The Sultan's Eyes (19 page)

The Valide Sultan sniffed loudly. ‘She is wilful, just as we were warned.’

‘Warned by whom?’ I asked.

‘That is not your concern,’ the Kislar Agha snapped.

‘And what of the Princess Ay
e?’ said the Valide Sultan.

‘What of her?’ I asked.

‘The boy insists she be present for the lessons.’

‘So I understand, Your Majesty. He enjoys his sister’s company, and she is a very intelligent young woman.’

‘I don’t want you filling her brain with all your notions,’ said the Valide Sultan, as if Ay
e wasn’t there. ‘It is not surprising that she is intelligent. My own blood runs in her veins. But we do not
need her to be educated. She must be married soon. Her aunt, after whom she was named, had been widowed three times by her age. She needs to learn how to run a household or a harem, not all these ideas of yours.’

‘But you can’t expect her to —’

The Valide Sultan held up one hand. ‘This audience is at an end. You know my views. See that they are carried out.’

‘But —’

‘Go.’

There was little choice, but I left her apartments muttering under my breath. I would teach Ay
e if it was the last thing I ever did.

Behind its locked doors, the harem felt like a confusing labyrinth of gilded rooms and sudden courtyards, of dark hallways, shuttered windows and far-off music. Halfway along the Golden Way, our progress was blocked by an elderly woman and two Black Eunuchs.

‘Please,’ the woman said. ‘You will come this way.’

It was an order, not an invitation.

‘What now?’ I whispered to Ay
e.

‘You are so lucky, Isabella,’ she said. ‘It seems that everyone wants to meet you today.’

The woman in front of us turned through an archway and motioned for us to follow.

‘I’ll come in behind you,’ said Ay
e. ‘She doesn’t like me very much.’

‘Who?’

‘The Sultan’s mother, of course. Go. She is waiting.’

I sighed and stepped into yet another brilliantly tiled room. A woman sat alone on a stool in the middle of the room. I bowed,
then straightened up and glanced around me. Without Ay
e next to me, I had no idea how to behave or what gestures were expected.

Turhan Hadice Sultan and I stared at one another for a few moments. She looked only a few years older than Valentina, very fair, and dressed in a stiff golden kaftan. Like many of the
kadins
and the White Eunuchs, she had been brought here from a distant province in Europe as a child. The harem was a greenhouse filled with rare plants from distant jungles. Even so, she surprised me by speaking in German.

‘What did she want?’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘The Valide Sultan, of course. Who else?’

‘She doesn’t approve of me,’ I said. ‘Nor does the Kislar Agha.’

‘Of course not.’

‘But she will tolerate my presence, because the Sultan insists.’

‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I approve of you.’

I stifled a smile. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope to continue in the Sultan’s service as long as he wishes.’

‘You may regret saying that, Mistress Hawkins, in years to come. But never mind.’

‘The only thing is,’ I went on, ‘the Valide Sultan does not wish me to teach Ay
e alongside the Sultan.’

‘Why would she? It makes no sense. The girl is nothing.’

I glanced back at Ay
e, but her face betrayed no emotion.

‘The Sultan wishes it,’ I said. ‘And it seems to me that he learns a great deal more when the Princess is present.’

‘Then she must be there,’ said Turhan Hadice. ‘I command it.’

‘You are very wise.’

‘Yes, I am.’ She leaned forward. Her eyes were clear and blue like the tiles on the wall behind her, like the Bosphorus — like
mine. ‘I know what game you are playing, Mistress Hawkins. But you are no diplomat, and here you pit your skill against those whose very lives depend on their wits.’

I bowed my head, torn between humiliation and triumph. ‘You’re right. Forgive me.’

‘But in this matter, it suits me,’ she said. ‘Do as you wish, both of you, so long as my son is happy. For when the Sultan is happy, the whole world rejoices.’

The Sultan was happy. So was I, in a way. It was a pleasure to read with him and his sister, even if we now had to pretend at times that Ay
e was not part of our lessons. It was like a dream to sort through the pieces of parchment in the locked library.

The Sultan ordered all of the scrolls and books moved to the antechamber next to the Throne Room, so Willem and Suraiya set to work carefully placing the loose sheets and bound copies into boxes for relocation. Al-Qasim and Nuri then sorted them roughly into subject areas or, if the author was known, into alphabetical order on the hastily erected shelves in the Sultan’s new library.

It was immediately obvious that much of the material was fragments of books or letters, and it would take a great deal of investigation to work out the author and to which work it belonged, if any. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of
pages of parchment and even papyrus scrolls; most in Greek, many in Arabic or Latin, and a few with markings none of us could identify, let alone read. Nuri took to this task with enthusiasm, and it seemed as if he, too, had been born for this moment. He scurried between the Throne Room and the main library, scribbling notes and checking the works of the ancient authorities.

He and Al-Qasim started with the pages that were bound into volumes, even if they seemed incomplete. Within a few weeks they had identified a treatise on geometry by Euclid and two comedies by Aristophanes, plus some notes on legal matters that bore an inscription by Emperor Leo the Wise. I was right: at least some of these pages had been passed down from the early centuries of Constantinople.

