The Sultan's Eyes (6 page)

We sailed almost within reach of Crete, the site of the mythical Labyrinth; Naxos, where the god Dionysus fell in love with Ariadne; even tiny Delos, the birthplace of Apollo, now a ruin. I asked the captain if we could anchor, just for an hour or so.

‘There’s nothing there but stones,’ he scoffed.

He was right, of course. But such stones! Marble temples and ancient houses, all now rubble from the accounts I’d read, each
one with a story to tell to those who would linger and listen. But not to me, not this time. We pressed on as if Fra Clement was sailing close behind us, as if all the navies of the world were in pursuit, until we were deep in Ottoman territory.

‘We need to keep a close watch here,’ the captain told us. ‘This war between Venice and the Turks means that either side needs little excuse to fire upon a Venetian galley headed for Constantinople.’

Willem joined the sailors in keeping lookout, but I stood in the bow of the ship and watched the world unfold. Somewhere over the horizon lay the cities of Ephesus and Pergamon, no doubt now in ruins. Off the coast lay the island of Patmos, where John wrote the Book of Revelation. All around us, the sparkling sea was studded with islands where gods had wrestled and soared, where men and women of legend had lived and died and written the greatest books and poems known to history.

One morning, we sighted Lesbos, island home of the poet Sappho — all her works now lost to history — and then the shore where Achilles and Hector fought on the plains of Troy. Finally, the hills overlooking the narrow Dardanelles strait came into view. The sea was busier here, with merchants from all corners of the Mediterranean sailing to and from Constantinople.

‘We’re lucky with the winds,’ said the captain. ‘There are times when you can’t get near the city for weeks on end.’

‘We are blessed,’ said Valentina.

‘I wish that was true,’ said Willem. ‘Just once.’

The water was a deep cobalt blue, even on these winter days, and on each side the hills rose up high and steep. We passed small villages, watchtowers and forts, and sailed close to the town of Gallipolis, with its fishing fleet at anchor.

I’d dreamed of sailing through this strait since I was a tiny girl, but it had always seemed impossible. Yet here I was, with Europe on the port bow and Asia to starboard, breathing the mingled air of both continents and gazing first to one side and then the other, at those hallowed, historic hills. My father had told me stories of this stretch of water from an early age; and later, when we worked together on the
Histories
of Herodotus, I’d memorised every detail. The Greeks had called it the Hellespont and here Alexander the Great’s army had surged across in search of the end of the world and immortality. How, I wondered, had any general imagined that these rocky shores and high cliffs would be a good place for a battle?

‘What are you doing out here?’ Willem’s voice cut through my reverie.

‘Looking,’ I said. ‘Thinking. Remembering.’

‘You’re always doing that,’ he said.

‘I suppose I am. I feel as if I know this coast, those hills — as if they are engraved in my memory.’

‘How can you remember a place you’ve never been?’

I shrugged. ‘That’s how it is.’

‘It’s not logical.’

‘I know. And yet … did I ever tell you about Xerxes?’

‘No, but you’re about to, aren’t you?’

‘He was the Emperor of Persia,’ I said, but Willem sighed.

‘It’s a good story,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

‘Go ahead, then.’

‘He built a bridge of pontoons across here to attack the Greeks.’

‘Can’t see that working,’ said Willem. ‘Far too rough.’

‘Exactly. A storm ruined all his plans, so he ordered his men to lash the water three hundred times with a cane as punishment.’

‘Did that help?’

‘It made him feel much better about everything,’ I said. ‘There’s no record of the water’s reaction.’

Willem laughed.

‘And see there?’ I said, pointing. ‘According to legend, Leander swam across the water to visit his love, Hero, in her tower on the opposite shore. She lit a lamp in her window to show him the way, and all summer he swam across and back.’

‘Is this one of those romance tales?’

‘The greatest of them all. Now I see these waters, it seems an impossible thing for anyone to do once, let alone every night, in the dark.’

