Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret Read online

  My attempt to be coolly professional crumbled. A library, scholars, an outing…“Oh, thank you!” I could not control the grin of delight that was spreading across my face. “I’d love that!”

  “Good, Paula. My collection includes many interesting texts: philosophy, poetry, the classics. There are books in Latin and Greek as well as a selection of manuscripts in Persian and Arabic. I know you will handle them with respect.”

  “Of course.”

  “My home is very comfortable, cool even on the fiercest days of summer,” Irene went on. “And I have my own private hamam, which you are welcome to use.”

  That was almost more of a lure than the library. I longed for a proper bath. Duarte’s comments about the public hamam had been painfully accurate. Father had refused to let me attend the one he and Stoyan visited most days, although I knew it had a separate section for women. He did not think I would be safe there.

  “That would be wonderful. Of course, my father will need to approve such a visit. And I’ll have to bring my bodyguard.”

  For the first time, Irene looked doubtful.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing how angry it was going to make me if Stoyan’s caution lost me this opportunity. “Father won’t let me go anywhere without Stoyan. On this particular issue, there will be no changing his mind.”

  “Men!” Irene rolled her eyes heavenward. “I have to tell you, Paula, that men are seldom admitted to my home. I understand that you have certain rules to follow. So do I. My steward, Murat”—she glanced toward the eunuch, who responded with an inclination of the head—“is the only man who enters my gate when my husband is away, which is frequently the case. I do have guards stationed outside, of course. That is only common sense. I have chosen to create a place of privacy for women in my home, a place where they can pursue their personal interests with complete freedom. The rule safeguards that privacy.”

  I was deeply impressed and bitterly disappointed. “I do understand,” I said. “But I think it means I can’t visit. We hired Stoyan as my personal guard. I am quite sure Father would not think it adequate for him to wait in the street.”

  There must have been a wretched look on my face, for she smiled and said, “Well, perhaps in your case the rule can be bent a little. You hired the man who used to attend Salem bin Afazi, yes?”

  “That’s right.” Information did indeed spread widely within the Galata quarter.

  “And you believe him trustworthy?”

  “I wouldn’t have hired him if I didn’t,” I said.

  “Oh, you hired him? Not your father?” Her attention was caught by this; she scented something intriguing.

  “Father was called away; I ended up conducting the interview, and I chose Stoyan. He’s reliable and polite, he speaks Greek and Turkish, and he’s…well, he’s of impressive physique. And he makes rules for me, unfortunately, rules Father respects. I could not visit unless he came with me and stayed with me.”

  “Even in the hamam?” Irene’s brows rose; a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.

  “Hardly,” I said, recalling Duarte’s stated desire to introduce me to the delights of the bathhouse. “If I bathe, he can wait outside. But if men aren’t allowed into your house at all…” It seemed a little extreme, even in the light of her admirable wish to provide a haven for women.

  “I will make an exception for you, Paula. Ask your father if you can come tomorrow, and bring this man of impressive physique with you. Murat can find a corner for him, I expect.”

  I thought of Father’s errand to the blue house. Our primary business must always take first priority. “Thank you so much, kyria. If I can come, I’ll send a message later today to let you know.”

  Irene waved her hand dismissively. “No need for a message,” she said. “I will be at home—I go out very seldom. I’ll look forward to seeing you, Paula.” She rose to her feet. “I’m happy I was able to help you with the Portuguese. That man has no sense of propriety. Now I must be off. I do hope we will be friends.”

  “I hope so, too,” I said. “Farewell, kyria.”

  “Farewell until tomorrow, Paula. And do call me Irene.”

  She made her way down the steps and across the courtyard. I watched from the gallery. The gates stood open, and in the street outside, waiting for her, I glimpsed a kind of sedan chair carried by two brawny men in loose shirts and voluminous green trousers. As Irene of Volos stepped gracefully in and was borne away, her eunuch walking in front to clear the path, I realized I had forgotten to ask her where she lived.

  After my success with the Venetians, I think Father felt he could not refuse me a morning off to visit Irene of Volos. His delight with the deal I had negotiated was dampened by frustration over his own mission. He had met the Armenian merchant, who went by the intriguing name of Barsam the Elusive, and had established that Cybele’s Gift was indeed in Istanbul and available for purchase. However, the artifact would not be presented for viewing until all interested buyers had submitted preliminary bids. Father had done so and had been told to wait for further word. Secrecy surrounded the whole proceedings, with Barsam advising Father to avoid discussing any aspects of the sale with other merchants.

  “I do not see how I can avoid speaking of it,” Father said in the morning as Stoyan and I prepared to leave for Irene’s house. “It’s the way these things are done—finding out how much each player is prepared to risk and who may be prepared to withdraw a bid if offered sufficient incentive, perhaps forming partnerships…. But there’s certainly a danger attached to this particular piece. The fact that the blue house was almost impossible to find, and heavily guarded, underlines that. Paula, you must stay close to Stoyan in the street. A Turkish girl doesn’t go to the hamam or on a visit without a bevy of older female relations to accompany her, and she isn’t seen walking in the open.”

  “What if they need to go to the markets?” I asked. “Or to the mosque?”

