“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.”
“I’m duly warned,” I said with a smile, my tone expressing a confidence I did not feel. Although the little I knew about the Portuguese was all bad, in a way I had enjoyed our awkward encounter and his easy banter. It had certainly added excitement to my day.
Our refreshments finished, we walked along the colonnade to a tall, arched doorway with panels of colored tiles on either side, red on blue. Irene made it clear Stoyan could not come into the library. Without comment, he placed himself just outside the door.
Irene’s collection was housed in a vast, airy chamber on two levels. The upper was furnished with crimson-cushioned divans and cunning brass stands to hold items at a convenient height for reading, while around the lower level, a step down, were shelves on which numerous bound books were stored flat. There were low tables holding writing materials and cedar chests suitable for scrolls and other documents.
Two Turkish women in robes and veils were seated cross-legged in a corner, poring over a faded manuscript laid out on a table before them. Their faces were uncovered, and they looked up and nodded to us as we entered.
“We have started a catalog,” Irene said, indicating a bound notebook lying open on a stand. “You’re welcome to look at that, or perhaps I can find something of particular interest?”
I hesitated. It had occurred to me last night that I might use this visit as an opportunity to seek out information about Cybele, something that might give Father and me the edge in our trading negotiations. Knowledge, I believed, was the strongest weapon in any battle, and a fierce bidding contest was quite like a war. If I could find material about Cybele’s legend here, or about the mysterious inscription on the artifact, we might use that to convince Barsam the Elusive that we were the right buyers for the piece, even in the face of some other merchant making an equal offer. But I wasn’t going to reveal trade secrets to Irene, friendly as she was. “I like myths and legends,” I said. “Is there anything about the local folklore? The only thing is, although I can read Greek, Latin, and French, I would have problems with Arabic script. I learned a little Turkish when I was in Braşov, but only speaking, not reading.”