‘Somebody probably made it up,’ said Willem. ‘Can’t stand those sorts of stories.’

‘Don’t you want to know the ending?’

‘Not really.’

‘Very well.’

‘You may as well tell me, though, now you’ve started.’

I gazed at an old stone fort on the shore. ‘One night — it was winter by then, just like now — a storm blew up. Leander kept swimming, but the waves were too rough, the wind terrible. He was halfway across, perhaps more, when a gust blew out the lamp in Hero’s window. Leander got lost, battered by the waves, and eventually his strength gave out and the sea pulled him under.’

‘That’s a rotten story.’

‘It gets worse.’

‘Not for him,’ said Willem.

‘True. But in the morning, Hero saw Leander lying dead on the shore.’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘She wept and wailed —’

‘Of course.’

‘And threw herself from the top of her tower, so that they would be together again in death.’

Willem was silent for a few moments.

‘People do ridiculous things in romances,’ he said, and stomped off below deck, leaving me with the salt air on my face and the sound of sails crackling.

As we crossed the Sea of Marmara and drew ever closer to Constantinople, Al-Qasim called us together in his cabin for a meeting. There was much talk of baggage and donkeys and setting up a household. Al-Qasim and Valentina had a long argument about how much money we could spend on furnishings. I would have preferred to be on deck to catch a first glimpse of the city, and Willem still seemed to be completely out of sorts. But then, sailing had never agreed with him.

‘I don’t care about any of that,’ he said at last. ‘The question is, how soon can we set up a workshop and get started?’

‘We’ll have to order a new press from Venice,’ said Valentina. ‘Just something small, to start.’

Al-Qasim shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his cot.

‘There is something you do not seem to realise,’ he said. ‘There is no printing in Constantinople.’

‘No jesting,’ said Valentina. ‘I’m feeling bad enough as it is.’

‘It’s true, I’m afraid. There have been one or two presses set up over the centuries, but only with the express permission of the Sultan.’

‘What?’ Willem cried. ‘Why?’

‘The empire wishes to preserve the fine art of calligraphy, of handpainted books. If you had ever seen the works of the court calligraphers or the famous Persian scribes, you would understand.’

‘But printing doesn’t have to threaten that,’ Valentina said.

‘Really?’ said Al-Qasim. ‘How many calligraphers do you know?’

‘But still …’

‘You will see,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘In Constantinople, the book is a precious and sacred object. It is said that the Sultan’s library alone contains all the genius of the human imagination.’

‘But not printed books?’ said Valentina.

‘Well, no.’

‘So it contains a selection of hand-inked manuscripts in Arabic?’ I said.

‘And Persian, and many other languages, including Greek and Latin,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘The wisdom of the ages.’

‘But not of our age?’ said Willem.

‘Perhaps not,’ Al-Qasim admitted. ‘But do you understand why the sultans prefer to safeguard the old skills?’

‘I understand,’ said Willem. ‘But I don’t agree. Our machines can make more books, dozens, in a fraction of the time it takes to paint one, and much more cheaply.’

‘That’s exactly what scares people,’ said Al-Qasim.

‘Which people?’ I asked. ‘It seems to me that if they ban printing, books are only for the wealthy, the learned, as they once were in Europe.’

‘That’s true,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘But as it is now, no religious books at all can be printed, and no works in Arabic. I don’t imagine there is a functioning press anywhere in the city. Sooner or later that will change. In the meantime, I hope it doesn’t diminish your desire to see Constantinople.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Valentina. ‘I love a challenge.’

Shouts from above told us we were nearing the city. I scrambled up onto the deck, alone at first. The crew had hauled down the sail and the oarsmen were hard at work, stroking evenly but slowly as the ship nosed its way into the Bosphorus, the narrow stretch of water that separates Europe from Asia. The strait teemed with boats and ships of all sizes and shapes: some drifting and towing fishing nets, most ploughing their way to or from the city, from one side of the Bosphorus to the other. Red, blue, striped, even black, sails crowded around us. In the centre of the strait, a beacon tower clung to a rocky outcrop. On the shore, huge bronze cannons faced out to sea.