  “The men of the family would escort them to the mosque for Friday prayers or for religious instruction. But it’s more common for Muslim women to make their devotions at home. As for shopping, generally it’s the men who go out to buy food. Sometimes female servants or slaves may do it.”

  It occurred to me that once a woman was draped in cloth from the top of her head to her ankles, with only her eyes showing, nobody would know whether she was a servant or a princess. “Did you ever meet Salem bin Afazi’s wife and children, Father?” I asked him.

  His smile was sad. “His sons, yes. When I was received in his house, the women remained secluded. This custom is strictly observed in Muslim households.”

  “I think I would find that difficult.”

  “It’s part of the code for daily living observed by all devout folk of that faith, Paula. So is the wearing of a certain style of dress, including the veil. There are rules of dress for men as well. You should speak to some Turkish women about it while we are in Istanbul.”

  “Perhaps there will be someone I can ask at Irene’s house.”

  “I’m not sure it’s wise for you to go out at all.” He frowned; he was looking pale and tired.

  “I’ve got Stoyan, Father. I’ll be fine.” I kissed him on either cheek, feeling a little worried myself. He’d been working hard, perhaps too hard for a man of his age and uncertain health. “I do so much want to get out for a bit.” I did not add that visiting Irene would allow me to find out more about Duarte Aguiar, who had been much on my mind.

  “Go.” He shooed me away with a smile. “Books, manuscripts, scholarly female company—how can I hope to compete with that?”

  “You forgot to mention the bath,” I said.

  Istanbul had many mahalles, or districts. Stoyan seemed to know all of them, from the Sultan’s walled compound on the water’s edge to the leafy northern hills, where, he had said, the tomb of a heroic Muslim warrior was set among cypresses; from the grand residences of pashas to the modest quarter inhabited by Gypsies.

  He had had no difficu
lty in obtaining instructions for finding the residence of Irene of Volos. It was in the Greek quarter, set amongst tall houses near a fountain. We were to look out for olive trees growing in a walled garden.

  We walked along paved streets lined with a curious assortment of buildings. The valley where I lived was remote and quiet; it was the opposite of this place of myriad smells and sounds and exotic colors and shapes. A thousand villages like mine could be fitted into this city and there would still be room left over.

  The streets were alive with activity. Vendors of foodstuffs, with trays on their heads, threaded expert ways through the crowd, and riders on horses and camels came past with scant regard for those on foot. Stoyan did his best to maintain a safe margin between me and anyone who sought to come closer than he thought was quite proper. It was noisy and chaotic. I smelled horse dung and spices and something frying; I smelled flowers and herbs and fish that had been thrown out into an alleyway. Glancing down the shadowy gap between the houses, I saw a tribe of skinny cats hunched over this unexpected bounty. I tried to look every way at once and felt dizzy and overwhelmed.

  The more imposing buildings and open spaces of the Galata district were surrounded by a maze of steep, narrow ways lined with modest, low-doored dwellings. After making our way through several of these little streets, we emerged into a square. A patch of grass in the center held a shady tree laden with purple flowers. Under the tree a man in dark robes sat cross-legged, talking, and around him squatted an entranced audience, mostly of small children, though men, too, were listening, some seated on the rush-topped stools provided by a coffee vendor who had set up his brass-decorated cart in the shade.

  “A storyteller,” Stoyan murmured. “Before the sun is high, others will bring their wares here: fruit sellers, purveyors of sherbet, all those who see an opportunity. And beggars. We should move on, kyria. Already we attract stares.”

  It was true. The coffee drinkers were looking in our direction and exchanging remarks. An extremely large guard and a pale-skinned woman of seventeen, modestly clad as I was—perhaps their interest was not so surprising, even in a mahalle that housed more than its share of outsiders. I drew a fold of the veil up over my mouth and nose and turned my eyes down.

  “Destur!” came a shout in my ear, and a moment later my arm was caught in a powerful grip, my whole body pulled sharply sideways. A porter bent double under a huge, laden basket came striding past, unable to see anyone who might be in his way. In a moment he was gone. I was standing against a house wall, with Stoyan between me and the street, his big hands holding both my arms, not tightly now but more gently as he looked down at me, his stern features softened by concern.

  “Did I hurt you, Kyria Paula?”

  I felt a flush rise to my cheeks. “I’m fine,” I muttered, disengaging myself as my breathing slowed to normal. I looked over toward the tree. The glances had sharpened.

  “We must move on,” I said. “I don’t like the way those men are looking at us.”

  My bodyguard eyed the men in question. He seemed unperturbed. “You are safe with me, kyria,” he said. “I think it cannot be far from here to the house we seek. The tall dwellings over there match the description I was given.”

  They were tall indeed: three floors high, with each level jutting forward a little farther than the one below. Rows of windows were set with colored glass: red, green, several shades of blue. Some of these were screened, perhaps denoting women’s quarters. I had grown up in a castle, and a most eccentric one at that. All the same, I was impressed.

  We passed between two rows of the tall houses. Their shade made the street dark. A man with a monkey on his shoulder walked by; the monkey turned its head to peer at us, bright-eyed. A veiled woman all in black scuttled off down an alleyway, averting her face.