Early one morning, Al-Qasim and I sat down with the astronomical charts we had discovered that first day. He had found several more sheets of parchment with similar formulae, but couldn’t be sure if they were all from the same work. I spent several hours translating some of the margin notes and scribbles for him, until there were enough sentences for him to comprehend the logic and concepts in the first few pages.

He read through my notes quickly and then sat staring at the originals.

‘What is it, do you think?’ I asked after a few minutes.

He took a long time to answer me. ‘I can barely believe the words I am about to say. But I think … this is a copy of Hypatia’s
Astronomica
.’

‘Impossible,’ I said. ‘Her work has been lost for centuries.’

Al-Qasim was silent as he flicked through the pages, faster and faster. I waited, watching the specks of dust waft up from the manuscript through the yellow lamplight.

‘I’m sure of it,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just fragments, but it’s just as described … Isabella, do you know what this means?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Her work wasn’t lost at all?’

‘Hidden from view, that’s all. Now here it is.’

I took the parchment in my hands as he cast around for more sheets. The pages had been nibbled by some creature, perhaps fifty years ago. Perhaps a thousand. But it was easy enough to make out sketches of the night sky, constellations mapped against figures, and the tiny Greek script crisscrossing the page in several directions.

‘Al-Qasim?’

‘I’m sure there’s more of it over here.’ His voice came from behind a bookcase. ‘It must have been copied out by some scholar and travelled here … who knows how?’

‘This is not a final scribed version,’ I said. ‘Do you think it’s someone’s notes on Hypatia’s findings? One of her students, perhaps. Or a scholar, years later?’

‘That could be so. But even that would be tremendous. It will give us a sense of her concepts, her calculations. We may even be able to reconstruct her lost astrolabe. It was one of the first ever made.’

I flipped through a few more sheets, peering closely. It looked just like one of our manuscripts in the workshop back in Venice. I gasped.

‘Al-Qasim!’

‘What is it, my dear?’

I put the pile of parchment down on the table and laid both hands very carefully on top.

‘These aren’t just somebody’s notes,’ I said slowly. ‘They are Hypatia’s. This is the original manuscript.’

Al-Qasim looked as if time had suddenly stopped. ‘Are you sure?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s just a feeling I have. Look at these later pages — these calculations have been crossed out and scribbled over.’

He leaned back on the edge of the table.

‘It makes sense,’ I went on. ‘The Sultan told me his forefathers were avid collectors of rare and precious things. He meant objects, like swords and jewels. But why wouldn’t it be the same with manuscripts? If you’re the Sultan, you can buy anything you want, from anywhere in the empire.’

‘That fits together,’ said Al-Qasim, although he still shook his head in disbelief. ‘The astronomer Socrates Scholasticus wrote a book about Hypatia, and he worked here in Constantinople for many years. Perhaps these notes were in his possession? But that was hundreds of years ago. I can’t be sure. I need to study it more closely.’

He spoke carefully, as always, but somehow I knew that I was right, that this was a manuscript written centuries ago by one of history’s most brilliant women.

‘But if it’s true …’ he added.

‘Then these are some of the most precious pieces of parchment in the world,’ I said.

He grinned. ‘Wait until Willem hears of this.’

Willem hadn’t heard of Hypatia.

‘So this woman is famous?’ he asked.

‘One of the great mathematicians of antiquity,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Of all time.’

‘Why was all her work lost?’ Willem asked. ‘If she was so great?’

‘It’s horribly easy for books to vanish when there are only one or two copies,’ I said. ‘You know that. But in the case of Hypatia, she was murdered by Christian zealots. Her work was lost in the Great Fire in the Library of Alexandria. In that one fire the world lost many treasures.’

‘Or so it has always been thought,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘But by some accident, these words of hers were saved.’

‘How old was the parchment?’ asked Valentina. ‘Can you be sure?’

I shook my head. ‘No, it’s just a feeling I have.’

‘I trust your feelings, Isabella. On the subject of books you are almost always right.’

‘Almost,’ said Willem. ‘Except for that ridiculous idea you had once about making books of stories for children. Children!’ He laughed, as he always did when the idea was mentioned. ‘I ask you?’

‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘This is different. This manuscript is very important: I just know it.’

‘If it truly is the handwriting of Hypatia, or even a copy,’ said Al-Qasim, ‘it alone is worth —’

‘Just get it ready for the press,’ said Willem. ‘Quickly.’

We set to work immediately. After a few days, we were in no doubt that they really were Hypatia’s notes. The original workings and multiple corrections of the text, all in the same neat hand, left little room for speculation. It was incomplete — that much was clear — and altogether we found only about thirty pages. Some of those were in very poor condition, with crumbled edges and fading ink. But it was enough.

