Helena nodded. 'I once felt as you do, child. After my marriage, I did not emerge from my quarters for months, except on direct summons. But marriage is not the end. I never learned to love Manuel, but my marriage to him gave me far more power than I ever would have had otherwise. Notaras is a powerful man, and if you can control him, then you will have a great say in our empire.'
Sofia was shaking her head. 'But you married the emperor. Notaras is only a noble. And besides, he will not listen to me. He is too proud, too arrogant.'
'I see.' Helena closed her eyes and lay back. She sat unmoving for some time, and Sofia began to fear that she had fallen asleep. Just as Sofia began to rise, however, Helena opened her eyes. 'You will not marry Lucas Notaras,' she said. 'No, do not speak. Let me explain. You know that we are sending an ambassador, Andronicus Leontarsis, to Italy?'
'Yes, Mamme.' Sofia blushed. How did Helena know?
'As a young woman, I too sat behind that wall, listening to secrets that I should not have heard,' Helena said. 'Leontarsis is a good man, but his is not the most subtle mind. In dealing with the pope, great tact and intelligence will be required, perhaps more than Leontarsis is capable of. I have persuaded Constantine that we should send another ambassador to second Leontarsis. You shall be that ambassador, Sofia. You are politically able, of the royal household, and most importantly, a woman. The Italians are easily moved by beauty. Perhaps you can convince them to send aid where men would fail.'
Sofia nodded. 'I will not fail you,' she promised. 'But how will this prevent my marriage?'
'The trip to Italy will take months, perhaps years. In the meantime, I will persuade Constantine that Notaras's loyalty is of too great importance to wait for your return before he is joined to our household. Another princess of the royal family will be married to him, and you will be released from your betrothal. In the meantime, I suggest that you find a man that you can live with. You cannot avoid marriage forever; it is your duty as a princess.'
Sofia stood and kissed Helena on the cheek. 'Thank you, Mamme,' she said. 'Thank you.'
Across the room, the door opened and a tall, spare man in priest's robes entered. He carried a tray with the bread and wine of the Holy Communion on it. 'Here is my priest, Neophytus. You must go,' Helena said to Sofia. 'I may not be long for this world, but at least I shan't roast in hell.'
Sofia kissed Helena again and left, passing the priest on her way. There was something distasteful about the man, but Sofia did not dwell on it. Her mind was elsewhere, already in Italy. She stepped into the bright hallway, a smile on her face. She was free again. Thank God, she was free!
Chapter 6
SEPTEMBER 1449: MANISA
Mehmed guided his horse out from the cool shade of the forest and on to the baked dust of the road leading to Manisa, the city of princes. Behind him came the hunting party: horsemen, a pack of hounds with tongues lolling after the day's long chase, and the two deer that they had run down in the forests of Mount Sipylus. Mehmed and his party were on the lower slopes of the mountain now, but were still much higher than the city, which spread out on the plain before them, a maze of twisting streets and dusty bazaars broken only by the towering height of the main mosque and by the brilliant green gardens and cool white walls of the newly built palace. The caravanserai on the outskirts of town was crowded with merchants, guards and wandering camels, all taking their ease before continuing the trek to Smyrna or Constantinople. The whole — caravanserai and city alike — was baked by a brilliant late summer sun sitting in a pure blue sky, and heat rose from the ground below, causing the city to shimmer and shift like some fabulous mirage. It was a magnificent sight, but Mehmed gave the city only a glance before spurring his horse down the road at a gallop. The heat from the city was engulfing him already, and he was eager to reach the cool comforts of the palace.
There was no formal business waiting for Mehmed at the palace, which was not a surprise. Although he governed the province of Sarakhan from the palace in Manisa, there was little to do in the way of ruling other than to police and tax the caravanserai, and Mehmed left that task to the able eunuchs who administered the city. He spent his days hunting, practising swordplay and reading. He read mostly military texts — accounts of battles, writings of famous generals, books of strategy — but he was currently reading an account of Constantinople written in the thirteenth century by a Russian visitor to the Greek court. Upon reaching his suites, Mehmed bathed, changed into cool, cotton robes and took the book into the gardens.
Cushions were laid out for him under a lemon tree, and there he reclined, reading amidst the pleasant scent of lemons. He was attended by three gedikli — beautiful female slaves, trained from youth to serve him — who fanned him and fed him honeyed dates and wine, but Mehmed's attention was entirely taken up with his book. The Russian author, named Alexandre, described the city in detail, and Mehmed took careful notes as he read, filling a battered old scroll with sketches and ideas. The current section discussed the numerous underground passages in and out of the city — a topic of particular interest to Mehmed — and as he read, his mind drifted, turning to stratagems and plans of attack against the great city. If he could only find those passages, then he might sneak his troops into the city by night and have them open the gates. Or, perhaps he could fill the passages with gunpowder, and thus bring down the walls above them. But Constantinople was only a dream for now. In distant Manisa, Mehmed had little news of the court in Edirne and even less influence there. I cannot even command my own kadin, he reflected bitterly, much less an army.
Murad had insisted that Mehmed leave Gulbehar behind at the Royal Harem in Edirne. Mehmed missed her, but even more he regretted having been absent for the birth of his son, Bayezid. The boy was still only a babe — too young to be poisoned against his father — but nevertheless, Mehmed would rather have kept him near. Murad had made it clear that he disapproved of both Gulbehar and Bayezid, and Mehmed feared that his father might take advantage of Mehmed's absence to eliminate them. There was no sense in dwelling on the matter, though; he would have to be patient. And, in the meantime, there were his gedikli to keep him occupied. The girl holding the fan was particularly exquisite. She had a broad, oval face and red hair. Mehmed thought she looked Russian and would thus offer a perfect compliment to his book. He made a note in the margin to tell his haznedar, the keeper of the calendar of royal nights, to schedule the girl.
A black eunuch approached Mehmed across the garden. He was from Abyssinia, clean-shaven and rather heavy-set. Like most black eunuchs, he was also a sandali. Before they reached puberty, the sandali had their testicles and penis removed with a single cut of a razor, a wooden tube set in their urethra, and the wound cauterized with boiling oil. Afterwards, they were buried up to the chin in a mound of fresh manure and fed only milk for one week. If they survived, which they did surprisingly often, they were taken into service at the royal court. This particular sandali was named Salim, and as he drew closer, Mehmed saw that his brow was knit in irritation.
Salim bowed low before Mehmed, and spoke in a high, distraught voice. 'Forgive me for disturbing you, most gracious Lord,' he said. 'There is a man to see you, a merchant from one of the caravans. He must be very wealthy, for he bribed every guard and eunuch in sight to obtain an audience with me.' Mehmed smiled at this, for the man had no doubt bribed Salim as well. 'I told him that Your Excellency is occupied, but he insists upon seeing you. He says that you know him. He introduced himself as Isa of Attalia.'