#22b
Constantinople, May, 1422
They brought him ungently to his feet. As he was not able to stand on his own, two of them supported him, without apparent effort and with no hint of disgust. Nothing was said as they led him through the prison's maze of corridors and stairs. They didn't meet many guards and no-one asked them anything. Alexios was dazed. His brain awoke slowly, but he felt too tired and helpless to bother making any effort.
As they stepped into the street, he groaned and covered his eyes to protect them from the burning brightness of the sun on the white dusty pavement. One of the men blindfolded him with a strip of black cloth. He was literally dragged across the city by his abductors – unless they were his rescuers? He kept the blindfold on for several days; no-one took it off and he did not dare remove it himself, even though his hands were free. He was transported by sea, probably to Anatolia, given the brevity of the trip. From time to time brief sentences were exchanged in Turkish, a language of which he understood no more than a few words.
They disembarked at night, judging by the smells, lack of sound and dampness in the air. Once again, he was dragged along unknown alleys, his grimy bare feet stumbling upon the irregularities of the plain dirt ground. When he was finally taken into a building, fresh air and the cold contact of a smooth tiled floor made it clear that he was in the house of someone of substance. His blindfold was torn off, at last. He blinked. At first everything was blurred, but he quickly realized that he was standing in front of a steaming sunken bath in a small room lit by two small oil lamps. One of his escorts gave a quick tug at his shirt, which was stiff with filth, and gestured toward the bath. He did not need persuading.
About two hours later, he was shaved and dressed in clean Ottoman clothes. He was led to what looked like a salon with deep carpets on the floor and gauzy draperies that filtered the light from four finely worked copper lanterns. A plump woman was lounging on a pile of cushions behind a coffee table that was laden with dried fruits, flat cakes and a few carafes. She was probably in her forties, but her face was veiled with lilac-coloured gossamer. She waved her hand in the direction of the food and addressed him in Greek.
“Dear Mr. Xanthopoulus, pray help yourself. I’m sure you have not eaten anything decent in a long time.”
He thought that the golden rings adorning her chubby hands gave them a slightly menacing aspect. He stepped in clumsily and sat on a tiny stuffed stool.
“I expect you know who I am?” asked the woman, whose hoarse voice was not without a certain charm. She had a strong Turkish accent but her Greek was fluent.
Alexios wet his lips. He had not spoken in months and was afraid his tongue might slip. “I believe that Maro has told me about you. I'm sorry. I’m afraid your name escapes me.” To his surprise his answer had come naturally, although his own voice sounded a bit strange to him. She did not seem to notice anything unusual, however.
“Oh! I'm pretty certain he did not bother telling you any details. Call me Ilhami.”
“Very nice, if I may say so.”
She laughed. “Inspiring, anyway. But pray eat. If you could see yourself... You're skin and bone!”
Alexios did not wait to be told twice. He ate a dried fig, drank some wine and began to nibble a flat cake. But his stomach soon shrank in protest against the sudden influx of food. Seeing that he had finished, Ilhami came straight to the point.
“I’m sure you know that I didn’t have you freed solely out of kindness, don't you?”
“Indeed, but I don't understand your reasons.”
“Do you know why you have been kept in jail?”
“No.”
“Because a Byzantine official who had put himself at the service of the Sultan opposed your discharge.”
“Paulos.” Alexios whispered.
“Yes, Paulos. But that arrogant, sycophantic peacock seems to have annoyed Murad. He's fallen out of favour at court and his business partners are obviously beginning to think they may have backed the wrong horse.”
Alexios mused for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “You know, if he has not changed too much, he will raise the roof when he hears that I'm no longer imprisoned.”
Ilhami fondled her big, gold rings. “Well, that would certainly get rid of him. Let's hope that he's stupid enough to do it.”
Alexios was finding it difficult to concentrate. He tried to put the conversation back on track before he lost the thread altogether. “This doesn't explain what you want from me.”
“Well, isn't it obvious? You have influence and trading networks. I want access to them.”
Alexios shook his head slowly. “I've been out of it for almost two years. Maro will have taken over from me.”
“Maro? Ah! I haven't seen him in months.”
She seemed put out. Alexios was suddenly a little worried. “Has something happened to him? Doesn't he do business with you anymore?”
“That's not what I said. However, Maro is Mediterranean. His resources through the Balkans seem rather limited. That area was your private playground, wasn't it?”
Alexios scratched his chin. He may have shaved and washed, but his eczema would need time to go away, if it disappeared at all. “I thought you were not exactly a trader yourself.”
“Oh, but I am! How about my bakery then? Isn't that trade? All my activities can be considered commercial, albeit not always strictly legal or particularly charitable.”
Alexios stared at his hostess' sparkling hands. He didn't dare look up at the purple veil that revealed only the mere outline of a face. “What do I have to gain in this deal?”
