The Sultan's Eyes (14 page)

‘He knows how to dress well,’ said Al-Qasim, ‘which is an advantage.’

‘He’s rich,’ I said. ‘That makes it easier.’

‘Not always,’ said Valentina. ‘Some of the richest people I know dress as if they are farmers come to town.’

‘Doesn’t look like he’s ever turned a furrow in his life, that one,’ Willem muttered.

‘Nor have you, let’s be fair,’ I said.

‘Not technically. But I’m a working man, a guildsman. What’s he? The son of a peacock. Don’t know what you see in him.’

I glared at him. ‘I don’t see anything in him.’

‘Really?’ said Valentina.

‘If you must know,’ I said, ‘I can’t stand the sight of Justinian Jonson.’

‘Me neither,’ said Willem. ‘Arrogant goose.’

‘That’s not quite what Isabella means,’ said Valentina. ‘What is it, my dear?’

I couldn’t answer. Instead, I marched ahead a little, so they couldn’t see my face, or the sudden tears that threatened to slide down my cheeks. It was true. I couldn’t bear to look at Justinian, although my motives were not as simple as Willem and Valentina suggested.

Justinian reminded me of so much that I had lost. His face was too familiar to look upon with equanimity. It brought back memories of debates around the supper table, of high spirits and loud laughter, of my father — always my darling father — with his mischievous smile and that devilish way of reducing any argument to rhetorical ash. Justinian and all those young boys had worshipped my father almost as much as I did, had shared a life that was now gone. Even though he seemed marked by the intervening years, he reminded me of a different life, a distant country, a future I had always imagined but that never came to pass, a world of safety and brilliance and clear night skies. A world without war, or stormy seas, or endless intrigue. But he also reminded me, as did the Admiral, of the other Jonson son, Cromwell’s captain, that hateful man who had taken my father away to prison and set us all on this weary road to exile.

I hated that Justinian brought back all those memories, and that in his presence I inevitably felt like either crying or slapping him.

No, I could not bear the sight of Justinian Jonson and swore a silent oath that I would never speak to him again.

The palace was surrounded by orchards and parkland, with gardens and lawn winding in between the pavilions and fountains. It was like a small country of its own: a secret land of dimpled hills and tiled kiosks, of golden domes and swept paths, of silence and pomp and the faint sound of a young woman’s laughter. There was even a forest of tall cypress trees where the Sultan rode his pony or hunted with his specially made bow. As the snows vanished and the rains came, green shoots burst through bare earth, and buds appeared on shrubs and trees that looked to me as if they had been dead for years.

In spite of the cold, I spent as much time as I could in the gardens, strolling with Ay
e, always with an escort of White Eunuchs, although after a while I ceased to notice them. Sometimes I stole a moment or two alone to watch the ships on the Bosphorus or the water play in the fountains.

One day, Al-Qasim waved to me from the other side of the courtyard.

‘Come quickly,’ he whispered when I drew close. ‘I have something to show you.’

He took my hand and led me through an archway, along a hallway with dozens of doors leading off to goodness knows where, and into a room so dark I had to stand perfectly still for a few moments until my eyes adjusted.

‘What is this place?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Then what are we doing here?’

‘Solving a mystery.’

‘I see.’

I could hear him shuffling about, and then striking a spark. A lantern sputtered and glowed.

‘I’m not sure I like mysteries,’ I said.

‘You’ll love this one.’

‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘it does look rather interesting so far.’

I looked around me in the half-light. The walls were lined with shelves, and each shelf was laden with sheaves of paper, some in great rolls and others in bound piles or leather covers.

‘I was working in the scholars’ room, right in the back corner, when I realised there was a sealed door in one of the alcoves,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why, but it intrigued me. I scouted around and discovered there are many rooms like this, shut up for years. Nobody comes here, as you can see by the dust.’

‘But what is it?’

‘A library.’

‘It doesn’t look like anyone has used it for ages.’

‘Exactly,’ Al-Qasim said. ‘There are many treasures in this
palace and they are not all made of gold. My theory is that these books are the remnants of the collection of Süleyman the Magnificent, the greatest sultan in history.’

I let out a low whistle. ‘He’s been dead for decades.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But some of these books look much older than that.’

‘They do, don’t they?’

An odd tingling sensation ran across my scalp and down my neck.

‘The sacred books are all kept in the Sultan’s official library, with the famous illustrated manuscripts from Persia and Egypt — all the treasures of Islam collected by Süleyman and countless others,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘But these are different.’

‘Older?’

‘Some, perhaps. Fragments. Not sacred. Or just more obscure.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Many of them are in Greek. For whatever reason, they are not of interest to the court or the scribes.’

