened to the mahout's robe and gave it to him. More laughter from the spectators.

Next Jahan balanced a cone on his head. He added another cone, then another, stacking seven of them in total. He shouted, 'Up!'

With his trunk the elephant grabbed him by the waist and placed him above his neck so gingerly the cones remained intact.

'Down!' Jahan ordered.

Slowly, laboriously, Chota crouched. Still on his back, Jahan steadied himself, the wind drying the sweat trickling across his face. Having no knees, elephants found it hard to bend down. Jahan was hoping the Sultan of the Land and the Sea would understand and appreciate. No sooner had Chota managed to squat down than Jahan opened his arms wide and bellowed in triumph. Simultaneously, he saw something coming towards them fast. With a thud it fell on the ground. Jahan jumped off, picked it up. It was a pouch filled with coins. A generous gift from Sultan Suleiman. The mahout bowed; the elephant trumpeted; the audience went wild.

Then came the final act. Chota, representing Islam, would confront a wild boar that stood for Christianity. It was a play habitually performed by a bear and a pig, but, since the elephant was more majestic and clearly the darling of the public, at the last minute the role had been a.s.signed to Chota.

The moment Jahan saw the hog, swinging its tusks, sc.r.a.ping its hooves, his insides twisted into a knot. The brute was smaller than Chota, for sure, but there was a madness in it, a rage whose source he couldn't place. As soon as its chains were removed, the animal made for them like an arrow. It could have gored Jahan's thigh had he not dodged it in time. The audience chortled, ready to side with the hog, should the mahout and the elephant disappoint them.

Jahan wasn't the only one paralysed. To his dismay, Chota was rooted to the spot, eyes half closed. Shouting, Jahan nudged him with his cane. He uttered honeyed words, promising sweet treats and mud baths. Nothing helped. The elephant that had fiercely a.s.sailed enemy soldiers and killed several on the battleground had gone numb.

The hog, having lost interest in the elephant, circled then charged Jahan, knocking him to the ground.

'Hey, here!'

Out of nowhere Mirka the bear-tamer appeared, shouting to draw the hog's attention. He carried a spear in his hand, his beast lumbering behind. The two of them were familiar to this game. The bear growled. Furiously grunting, the hog attacked with its mouth wide open. Jahan watched it all as if through a veil. The sounds, though terrible, were m.u.f.fled by the din of the crowd. The bear its curved claws sharpened slashed and ripped, gutting the hog. The animal's intestines gushed out, releasing a sickening smell. Its back legs twitched and kicked. A shriek rose as life abandoned its body, so fierce and unearthly that it pierced the spectators to their very marrow. Stepping on the dying hog with his boot, Mirka saluted his audience. Instantly, he was rewarded with a pouch. As he grabbed it, he looked at Jahan with a smirk he didn't bother to hide. Behind him, small as a mouse, Jahan averted his gaze, wishing with all his heart for an earthquake that would swallow him up.

While the mahout was considering vanishing, the elephant was getting incensed. Some of the spectators had been hurling pebbles at him. Chota flapped his ears and trumpeted. Seeing their success in upsetting so large a creature, the audience began to throw other things: wooden spoons, rotten apples, metal scabbards, chestnuts from a nearby tree ... Jahan urged Chota to stay calm, his voice no more than a mosquito buzz in the uproar.

All at once, the elephant charged straight for the stalls. Baffled, Jahan ran behind him, waving his arms, yelling. He watched faces in the audience change from astonishment to terror. People scurried left and right, screaming, trampling on those who had fallen down. Jahan caught up with Chota, yanked his tail. The animal might have crushed him, but the mahout wasn't thinking. Guards with swords and spears circled them, though none seemed to know what they were doing. In the commotion Chota tore down the banners, squashed ornaments and ploughed into the booth of foreign emissaries. In trying to get out of the beast's way, the Venetian envoy took a headlong tumble, his precious zimarra tearing as someone stepped on it. Jahan saw the sapphire fall off. In a trice he stepped on it and, certain that no one was looking, he grabbed it and hid it in his sash.

