Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“And the pendant?”

“I’m still wondering how Mary got hold of it. Maybe Hamza took it back when Hannah was killed-I guess that makes him look pretty suspicious-and later gave it to Mary to wear into the harem, thinking someone would see it and put a message in it like before. Baiting the hook. But I still have a hard time believing he would murder the women.”

He splashes scotch into a glass and hands it to Kamil, who takes it this time.

“I wonder who has such free access to the harem,” Bernie continues. “Maybe one of the eunuchs. He could come and go, take the message to whoever it is outside the harem that’s orchestrating this whole shebang. We just don’t know.”

Kamil tilts his glass and watches the golden liquid swirl, then takes a sip. “Whoever reported on Hannah could still be there, see the new pendant on Mary, and report it again.”

“A snitch in the harem. Maybe,” Bernie replies, rolling the word around his mouth. “But why? It would put that person in danger from the people behind the plot. I’d be surprised if whoever snitched the first time would still be hanging around the same harem, alive. I’d bet the snitch didn’t know the whole story. You sell out a couple of people, but you don’t realize they’re just the small fry. There’s a big hammer behind them just waiting to come down on you. Whoever knows about the plot-and the pendant-would be a target.”

Kamil jumps to his feet. “May Allah protect her. Sybil Hanoum! She told the women about the pendant.”

Bernie swings around and stares at Kamil. “What women?”

“She visited Prince Ziya’s fiancée, Shukriye Hanoum.”

“My God, I thought she was dead.”

“She married someone in Erzurum. But she’s back in the city, so Sybil Hanoum went to see her. Sybil Hanoum told the women there that both Hannah and Mary had the same pendant with a tughra inside. She probably also told them about the poem. Shukriye Hanoum apparently thinks she was punished because the sultan wrongly thought Prince Ziya was part of a plot to overthrow him.” He looks at Bernie. “Maybe no one made the connection,” he adds hopefully.

“Who else was there?”

“Shukriye’s sister, Leyla, Ali Aslan Pasha’s wife Asma Sultan, and her daughter Perihan.”

Bernie closes his eyes. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

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.”