‘Have you asked Nuri Effendi? Surely he would know.’

‘Not yet,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not sure what he’d say.’

‘There must have been many books in the city in the days of the emperors, of Constantine and Justinian and all the Byzantines. Maybe that’s why they’re in Greek?’

‘Yes, of course. But the city has been sacked many times. There have been riots and uprisings, the Crusaders laid waste to everything, and then along came the Ottomans. Many books were burned in the siege and afterwards. Much was lost.’

‘But not everything,’ I said.

‘No.’

Al-Qasim held a scroll of parchment closer to the lantern and peered at it. ‘Süleyman might have gathered together anything that
survived. He was a very curious man. On one hand, a brilliant soldier, a conqueror. On the other, a cultured mind. He spoke as many languages as you do, Isabella. Wrote fine poetry. A great reformer, and very scientific for his time.’ He shuffled a few pages. ‘This looks like early algebraic formulae.’ He dropped the scroll and reached for a loosely bound wad of parchment. ‘And this …’

I breathed in the rich scent of hundreds of great minds, their words on paper and parchment, their ink dry as bones, their thoughts still with us even now.

Al-Qasim let out a cry. ‘By heaven! This is amazing. I can’t quite make it out, but these are ancient astronomical charts. Whatever this is, it’s very, very important. These papers are treasures, I know it. This moment …’ He grasped my arms. ‘I will remember this for the rest of my life.’

‘My dear friend, I’m so glad I was here to see it.’

He grinned. ‘As I am happy to share it with you.’

I wished that Master de Aquila was here with us. He would have loved this room, all these precious words. He would have known all of these books, all of these authors, even those long thought vanished.

Al-Qasim gazed about the room. ‘Isabella, have you ever had the feeling that everything you’ve ever done, ever learned, has come together in one moment?’

I smiled. ‘Yes. I know that feeling.’

‘Then you understand. It’s as if I was destined to be here, in this city, for this purpose. I can save these books. I know I can.’

‘I’ll help you. We all will.’

‘Yes! That’s it!’ He slapped his hand on the table, raising a tiny cloud of dust. ‘We will put the pages in order, write all these notes out properly, try to put the fragments back together. Then
we will translate them into Latin, and into Arabic — even English and French.’ He grabbed the manuscript and held it high. ‘These works,’ he shouted, ‘are no longer lost! We will return them to the world, you and I.’

He carefully put the manuscript back in its place, took my hands and swung me around. Dust swirled about us as we danced together in a circle of delight and discovery, and laughed for what felt like an age.

At last, he sighed and wiped his eyes. ‘I knew this room was special as soon as I found it. But I had no idea —’

The door slammed open and I blinked in a sudden blaze of sunlight.

‘What are you doing here?’ a voice said.

I squinted, trying to recognise the silhouette framed in the doorway. ‘Colonel Orga? Is that you?’

‘You have no right to be here, either of you.’ It was definitely Orga’s voice, harsh and insistent.

Al-Qasim stepped forward, but I put a warning hand on his arm.

‘My apologies,’ I said. ‘I was told that I could find Nuri Effendi in here.’

‘Who told you that?’ Orga snapped.

‘I … I don’t know. One of the slaves.’ I lied very badly but it made little difference.

‘Nuri Effendi is in the library, where he always is.’

‘So I will not find him here?’

‘No.’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘We will leave. Thank you for your help.’

We left as fast as we could, not just the hidden library, but the palace, and hurried home to tell the others what we had found.

‘Manuscripts like that must be worth a fortune!’ said Willem. ‘We’ll be rich.’

‘We?’ I asked.

‘Who else?’

‘The library isn’t ours,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘It belongs to the Sultan.’

‘He’s rich enough already,’ said Willem. ‘What’s he going to do with all those books? He doesn’t even want them. You said they are thrown in heaps on the floor.’

‘Will,’ I said, ‘what are you thinking?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? You want to make transcripts, translations, then go ahead. That’s what you two do best. But then …’

Al-Qasim looked as if he knew very well what Willem was about to suggest. ‘Yes?’

‘Then you hand them to me and the
signora
, and we do what we do best — print them.’

We all sat in stunned silence for just a moment.

‘Brilliant!’ said Valentina.

‘Now, wait a minute —’

‘No, you listen to me for once, Isabella,’ Willem said. ‘This is exactly what we need. I’ve been sitting around all these weeks waiting for you, with nothing to do. So has Signora Contarini. We’re ready to run mad with boredom, or to leap onto the next ship back to Venice, or Amsterdam, or anywhere. Not to mention the fact that someone seems to have spent all our money on silk and slippers.’