Her calculations were far too complex for me, but more than once Al-Qasim cried out in astonishment at her findings. He tried
to explain them to me, but my brain isn’t built for such things. My role was to transcribe her words into a clear copy in the original Greek, and translate them into Latin as we went. We often looked up from our work and smiled at each other, amazed that we were in the presence of such genius. That’s how it felt, almost as if the great philosopher was there with us, leaning over our shoulders, correcting Al-Qasim’s transcriptions or my grammar. Hypatia had been dead more than a thousand years, cut to shreds by men not worth her little toe. But she seemed to live on in those pages, in that room. Her wisdom, her logic, all of her intricate formulae were laid out for us — for the world — once again, and I felt blessed to have those pages in my hands.

Even Willem seemed content now he was working again, dusty and menial as that work was. Paul had replied to his request with an enthusiastic letter of his own. Paul’s life had not been happy since we’d left Amsterdam, or so it seemed, and he hadn’t been able to find work as satisfying as the books he had typeset for Master de Aquila. He would love to join us in our new adventure, he wrote, and was perhaps already on his way to Constantinople by the fastest ship. In the meantime, Willem and Suraiya were busy ferrying books and papers between the two libraries, and Suraiya kept us all supplied with fresh paper, ink and food. In the evenings, Willem made endless lists of all the tasks and supplies required to start our clandestine printing house, and told us over and over again about the arrangements he had put in place.

It wasn’t only his mood that improved over the next few weeks. We all embraced our new venture. It wasn’t until we had something tangible to plan, discuss and set in motion that I realised what a glum little group we’d been since we left Venice. I had my regular visits to the palace to keep me occupied, and the friendship of the
Sultan and his sister. Al-Qasim treasured his hours in the palace library. But the others had been bored witless, I realised, during these long months in Constantinople.

Willem always told me he kept himself busy while waiting for me outside the Sultan’s pavilion, but I now recognised that his fidgeting, the endless arguments and his eternally grumpy demeanour were a result of his boredom and isolation.

Valentina was hardly better off. She’d read all of our books several times, had borrowed every French or Latin book Justinian owned and had visited the markets so often she was reduced to buying little more than a length or two of Italian lace.

But the idea of the printing press, dismantled, wrapped up in oiled cloth and on its way across the sea, cheered us all. There were letters to write, budgets and schedules to draw up, and endless discussions about ink and paper and texts.

Al-Qasim now spent all his time in the Sultan’s new library, reading and selecting books and pages for us to translate and print when our plans had ripened. He copied down in his own precise script passages from philosophers, astronomers and apothecaries that had been hidden for generations. He noted all the authors and titles stacked neatly in their new shelves, then he and Nuri sent out letters all over Europe and the Ottoman Empire to find out if the palace’s copies were the only ones still in existence.

Every so often he gave me books he’d found or pages he’d copied for me to read to the Sultan the next day. The great histories of Pliny the Elder, Cato’s speeches, even two plays by Euripides, were all there, tucked away safely, turning to shreds and dust in that gloomy room for decades, and now emerging into the light.

Paul arrived with the month of May, on a ship laden with furs from the north and three crates containing our future.

Willem met him at the docks and brought him straight to our house. The press, they said, had been unloaded and stored safely. They planned to transport it under cover of darkness to our new waterfront workshop among the fishermen’s huts and warehouses outside the city walls. We’d figured the passing wagons and sailors’ shouts would mask any printing noises.

Paul looked much older than when I’d last seen him in Amsterdam. Life, it seemed, had not been good to him at all. He bowed stiffly when he was introduced to Valentina and Al-Qasim, but bent to kiss my hand.

‘Mistress Hawkins, I didn’t think I would see you again.’

‘Welcome to Constantinople.’ I spoke in my slow, careful Dutch. ‘I imagine you never thought you’d come here, either.’

He nodded. ‘It’s a long way from home.’

‘It certainly is.’ He turned to Willem. ‘It must be a relief to hear someone speaking your own language again?’

Willem grinned. ‘Isabella tries sometimes, but her accent has never improved, as you can hear.’

‘How do you deal with all the heathens in this city?’ Paul asked.

‘They’re not so bad when you get to know them,’ said Willem. ‘Some of them, anyway.’

Al-Qasim’s Dutch was minimal, but he raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s progress of a sort,’ he said to me. ‘I think.’

‘And how is it,’ Paul asked, ‘that you allow yourself to work for a woman?’

Willem glanced at Valentina, grateful, I was sure, that she couldn’t understand a word Paul was saying.

‘Work is work,’ said Willem. ‘Come, my friend.’ He took Paul’s arm. ‘I will show you to your room.’

Valentina was waiting for him when he returned to the salon. Al-Qasim had jokingly translated Paul’s question and Willem’s answer.

‘So,’ she said, her arms crossed, ‘you Dutchmen think it is beneath you to be employed by a woman?’

Willem glared at me. ‘That was a private conversation; there was no need to pass it on.’

‘Don’t duck the question,’ I said.

He sighed. ‘Paul is a man of traditions, of his own time. He doesn’t understand the modern world.’

‘And you?’

‘I understand that things are different here.’

‘Here?’ I said. ‘But not in Amsterdam?’

‘You must admit,’ said Willem, ‘that you and the
signora
are unusual.’

‘But not alone,’ Valentina said.