The Sultan's seal

44

Sybil and the eunuch pass noiselessly through enormous, high-ceilinged rooms, past vases taller than a man and table-tops of semiprecious stone balanced on elegant pedestals. Every surface is crammed with vases and statues. The room’s contents are multiplied in enormous mirrors in gilded frames that line the walls. Sybil stops to admire a life-sized dog in translucent jade. She does not see the tiny figure, a statue come to life among the multitude, approaching her in the mirror.

Asma Sultan wears an unadorned brown gown with a simple veil of silk gauze draped over her head, a wren in a peacock house. She leads Sybil by the hand to a patio paved in intricately patterned colored tiles and overlooking the Bosphorus. There, behind a windbreak, waits a table laid with sweets and savories and a silver platter of fruit. The thin eunuch stands next to a brazier ready to brew coffee. Sybil wonders where the other servants are. She has seen no one else.

“Forgive my informality, Sybil Hanoum. As you see, this is more a picnic than a proper meal. I hope you don’t mind. I am honored by your visit, but at my age, I prefer good company unadorned by the usual pomp and frippery.”

Sybil is startled at Asma Sultan’s command of English. They had spoken Turkish at previous meetings, so she had assumed Asma Sultan didn’t know English.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I much prefer that myself.”

“So I have heard.”

Sybil straightens her skirt and tries to remember the correct manners. She remembers that it is rude to look someone directly in the eye. In the harem, women usually are seated next to one another, but here she is face to face with her hostess. She compromises by looking at a spot above Asma Sultan’s left shoulder.

“Your English is flawless, Your Highness. Where did you learn it?”

“From my mother, a rare woman. She had a dazzling mind, a rage for life. She surrounded herself with the best art and literature from around the globe, in French, English, Persian, even Chinese. Particularly those designed or created by women. My mother herself was Russian, you know. She grew up in Paris and traveled a great deal before she was captured from a ship and sold to the harem. Once here, though, she made good use of the power and wealth that comes to a woman in the sultan’s household, especially if she captures his eye.”

“These artists were all women?” Sybil asks curiously.

“Some were wealthy women, like my mother, who commissioned art, and even played a role in designing it. But there are such creatures, you know, women artists and scholars. They are less well known because, sadly, only the men find patrons. My mother was a great patron. I profited from growing up surrounded by such a wealth of foreign culture and knowledge. In a sense, I was the ultimate project completed under her patronage. Few can appreciate that in a woman,” she adds, with an undertone of bitterness. “Perhaps as an amusement when one is newly wed, but one that does not wear well. What use has one for such novelties in a harem, eh? Better to excel in needlework than foreign languages. That has been my daughter’s approach, though I cannot say it has helped her.”

Sybil does not know what to say and looks at her hands.

“As I said to you last week, my daughter had different expectations. She foolishly fell in love with her cousin Ziya. I was fond of my nephew and pushed for the match, but my husband gave her to a family with which he wanted an alliance. Where would politics be without brides, Sybil Hanoum? Empires would grind to a halt and begin to crumble. Perihan is unhappy, but uncomplaining. I point out to her that she escaped the fate of Shukriye, married off to the provinces.” She smiles fondly. “And she spends as much time as possible with her dear mother.”

“I think it shows a generous spirit that Perihan is so close to Leyla and Shukriye.”

“Yes, she keeps an eye on them.”

Sybil feels uncomfortable discussing Perihan’s personal life in such detail when she isn’t present. She is ashamed for Perihan.

To change the subject, she says, “You must have had a lovely childhood.” She plucks a pastry filled with minced lamb from a serving plate and takes a bite.

“I suppose I did, but it was a childhood in a hundred rooms. I was never allowed to go out into the world and see it for myself. Still, I feel I have my hand on the pulse of the world, even here. My mother gave that to me.” Asma Sultan silently regards the opposite shore as if seeking something there. “I remember the exact day she died, February 15, 1878, in the Old Palace. The Russian army was just outside the city. I could see the smoke of their campfires.” She smiles. “I couldn’t help but wonder if their generals were our relations. It’s almost as if they were signaling to Mother, telling her to hold on, that they were almost there.”

Sybil shifts uncomfortably in her seat. A breeze has begun to blow and she is feeling chilled.

“But they were too late.” Asma Sultan turns back to Sybil. “She fell from the window of a small observation tower above the harem where she often went to get away from the other women. She told me once that from there she imagined she could see Paris and Saint Petersburg. They said it was an accident, but I never believed it.” Her voice is bitter. “She would never have leaned out that window. She was afraid of heights.”