‘Pfft.’ Valentina waved at him, but he went on.

‘Here it is, the perfect solution. You two do whatever you need to do to get the manuscripts in order, and we’ll get a press organised and get to work.’

Al-Qasim held up his hand. ‘You’re forgetting one thing. Printing presses are banned here.’

‘It is you who is forgetting one thing,’ said Valentina. ‘Willem and I are very sneaky.’

Willem laughed. ‘We can export our books all over Europe, but quietly,’ he said. ‘It’ll be just like back in Amsterdam.’

‘Don’t you see?’ Valentina leaned forward and reached for my hands. ‘This is work nobody else in the entire world can do. We are unique. It is, if you like, a sacred duty to knowledge.’

‘But we have no press, no type, not even any paper,’ I said. ‘Or ink. Who would bind these books, even if —’

‘Luis.’ Valentina’s voice was firm and sure. ‘I will write to Luis. He can send us what we need from Venice.’

‘No,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘That’s too dangerous. What if Fra Clement discovered what we’re planning?’

‘What can he do to us here?’ asked Valentina.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want to put it to the test.’

‘We may be safe here, but Luis is still very vulnerable,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Fra Clement will be watching him, that much is certain. All our letters to Venice are probably being intercepted already.’

‘Paul!’ Willem said.

Everyone stared at him. The others had no idea who he was talking about.

‘Paul was Master de Aquila’s typesetter in Amsterdam,’ I explained.

‘No one better,’ said Willem. ‘Paul is almost a master printer himself. And a good Protestant.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’ asked Valentina.

‘Nothing,’ said Willem quickly. ‘It’s just …’ He glanced at Valentina and went on. ‘The thing is, after the Inquisition smashed
up Master de Aquila’s workshop, Paul sneaked back in and took whatever could be salvaged. He’s keeping it safe for me.’

‘For you?’ I asked.

‘Of course for me,’ said Willem. ‘Who else would want it?’

Al-Qasim placed a warm hand on my arm.

‘Master de Aquila left everything to Isabella,’ he said softly. ‘Everything.’

Willem flushed a deep red. ‘I know, but …’

‘But what?’ asked Valentina.

Willem stood up. He towered over us, but somehow managed to seem very small all of a sudden. ‘Sorry, but we just thought you wouldn’t want any printing equipment.’

‘We?’ I said.

‘Me. And Paul.’

I closed my eyes for a moment, almost giddy. I remembered my first days in Amsterdam and the reassurance that press had brought to my shattered life. I could almost see Master de Aquila bent over it, inspecting the proof pages, then looking up at me with a smile. At the end of every work day, he’d patted it gently and covered it with an old quilt. On that press, he had helped change the world.

‘Isabella?’

I opened my eyes to find Willem staring at me.

‘That wasn’t your decision to make,’ I said. ‘Either of you.’

‘Paul suggested it.’

‘So now it’s his fault?’ I snapped. ‘You lied to me. I thought everything was gone.’

‘You inherited the manuscripts, Isabella —
The Sum of All Knowledge
, the Hebrew Bible. They’ve made you rich.’

‘I couldn’t have imagined that you’d make this moment worse, Willem,’ said Valentina, ‘but it seems I am wrong.’

‘Listen,’ Willem raised his voice to a shout. ‘We just thought that since it was all heavy and old and on the other side of Europe, it was no use to you. So Paul offered to keep it in his studio until I go home to Amsterdam. That’s all.’

‘So you …’ I took a deep breath and tried to push away the hurt that threatened to overwhelm me. ‘So you planned, all this time, to go back to Amsterdam and set up a workshop?’

‘One day,’ he said. The muscles in his jaw clenched and twitched. ‘Maybe.’

‘I had thought …’ I said.

‘What?’ Willem bent down closer to my face.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Not now.’

Valentina clapped her hands. ‘What’s past is past. The point is, we have a spare press we can ship here and someone to manage the type, if this Paul of yours is any good.’

‘The best,’ said Willem.

‘Is that true, Isabella?’

I nodded reluctantly — possibly sulkily. ‘Master de Aquila trusted him. But —’

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Willem, you will write to him, but do not say outright what we need. If you have a code he will recognise, use it. Your letters may be read by unsympathetic eyes.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, and a thousand times no. To all of this. The entire idea.’

‘Why on earth not?’ said Willem.

‘We’ve already been chased out of Europe. Now you want to threaten our last sanctuary?’

‘You’re exaggerating, as usual,’ said Willem. ‘As it happens, I asked the Admiral about the ban on printing not so long ago. He
said it was a whim of one of the old sultans, just a way of stopping progress.’