When he turned to the elephant again, to his horror he found Chota by the royal terrace. Sultan Suleiman had not budged. He stood erect, his jaw jutting out, his face unreadable. The Grand Vizier was the opposite. Foaming at the mouth, he barked orders here and there. As if he had sensed the man's hatred, the animal moved directly towards the Vizier. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the man's turban off his head and swung it in the air, as if it were another trick he had practised.

'Guards!' Lutfi Pasha shouted.

Out of the corner of his eye Jahan saw an archer aiming at Chota's head. With a cry he dashed towards the man, who, only a second before, had loosed his arrow.

A sharp pain burned his right shoulder and he let out a howl. He wobbled on his feet and collapsed. At his voice the elephant slowed down. So did the people in the first rows. Stunned into silence, they now stared at the mahout bleeding on the ground. It was then that the Sultan, slowly and calmly, stood up and did something no one was expecting. He chuckled.

Had Chota attacked the Lord of the Land and the Sea instead of the Vizier, what might have happened was unimaginable. But, as things stood, the Sultan's mirth saved his life. Someone fetched Lutfi Pasha's turban, soiled and flattened, and handed it reverentially to him. The Vizier grabbed it from the man's hands but refused to put it on his head. One by one the audience returned to their seats. Oblivious to the wreckage, he had caused, Chota stomped towards the exit.

'What've you done, imbecile!' Jahan hollered from the stretcher he was being carried on. 'They'll chop off your b.a.l.l.s ... send you to the slaughterhouse, cook you with cabbage and onions. And they will cast me into the dungeon!'

He would have loved to have kicked a bucket, punched a barrel, smashed a vase. Yet his body felt heavy while his mind spun round in circles. The only thing that outweighed this excruciating pain was his anger aimed mostly at himself.

A cart brought him to the menagerie, where Olev took one look at him and another at the arrow sticking out of his flesh and nodded at the Chinese twins. Both men disappeared, only to shortly return with a bag of opium.

'What's in there? What are the blades for?' asked Jahan. His neck was damp, his skin pallid, his lips cold.

'Curious lad,' said Olev, as he placed metals of various sizes on a tray. 'I'm going to take that thing out.'

'But how?'

No one answered. Instead they forced him to drink a foul-smelling greenish tea, maslak, which was made from dried cannabis leaves. Even the first sip made his head whirl faster. By the time he had finished the cup, the world had acquired a strange luminosity, with colours melting into one another. The opium was mashed into a pulp and spread over the wound. They carried him into the garden so that he could benefit from the remaining daylight.

'Bite this!' Olev instructed.

Dazed, Jahan closed his teeth around the rag they shoved into his mouth. Not that it made much of a difference. When the arrow was pulled out his scream was so loud it sent the birds in the aviary flapping from their roosts.

That evening, as he lay in bed aching all over, Sinan appeared by the door, his gaunt cheeks dim in the shadows. He sank down beside him, the way he had done on that battle's starless night.

'You all right?'

The boy winced in lieu of an answer, his eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

'You're not good at performing tricks, are you? Entertaining people is not quite your thing,' Sinan said. 'Still, one has to admire your courage and your love for the elephant.'

'Will I be punished?'

'I think you've been punished enough. Our Sultan knows this.'

'But ... Lutfi Pasha hates me.'

'Well, he doesn't approve of me either,' said Sinan, dropping his voice a notch.

'Because of the bridge?'

'Because of defiance. He has not forgotten. He is used to having everyone worshipping his every word. Those who surround themselves with grovellers who praise everything they do will not forgive the honest man who tells the truth.'

Around them darkness gathered as Sinan asked the boy about his life. Jahan told him about his sisters, his stepfather and his mother's death. For the first time since he came to this city he told his true story, without lies and fabrications. There was no mention of Hindustan.

'Will you go back?' asked Sinan.

'I shall when I'm wealthy and strong. I need to hurry up, as I want to confront my stepfather before he gets too old.'

'So you want to return to revenge your mother?'

'That's right. I swear I will as G.o.d is my witness.'