“How awful,” Sybil exclaims, shivering with cold and an unnamed anxiety. “Who would have done something like that?”

“She was Russian, Sybil Hanoum. The enemy was at the gates of the city. Perhaps they listened in on her silent communion with her uncles. I’m sure Sultan Abdulhamid feared her. He destroyed her like he destroyed my father.”

Asma Sultan suddenly scrapes her chair back and stands. She leads the way to a plush divan on a sheltered portion of the terrace.

“Let us sit over here. It’s more comfortable. Tell me about your life, Sybil Hanoum,” she says lightly, as if nothing of consequence has been revealed.

Sybil sinks gratefully onto the soft pillows and wraps her shawl around her shoulders.

“I’ve hardly been anywhere. I came here when I was young. I have memories of the Essex countryside, a very brief stay in London, and then Stamboul. Which is lovely,” she adds hastily.

“Ah, then you have traveled much farther than I, my dear. Tell me about Essex. You spoke of it the other day, but we were interrupted.”

As they reminisce, the sun edges closer to the wooded hills. The eunuch serves coffee.

When Sybil has finished sipping from the tiny cobalt blue cup, Asma Sultan reaches for it and turns it upside down on its saucer. She smiles slyly.

“I can tell your fortune.”

“Your Highness has unexpected talents,” Sybil laughs. She feels reckless, but also lulled by the jewellike fruit on her plate, the flashing expanse of water at her feet, the precious memory already framing itself in her mind of dining with royalty in the most beautiful spot in the world.

Asma Sultan tests the bottom of the cup several times with her slender finger. When she judges it to have sufficiently cooled, she picks the cup up and peers into it intently. After a few moments, she tilts it slightly to show Sybil.

“See? There is your past and here is your future.” She points to clots and filigrees of rich brown that coat the sides of the cup, coffee ground as fine as powder.

“Can you read me my future, Your Highness?” Kamil must be there, she thinks with the guilty hope that her desire be revealed as fact.

“Of course, my dear, of course.” Asma Sultan scrutinizes the inside of the cup, turning it this way and that until Sybil fears she can no longer bear to wait.

Finally, Asma Sultan says, “The past is the vessel of the future. Let me try to understand the shape of the vessel first.”

“Yes, of course,” Sybil responds, disappointed.

“A man, an old man who has known you all your life. Here he is.” She points to a long streak extending from the dregs to the rim of the cup.

“That must be my father.”

“There is also a woman here, a mother, your mother, I think. You were very close to her.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Here she disappears from your life.” Pointing into the cup, she looks up. “I’m sorry for your bereavement.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Gulls argue hoarsely high above. “She’s been gone some years now.”

“And here are other women of the same age as you.”

“One must be my sister, Maitlin. I don’t know the others. Who might they be?”

Asma Sultan twists the cup and holds it close to her eye. “They are English. I see this by their dresses.”

“Goodness,” Sybil exclaims. “You can see that much detail?”

Fixing her black eyes on Sybil. “Oh, yes, my daughter, I can see.”

“Two Englishwomen? In my past? My aunt, perhaps.”

“Recent past. The cup is deep with time and I am moving up toward the future.”

“Then perhaps someone at the embassy.”

“Is there a woman important to you? A simple employee wouldn’t appear in your cup.”

Sybil thinks. “Really, I can think of no one who is English. I have a close acquaintance, but she is Italian.”

“No.” The slight tone of impatience in Asma Sultan’s voice is immediately submerged by resignation.

“Ah, my foolish girl. You do not see your life as clearly as the eye of this cup does.”

Stung, Sybil prompts, “Perhaps I’ll have better success with my future.”

“No, no, we cannot go on until the past has been fully explored. These women, look here, their signs end. Perhaps they returned to England?”

“Good heavens. It must be the two governesses. They have played quite a prominent role in my life of late.”

“Governesses?”

“Hannah Simmons and Mary Dixon. The governesses who were killed. We spoke of them the other day at Shukriye Hanoum’s.”

“Of course. But why are they in the vessel of your past? You must have known them well, that they should play such a big role in your life?”

“No, I didn’t know Hannah at all and I met Mary only a few times. We barely spoke. I suppose they appear in the cup because of their murders. I’ve been helping with the inquiry.” Sybil couldn’t quite hide the pride in her voice.

“I see.” Asma Sultan’s eyes slide closed for a moment. “Please continue.”

“Well.” She hesitates. “It seems the two deaths might be linked.”

“Linked? How?”

