Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret

“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 difficulty 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.”