Sinan lapsed into thought. 'That sketch you sent me whose mansion is that?'

'Oh, it is the Grand Mufti's. I was there the day he tried the heretic. But I made a few changes to the house.'

'Why?'

'I noticed it's quite windy up there, effendi. The windows were made small for that reason, but they don't let enough light through. I thought if there was a gallery upstairs, covered with latticework, there'd be more light and the women could watch the sea without being seen.'

Sinan raised an eyebrow. 'I see ... I thought the drawing was good.'

'Really?' Jahan asked incredulously.

'You'd better learn algebra and measurement. You ought to gain an understanding of numbers. I watched you while we were building that bridge. You are smart, curious, and you learn fast. You can become a builder. You have it in you.'

Pleased to hear this, Jahan said, 'I liked helping with the bridge ... Chota was happy, too. He doesn't like to be kept in the barn all the time.'

'You are a bright boy, mahout. I want to help you. But there are many bright boys around.' Sinan paused, as if waiting for his words to sink in. 'If you wish to excel at your craft, you have to convince the universe why it should be you rather than someone else.'

What a bizarre thing to say! Jahan blinked, hoping for an explanation, but there was none. Silence poured into the s.p.a.ce between them until Sinan spoke again. 'Take a look around. Every man you see here is the son of an Adam. Neither n.o.ble nor rich by birth. It doesn't matter who your father is or where you come from. All you need to do to climb up is to work hard. This is the way in the Ottoman palace.'

Jahan lowered his head.

'You are talented, but you ought to be tutored. You must learn languages. If you promise to put your heart into this, I'll help you get lessons at the palace school. Men in the highest positions have been educated there. You have to strive as hard as they did. Year after year.'

'I am not afraid of work, effendi,' said Jahan.

'I know but you must let go of the past,' said Sinan as he stood up. 'Resentment is a cage, talent is a captured bird. Break the cage, let the bird take off and soar high. Architecture is a mirror that reflects the harmony and balance present in the universe. If you do not foster these qualities in your heart, you cannot build.'

His cheeks burning, Jahan said, 'I don't understand ... Why do you help me?'

'When I was about your age, I was fortunate enough to have a good master. He is long dead, may G.o.d have mercy on his soul. The only way I can pay him back is by helping others,' Sinan said. 'Besides, something tells me you are not who you seem to be. You and the elephant are like brothers. But you are no mahout, my son. There is more to you, I believe. You have not told me the entire truth.'

'The elephant is my family now,' said Jahan, without quite meeting the architect's eye.

Sinan let out his breath slowly. 'Get some rest; we shall talk again.'

As the master left the barn, a tear rolled down Jahan's face and dropped on to his hand. He looked at it in confusion. He had a wounded shoulder and aching limbs, yet he couldn't tell where his pain came from.

Housed in the third courtyard, the palace school had 342 youths. The brightest devshirme* boys attended the cla.s.ses. They mastered Islamic law, hadith, philosophy, history of the prophets and the Qur'an. They studied mathematics, geometry, geography, astronomy, logic and oration, and learned enough languages to wend their way through the Tower of Babel. Depending on their abilities, they excelled in poetry, music, calligraphy, tiling, pottery, marquetry, ivory carving, metalwork and weaponry. Upon graduation some went into high-ranking posts in the government and military. Others became architects and scientists.

All of the tutors were male, some eunuchs. They carried long sticks, which they did not hesitate to employ to punish the slightest disobedience. The halls were silent, the rules strict. The children of Albanians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Serbs, Bosnians, Georgians and Armenians were taken into the levy of boys, but not the children of Turks, Kurds, Iranians and Gypsies.