“Of course, to start with, both were employed by the palace. And they were found in the same area.”

“Where was that?”

“One at Chamyeri and one at Middle Village.”

“Those are some distance apart.”

“Mary’s clothes were found at Chamyeri.”

“I see. But all this might have been coincidence. Were there any other links?”

Sybil hesitates again, remembering Kamil’s warning, but decides that the horse has bolted from the stable. She had already spoken of this at Leyla’s. “They both had the same necklace.”

“Why would that be of significance? Perhaps they frequented the same jeweler.”

“But it had a tughra and a Chinese inscription.”

“What did the inscription say?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t remember.” Sybil is flustered. “Something about a bowstring.”

There is a pause before Asma Sultan asks, “That is unusual, but what would it have to do with their deaths?”

“It’s not as trivial as it seems. It’s possible that it’s a secret code for some kind of plot against the sultan.” She tries to be matter-of-fact, but excitement and pride color her voice.

Asma Sultan smiles thinly. “That is indeed important. So, these are the two women shaping your future.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Highness. I’m just helping, nothing more.”

“Who else shares your theory of a plot centered on that necklace?”

“It’s Kamil Pasha’s idea, not mine.”

“Who is this Kamil Pasha?”

“Magistrate of Beyoglu Lower Court, Your Highness.”

“Ah, Alp Pasha’s son.”

“Do you know him?” Sybil asks, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

Bemused, Asma Sultan responds, “I knew his mother. You are fond of the magistrate?”

“Why, no.” Blushing. “I mean, I think he’s a splendid investigator. If anyone can discover the truth of the matter, he can.”

“I see. And who does he think is behind this plot-or is it plots? Has he had anyone arrested yet?”

“I don’t think he knows yet. I suppose Hannah and Mary couldn’t be involved in the same plot, since there are so many years between them. But it is odd that they both had that necklace, isn’t it?”

“Forgive me. It all sounds rather fanciful.”

“Yes, when I tell it to you like this, it does rather.” Sybil smiles wanly.

Asma Sultan’s intent questioning has made her uncomfortably aware that she has broken her promise to Kamil. She has lost any desire to hear her future foretold. The shadow of the villa has fallen over the patio, and her shawl is no longer sufficient to warm her. Sybil considers the long shadows and becomes concerned about the time. She is suddenly anxious to get away.

“Your Highness, it has been a great pleasure to speak with you and I treasure your hospitality, but I must beg leave to return home or I’ll be late to dinner. Father doesn’t like me to be late.”

“Of course, of course. I’m glad to see you are a dutiful daughter. Fathers-they do expect so much of one. And you are expecting the magistrate to dinner tonight, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?” Sybil is flustered.

“You mentioned it the other day at Leyla’s.”

“Oh, of course.” Sybil beams and rises to her feet. “It was such a pleasant afternoon. Thank you very much.”

“Oh, before you go, my dear, I’d like you to see something. Come, come over here.”

Sybil follows Asma Sultan to an area of the patio screened by a stone lattice.

“I am going to show you something quite special. Not many people know about this. One of my mother’s protégés was an architect. She designed this especially for her. Arif Agha, go and steady Sybil Hanoum.”

The eunuch appears beside Sybil, takes her arm in his long, steel fingers, and looks expectantly at Asma Sultan. Sybil is uncomfortable and wants to leave, but the eunuch holds her arm tightly. When she pulls at her arm, his grip tightens.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the old woman says gently. Her hand glides over the carved stone and stops over a protrusion. “You see this lever here. When you pull it, an extraordinary thing happens.”

She pulls the lever and the part of the floor on which Sybil and the eunuch are standing begins to move downward with a low grinding noise. The eunuch lets go of Sybil’s arm. She runs to the edge and tries to catch onto the receding tiles.

“Isn’t this marvelous? This is a device that allows the women of the harem to fish and dabble in the sea without ever being seen by anyone outside.”

Sybil claws at the tiles, but can’t lift herself out. Soon the patio is far above her. She can see Asma Sultan’s head silhouetted against the sky. She is still explaining.

“You can swim in complete privacy. My mother spent time here, fishing. Remarkable, isn’t it? She said it reminded her of her girlhood, when she was free. After my father died, she was sent with his other women to live at the Old Palace. She never left there again. She told me she missed this spot most of all.”

“Please let me up, Your Highness. I would love to hear more about your mother. She sounds like a fascinating woman. Your Highness?” Sybil’s voice sounds hollow, reflecting from the cavernous walls.

“The seawater comes in through the grate behind you. You’re perfectly safe. No one can see you.”