Above it all rose the walls of Constantinople, city of the Byzantines, of the emperors. Here, more than a thousand years ago, Constantine the Great converted to Christianity and made
the city that bore his name the centre of the Roman Empire. Here, decades later, his successor, Justinian, rewrote all the laws of justice and ruled half the earth with his empress, Theodora. Together, they rebuilt the city and constructed a cathedral to wisdom and reason, Sancta Sophia, which amazed the world. Soon, I hoped to see it for myself.

And indeed, as we sailed closer, there it was, high on a hill: a gigantic pile of dome upon dome and soft ochre walls. Willem, beside me, let out a low whistle.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘So many towers.’

The sky above Constantinople was speared through by dozens of pointed towers in red, blue and grey brick. They were nothing like the spires of London or the
campaniles
of Venice.

‘Minarets.’ Al-Qasim stood behind us with Valentina, both gazing at the city. ‘You will hear, soon enough, the calls to prayer that issue from them.’

‘You mean somebody climbs all the way up those things to shout out to everyone?’ said Willem.

Al-Qasim smiled. ‘I’m sure they don’t mind. It’s a holy ritual, a beautiful chant. Once you’ve been here a while, you’ll be able to tell the difference between the voices; you’ll know which
muezzin
you hear, from which minaret.’

‘I don’t really plan to stay here that long,’ said Willem. ‘But I do like the idea of singing from on high.’

‘It’s a wonderful moment,’ said Al-Qasim, ‘just before dawn, as if they are summoning the whole world to wake.’

‘Nobody sings to me before dawn,’ said Valentina. ‘Not unless they are very good-looking and bring me coffee.’

‘I’m sure we can find someone to do that,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Anything can be arranged in Constantinople.’

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ she said.

In spite of the homesickness that was so evident on her face every day, Valentina smiled as we sailed below the city walls and into the legendary inlet they called the Golden Horn.

Al-Qasim pointed out the city landmarks: the high headland where the Sultan lived with his court and the imperial harem, the markets, the docks, and the dozens of mosques that studded the city like silver flowers. On the opposite shore of the Golden Horn were the towns of Pera — where we would live with other foreigners — and Galata, marked by a high circular watchtower built by merchants from Genoa.

‘It’s like a dream,’ I whispered. ‘Everything is familiar and yet utterly different to anything I ever imagined.’

‘I know,’ said Willem. ‘I didn’t realise it was all going to be so weird.’

Al-Qasim laughed. ‘Two intrepid travellers like you?’

‘Never seen anything like this,’ said Willem.

‘There isn’t anywhere else like this,’ I said. ‘Is there?’

‘No,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘I don’t suppose there is. It is the biggest city on earth, and probably the greatest.’

The port was so crammed with ships and boats it seemed impossible that we would find anywhere to anchor, but we finally came to rest near another galley, this one from Genoa, which we had sighted from time to time on our voyage. Our oarsmen hauled back and raised their blades out of the water. The crew let go of the anchor. We had arrived.

It was late in the afternoon by the time we set foot on shore and stood, surrounded by our luggage, on the docks. Valentina grasped my hand.

‘I feel as if I’m still moving,’ she said. ‘Is it me, or the earth?’

Willem offered her his arm. ‘It always feels like that when you’ve been sailing for days. It wears off soon enough. Just don’t go running down any stairs. I learned that the hard way.’

‘I hadn’t run down any stairs for twenty years until that day with Fra Clement,’ said Valentina. ‘Nor would you if you had to wear all these petticoats.’

He grinned and patted her hand. ‘You look much better in them.’

‘My boy,’ she said, ‘you’re coming along nicely.’

We knew that Luis had found a house in Pera for us to live in, owned by an old friend of his in Venice who’d left it empty for years. By some miracle, it was ready for us: aired and clean and filled with everything we could possibly want, including five servants who stood waiting in the doorway as we arrived.