Jahan found the cla.s.ses too hard to follow. He expected to be thrown out at any moment. Yet weeks pa.s.sed by. Ramadan fell during midsummer. Suddenly days were heavier, nights bursting with smells and sounds. Shops were open longer, funfairs teeming with people went on until late in the evening. The Janissaries, the scholars, the artisans, the beggars, even the addicts many of whom bolted down on the sly a reddish-brown paste that slowly, very slowly, dissolved in their bellies, helping them to cope with abstinence were fasting. Even as Eid came and went, no one inquired about him and Chota. It was as if they all had forgotten there was an elephant in the menagerie. Jahan sank into gloom. He suspected the Grand Vizier of being behind this. Clearly, the man had not forgiven Chota for what had happened at the Hippodrome and was biding his time to skin them alive. Little did he know that the dreaded Lutfi Pasha the second most powerful man in the empire, the royal groom who had married Sultan Suleiman's sister was in deep trouble.

It all began when, in a house of ill-repute near the Galata Tower, a wh.o.r.e by the name of Kaymak,* due to the lightness of her skin, refused to sleep with a customer a brute with money but no mercy. The man beat her. Not satisfied, he took out the scourge that he carried with him and flogged her. Now that according to the unwritten and unspoken rules of the bagnios of Constantinopolis was beyond the pale. Ill-treating a wh.o.r.e was understandable; horsewhipping her, nowhere in the book. Everyone in the brothel ran to the woman's rescue, pelting the client with dung. But the man was not one to concede defeat. Foaming at the mouth, he complained to the kadi, who, fearing reprisal from the pimps, sought a middle ground. In the meantime the incident had reached the ears of Lutfi Pasha.

For quite some time the Grand Vizier had resolved to purge the streets of debauchery. Bent on shutting down the bawdy houses, he aimed to banish their fallen inhabitants to places that were so far away they would never be able to return. In the person of the flogged wh.o.r.e, he found the opportunity he had been waiting for. By punishing one he would teach a lesson to all loose women, of which there were too many in Istanbul. Casting aside the kadi's verdict, Lutfi Pasha proclaimed it was the wh.o.r.e who was in the wrong and her genitals should be cut off. She would then be made to sit backwards on a donkey and taken around so that everyone could see what awaited the likes of her.

A punishment of this sort had never been heard of before. When Shah Sultan, Sultan Suleiman's sister, learned about the sentence her husband deemed fit for an ill-starred woman, she was appalled. She used to having her every whim obeyed confronted the Grand Vizier, hoping to persuade him to change his mind. She waited till after he had been served with a mouth-watering supper soup of intestines, pheasant stew with onions, Ozbek pilaf with raisins and baklava, Lutfi Pasha's favourite thinking that if she soothed his stomach, she could soothe his temperament as well.

No sooner had the servants removed the low table, washed the couple's hands with rosewater, poured their coffees and disappeared down the corridors of the house than Shah Sultan murmured, as if to herself, 'Everybody is raving about this prost.i.tute.'

The Grand Vizier said nothing. An orange streak of light seeped in through the window, giving everything an eerie glow.

'Is it true she'll be punished in such an awful way?' asked Shah Sultan sweetly.

'We reap what we sow,' said Lutfi Pasha.

'But is it not too harsh?'

'Harsh? Nay, only befitting.'

'Have you no mercy, husband?' she asked, her voice tinged with contempt.

'Mercy is for those who deserve it.'

Trembling, Shah Sultan rose to her feet and said the words only she could dare. 'Do not come to my bed tonight. Nor tomorrow night nor the ones after.'

Lutfi Pasha paled. His royal bride was surely the bane of his life. People who envied him for having her were fools! Marrying the Sultan's sister or daughter was a curse one could wish only on one's enemy. In order to wed her, he had had to divorce his helpmate the mother of his four children of many years, for a Sultan's sister would never be the second wife. In return, had she shown him any grat.i.tude? To the contrary. She carried not a drop of compliance in her blood. Frowning on everything he did, she poured scorn on him day and night, even when the servants were around. Hence, when the Grand Vizier opened his mouth, it was his frustration that spoke. He said, 'Never been keen on your bed anyhow.'

'How dare you?' Shah Sultan said. 'You who are a servant of my brother!'

Lutfi Pasha pulled at his beard, plucking a few strands of hair.

'If I ever hear you've gone ahead with your awful punishment and made this poor woman suffer, be a.s.sured that you are no longer any husband of mine!' She strode out of the chamber, leaving him boiling in his anger.