“Please let me up now. My father will be worried. They’ll call out the guard if I don’t appear for dinner.”

Asma Sultan steps closer to the edge of the patio high above. “Arif Agha,” she calls down. “Another Frankish woman, Arif Agha. You’re not deaf. You heard her. She has the ear-and perhaps something else-of the magistrate.” She wheezes a laugh. “Haven’t you had enough? Your fate is tied to mine. That’s the way things are. You know what you have to do.” She pauses, peering down into the shadows, then continues in a wheedling voice. “Some things can’t be restored, Arif Agha, but others can.” Her voice turns hard again. “And there is much to lose.”

The eunuch listens spellbound, head tilted toward the sky, open-mouthed. Sybil thinks she hears him groaning. When she looks up again, the opening contains only sky.

Asma Sultan’s disembodied voice floats down. “The past is the vessel of the future, Sybil Hanoum. Just as I said.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” Sybil yells.

There is no answer except the seawater sloshing through the ornate ironwork grill set into one end of the room. Sybil looks around at the high arched ceiling of the underground space. It is painted to resemble the sky, one side light blue with clouds, the other fading to night, decorated with tiny stars and a sickle moon. She can dimly see that the platform on which she and the eunuch stand is an island about fifteen feet square and rests just above the water.

The eunuch is pacing back and forth, his eyes never leaving the square of sky high above them.

Sybil turns and asks him in Turkish, “What is happening here? Isn’t she coming back?”

The eunuch stops; his gleaming eyes fix on Sybil. They hear the sound of oars splashing just beyond the iron grill, then receding.

“Do you know a way out of here? There must be a way up. I can’t believe the sultanas would let themselves be trapped down here at someone else’s mercy.”

She speaks to the eunuch in Turkish to keep her spirits up, even though he hasn’t said a word.

“I’m sure someone will come and get us. The embassy staff knows where I went.” Even as she says it, she is unsure whether she told the staff her exact destination. They might think I’ve gone to the palace, she thinks. But surely they would find Asma Sultan and ask about me.

A sudden realization chills Sybil: Asma Sultan could say she hasn’t seen me; that it was a mistake on my part; that I must have been invited by someone else. There’s no proof that Asma Sultan invited me. It was a verbal message delivered by a servant. But I was picked up by Asma Sultan’s eunuch. Everyone saw him. He will have identified himself at the embassy gate.

The eunuch looks up at the sky, his body tense, listening. Sybil kneels and looks over the edge of the platform. The water isn’t very deep. The underground walls are lined with marble reliefs of trees and flowers mottled with peeling paint. A small rowboat bumps against one far wall. She looks anxiously around for a way up or another lever, but sees only a marble stairway resting against the platform and leading down into the water. So that the women can swim, she thinks.

She paces about the platform, then sits at one end, trying to make conversation with the stubbornly silent eunuch. Above her, the square of sky slowly becomes streaked with pink, then blends more and more with the darker half of the ceiling.

Sybil is cold and her legs are stiff. Tired of inactivity, she bunches her skirts and folds them over her arm, stepping carefully onto the slick marble stair. When she has descended so that the water reaches her chest, her feet encounter the paved surface of the floor. Her skirts are drenched and heavy. She looks around at the eunuch, who hasn’t moved, then climbs partway up again, removes her skirts, and heaves them onto the platform. This time, there is less resistance as she pushes her way through the water to the boat. She can’t swim, so she is wary of a change in depth and pushes each foot forward carefully, but the floor is even and she reaches the boat without difficulty. Inside are the remains of a velvet carpet, silk cushions, and two oars. A brass lamp hangs from the carved prow. She pulls the boat back to the platform to examine it. She is shaking with cold. The eunuch squats and stares at her wordlessly.

“Well, we’ve found a boat, although I can’t imagine how we’ll get it past that iron grate.” Suddenly she looks down at the water. It is still at the same height. “We don’t have to worry about high tide, do we?” she asks anxiously.

The eunuch doesn’t respond.

“And we have a lamp. Let’s see if we can light it.”

She looks inside, then says excitedly, “Look, there’s oil in here.” In a small container in the base, she finds flint and lights the lamp. The eunuch turns away as if the light hurts his eyes. Sybil climbs into the boat and rows inexpertly to the wall. Holding the lamp high, she inspects every inch of it, fingers scrabbling among the flakes of paint, searching for a mechanism to make the platform ascend. Soon it is so dark she can no longer make out the eunuch on the platform, only the ghostly glow of his white robe.