‘How can this be?’ Valentina asked.

‘Luis,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘He must have written ahead.’

A small man with a long black beard bowed deeply and introduced himself as Mirza, the head servant.

‘You are welcome here,’ he said.

He and Al-Qasim exchanged greetings, which I tried to follow, and he ushered us inside a marble hallway with a grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor. Mirza led us on a tour of the house, pointing out the reception room, the library, a dining room with a carved Venetian table as long as a ship, and the chambers allocated to each of us. There were men’s quarters at one end of the house and a women’s wing called the harem, like the women’s quarters in the Sultan’s Palace, which Willem found endlessly amusing.

Valentina was enchanted, I could see, admiring the rich red rugs and enormous bunches of fresh flowers in alabaster vases on every table.

Our few bags were quickly unloaded and carried to our rooms, and the women servants brought silver platters of fruit and soft cheese. Mirza poured each of us a glass of wine, lit all the lamps so that the room glowed, and continued speaking softly as if we could understand what he said. It seemed to me after a while that I really did know what he was saying — his face was so expressive and his voice so persuasive that even Willem nodded.

‘This might not be so bad, after all,’ he said. ‘For a while, anyway. There’s even wine. I thought it was banned here?’

‘In your own home, as foreigners, you are allowed alcohol,’ said Al-Qasim, but I noticed he didn’t drink any. In Venice, he had behaved like a Venetian. Perhaps here he would have to be careful in ways I couldn’t anticipate.

He turned to Valentina and me. ‘It seems I am wrong. This is only partly Luis’s work. He did indeed write ahead, but the details, the arrangements, are all the work of someone else entirely.’

‘But who?’ I asked.

‘Your embassy, Isabella. They had word of your arrival and someone there has organised,’ he gestured with both arms, ‘all of this.’

‘The English?’ Willem asked. ‘But how did they know we were coming?’

‘I’m sure we will find out sooner or later,’ said Al-Qasim.

My stomach lurched, as surely as if I had heard alarm bells. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. The ambassadors in Venice and Amsterdam always pretend I don’t exist, or at least that I’m not English. They must be up to something.’

‘Isabella, you worry so much,’ said Valentina. ‘What can possibly be sinister about such lovely flowers?’

‘I don’t know, but I don’t like it.’

But after an enormous meal of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, and a splendid victory over Willem at backgammon, I relaxed a little. While technically I was still a fugitive, possibly even a criminal, in the eyes of the English Parliament, what interest could they possibly have in me here, at the edge of Europe?

The next day, the answer came.

Al-Qasim knocked gently at my door just before midday. ‘There are some people from the embassy to see you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, my dear. Two gentlemen and quite a substantial entourage.’

‘Soldiers?’ That familiar fear inside me roared a warning.

‘No, it doesn’t seem so.’

‘What do they want?’

‘I have no idea, I didn’t like to pry.’ He peered into my face. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘I just don’t see why they’ve appeared without warning.’

‘These are the people who set our new house in such lovely order,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they are simply paying a call, Isabella. That’s what you do.’

‘Who does?’

He laughed. ‘People everywhere, from here to London. At least, those who don’t work. You pay calls in the mornings, take tea, discuss the gossip of the town and then go on to the next house and do it all over again.’

‘Really?’

‘In Alexandria, it goes on for hours.’

‘How dreary.’

‘You’ll have to get used to it, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘There are too many English people in Constantinople for you to avoid them, but
not enough to enable you to escape their attentions. It may be that even the Ottoman ladies will call on you, and invite you to their homes in return.’

‘Perhaps we could just hide every morning? We can close the curtains and read.’

‘Isabella, this is your lot now, your burden. There are worse things.’

I sighed. ‘I suppose so. What about the
signora
?’

‘She will need to do the same — there are many Venetians and Genoans here, too. She is already downstairs with the gentlemen, as is Willem.’