  “I think that is the house of this Greek lady, Kyria Paula.” Stoyan pointed ahead to a long screening wall above which the gray-green foliage of olive trees could be seen. The dwelling house beyond the wall was low and white-painted; among the imposing three-story buildings it looked graceful, cool, and pleasing.

  We identified ourselves to a gate guard. Within moments, Murat came out of the house to greet us courteously. I got a better look at him this time and noticed what I had not before—his eyes were light blue, the eyes of a man who most certainly had his ancestry outside the borders of Anatolia. I wondered if, under the turban, his hair was fair.

  The eunuch ushered us through to a shady tile-floored colonnade with arched openings to the garden. The arches were decorated with filigree work in wood and plaster. Across the garden, fountains made a soft, whispering music and small birds dipped in and out of the sun-touched curtains of water. What was it Father had told me about fountains in Istanbul—that their sound not only soothed the heart but also made an excellent cover for the exchange of confidential information? Perhaps that was why every garden seemed to have one or two. Peach trees spread branches thick with new season’s foliage, with olives providing a darker frieze beyond. Closer to the house were clipped cypresses and beds of white and blue flowers. The sward beneath was like emerald velvet.

  “Ah, Paula! I’m so happy you could come!” My hostess emerged from within the house, her glossy dark hair dressed high. Today she wore a tunic and skirt of rose-colored silk damask embroidered in gold thread. Her earrings matched the outfit: rose quartz and gold. They were not as valuable as those she had worn yesterday, but their design, in which each stone formed the carapace of a fanciful beetle, gave them charm. My little sister, Stela, would have liked them.

  Irene’s eyes were on my companion, assessing him in much the same way as I had just valued her jewelry.

  “This is Stoyan, my guard,” I said.

  “You may wait in the servants’ quarters, young man. Murat will show you where to go.”

  Stoyan shot me a look. We had discussed the possibilities before we left the han, and I knew that if he was not permitted to stay close to me, we would be going straight home.

  “Could Stoyan remain near enough to keep me in view, Irene?” I asked, hoping this would not offend my hostess. I was deeply impressed that she had opened her home as a meeting place for women, and I felt awkward asking for a further bending of her rules.

  Murat looked pained. I could understand that. I had just implied that the house where he was steward was not a safe place to visit.

  “Father insisted,” I added. “I’m sorry.”

  “Very well,” Irene said. “Murat, please arrange some light refreshments for us. We’ll take them here on the colonnade.” Murat melted away like spring snow. It seemed to me he had begun to move before she made her request, as if he knew his mistress well enough to read her mind. “And then the library; it’s almost empty today, so you will have plenty of peace and quiet for reading. Your guard may wait over there.” She gestured toward a shady area by the wall, and Stoyan, features impassive, walked over to station himself there.

  A young woman brought icy cold drinks of a kind I had not tasted before, a sweet fruit nectar. There was a pottery bowl of nuts and dried fruits and a platter of little honeyed wafers. Stoyan stayed where he was as we partook of this delicate feast. I did not think I could ask him to join us, but I felt uncomfortable. Back at the han, it had never occurred to Father and me to treat him as less than an equal.

  “Could my guard be provided with water to drink, Irene?” I asked.

  “Of course.” She clapped her hands, and another servant came soundlessly along the colonnade to do her bidding.

  “Had your large young man been prepared to let you out of his sight long enough to visit my kitchen,” Irene said in an undertone, smiling slyly, “he would, of course, have been offered a little more by way of sustenance. He’s very serious about his duties, isn’t he?”

  “He’s good at what he does,” I said, knowing how much I would hate to overhear such a conversation about myself.

  “Really?” Behind the light tone, the little smile, was the undeniable
fact that Salem bin Afazi had been done to death in the streets of the city not long ago.

  I changed the subject. “Thank you so much for inviting me here,” I said, sipping my drink. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been quite desperate to get out for a little. And I am looking forward to seeing your books.”

  “Not at all, Paula. As soon as I heard you were a scholar, I felt I should extend the invitation. Here I have reversed the policy of the great libraries of the medreses, which are open only to men. My collection is exclusively for the female sex—I make it available to any woman who wishes to visit. I know how frustrating it is to be close to that wealth of knowledge and be unable to tap into it. To be female and a scholar in Istanbul is almost a contradiction in terms. But possible; you’d be surprised.”

  “I owe you thanks for another reason, too,” I said. “I did appreciate your intervention yesterday. I was finding the conversation awkward.”

  “With Duarte Aguiar? Yes, I thought so.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Everyone knows Duarte. He’s one of Istanbul’s more colorful characters.” Irene’s expression was thoughtful, the lovely eyes suddenly distant, as if she were searching in her memory. “You’re aware that he’s not only a trader but a pirate as well?”

  “So my father said.”

  “He planned to visit your father, I take it.”

  “I suppose so,” I said cautiously.

  “You should beware of Duarte Aguiar, Paula. He has great superficial charm, as no doubt you’ve noticed. Women follow him about in droves. But there’s a dark resolve hidden below the surface. And you’re young. You should not tangle with such a man.”