‘I can’t imagine Valentina sitting about waiting for people to come to tea,’ I said.

‘Quite. She has avoided the practice for years in Venice by simply being rude to everyone who arrived.’

‘I like that approach. Let’s do that.’

He put out his hand. ‘Come. I will accompany you. The others are waiting. After all, the
signora
’s English pronunciation is not very good and Willem’s is hilarious. You should feel sorry for our visitors.’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘If we must.’

‘They appear perfectly pleasant, if that’s any consolation. The young man gave me his card.’ Al-Qasim rummaged inside his robe. ‘Here. That reminds me,’ he went on, ‘we must get you some calling cards made. Both of you. Willem won’t need any. I wonder if they should be inscribed in English or French.’

But I wasn’t really listening. I stared at the card in my hand, read it over and over, shook my head to make sense of the words, and read them again.

Justinian Jonson. I’d last seen him waving farewell in London. Surely there couldn’t be two of them in the world. Could there?

‘Isabella?’ Al-Qasim was offering his arm. ‘Is everything well with you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

We walked down the stairs arm in arm, but as we drew closer to the reception room door I pulled back a little.

‘Come along,’ he whispered. ‘It’ll be over in no time.’

The door swung open and there, in a shaft of sunlight, stood the only Justinian Jonson I had ever known.

He bowed.

So did the man standing next to him, who cried, ‘Ah! This must be the indomitable Mistress Hawkins.’

I might have left immediately were it not for Al-Qasim propelling me forward into the room so that we all stood facing each other, the men bowing deeply while I struggled to control my breath.

At last, I managed a curtsey.

‘May I present Mistress Isabella Hawkins, also a proprietor of the Mermaid Press and late of Cambridge, Amsterdam and Venice,’ said Al-Qasim.

There was more bowing. I looked around me, at Valentina or Willem or the other strangers who crowded the room, anywhere except at Justinian, but inevitably my eyes came to rest on his
face. This man was very different to the boy who’d once sat by my father’s fireplace and laughed so much that tears ran down his cheeks. It was him, I felt sure: the same tousled black hair, the same dark eyes. He didn’t smile. Instead, he looked at me as if I was a vision from another life, and perhaps that’s how I appeared to him.

‘Isabella?’

I started at the sound of Al-Qasim’s voice.

‘I beg your pardon. I wasn’t … I was …’ I blinked, took a deep breath, and stepped forward, holding out a hand. ‘Master Jonson,’ I somehow managed to say. ‘How delightful to see you once again.’

He touched my hand for the briefest moment and then let go. ‘Welcome to Constantinople,’ he said without the slightest hint of familiarity.

Al-Qasim glanced at my face, then Justinian’s. ‘You know each other?’ he asked.

I tried to ignore him.

‘They’re old friends,’ said the other man. ‘There were a few years there when Justinian never stopped talking about Professor Hawkins and his remarkable daughter.’

Justinian almost smiled, but clearly thought better of it.

‘A long time past,’ he said. ‘Mistress Hawkins, I hope you will allow me to present my father.’

The older man graced me with a deep bow and grinned. ‘Enchanted, my dear. Here. My credentials.’

He handed me a card.

Admiral Sir Cornelius Jonson (retired)

Special Embassy Liaison

By order

Parliament of England

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.’

‘Not half as pleased as I am,’ he said with another bow.

I could see the resemblance, although Admiral Jonson’s hair was greying and his face was redder and a little rougher than his son’s. He wore a uniform coat, the buttons of his white vest straining across his belly.

‘I am at your disposal.’ He smiled at each of us. ‘All of you, of course, but our English subject most particularly. I hope you like your house?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Very much,’ said Valentina in a more gracious tone than I could muster. ‘Everything is so charming. Is it all your doing?’

‘Mostly my son’s,’ said the Admiral. ‘I have no aptitude for such things as … well, whatever it was he did. Of course, my wife supervised him closely.’