“Ah!” Ilhami exclaimed, cheerfully. “I see you're recovering your reflexes. Good. But you have already gained your freedom, which is not so bad.”
“It will not be enough, though.”
“Oh, really? You shouldn't overestimate the interest I have in you, however. So, what is it you want?”
“The young woman who was with me when I was arrested, Verina Ospinas...”
“She has been sent to the royal harem.”
There was a finality in her voice as she pronounced the words, as if she had been announcing Verina’s death. It was understandable, of course; who could hope ever to get one of the Sultan's concubines out of his harem? Alexios knew he was about to ask more than Ilhami would be willing to pay. And more than she would be able to pay, for that matter. He did not care any more. “Very well, I want freedom for her.”
“But she has been bestowed an outstanding honour.” Ilhami whispered like a conspirator.
“I very much doubt that she considers it so. Her freedom is the price for my co-operation. It's not negotiable.”
And it was out; he had said it. What would she do? Turn him out onto the street like a beggar or have him thrown into the harbour? He felt the formidable woman's eyes on him as she scrutinised him through her veil. Her fat, beringed hand caressed one of the silk cushions.
“I'll see what can be done.” she said finally, in a soft voice.
Constantinople, May, 1422
They brought him ungently to his feet. As he was not able to stand on his own, two of them supported him, without apparent effort and with no hint of disgust. Nothing was said as they led him through the prison's maze of corridors and stairs. They didn't meet many guards and no-one asked them anything. Alexios was dazed. His brain awoke slowly, but he felt too tired and helpless to bother making any effort.
As they stepped into the street, he groaned and covered his eyes to protect them from the burning brightness of the sun on the white dusty pavement. One of the men blindfolded him with a strip of black cloth. He was literally dragged across the city by his abductors – unless they were his rescuers? He kept the blindfold on for several days; no-one took it off and he did not dare remove it himself, even though his hands were free. He was transported by sea, probably to Anatolia, given the brevity of the trip. From time to time brief sentences were exchanged in Turkish, a language of which he understood no more than a few words.
They disembarked at night, judging by the smells, lack of sound and dampness in the air. Once again, he was dragged along unknown alleys, his grimy bare feet stumbling upon the irregularities of the plain dirt ground. When he was finally taken into a building, fresh air and the cold contact of a smooth tiled floor made it clear that he was in the house of someone of substance. His blindfold was torn off, at last. He blinked. At first everything was blurred, but he quickly realized that he was standing in front of a steaming sunken bath in a small room lit by two small oil lamps. One of his escorts gave a quick tug at his shirt, which was stiff with filth, and gestured toward the bath. He did not need persuading.
About two hours later, he was shaved and dressed in clean Ottoman clothes. He was led to what looked like a salon with deep carpets on the floor and gauzy draperies that filtered the light from four finely worked copper lanterns. A plump woman was lounging on a pile of cushions behind a coffee table that was laden with dried fruits, flat cakes and a few carafes. She was probably in her forties, but her face was veiled with lilac-coloured gossamer. She waved her hand in the direction of the food and addressed him in Greek.
“Dear Mr. Xanthopoulus, pray help yourself. I’m sure you have not eaten anything decent in a long time.”
He thought that the golden rings adorning her chubby hands gave them a slightly menacing aspect. He stepped in clumsily and sat on a tiny stuffed stool.
“I expect you know who I am?” asked the woman, whose hoarse voice was not without a certain charm. She had a strong Turkish accent but her Greek was fluent.
Alexios wet his lips. He had not spoken in months and was afraid his tongue might slip. “I believe that Maro has told me about you. I'm sorry. I’m afraid your name escapes me.” To his surprise his answer had come naturally, although his own voice sounded a bit strange to him. She did not seem to notice anything unusual, however.
“Oh! I'm pretty certain he did not bother telling you any details. Call me Ilhami.”
“Very nice, if I may say so.”
She laughed. “Inspiring, anyway. But pray eat. If you could see yourself... You're skin and bone!”
Alexios did not wait to be told twice. He ate a dried fig, drank some wine and began to nibble a flat cake. But his stomach soon shrank in protest against the sudden influx of food. Seeing that he had finished, Ilhami came straight to the point.
“I’m sure you know that I didn’t have you freed solely out of kindness, don't you?”
“Indeed, but I don't understand your reasons.”
“Do you know why you have been kept in jail?”
“No.”
“Because a Byzantine official who had put himself at the service of the Sultan opposed your discharge.”
“Paulos.” Alexios whispered.
“Yes, Paulos. But that arrogant, sycophantic peacock seems to have annoyed Murad. He's fallen out of favour at court and his business partners are obviously beginning to think they may have backed the wrong horse.”
Alexios mused for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “You know, if he has not changed too much, he will raise the roof when he hears that I'm no longer imprisoned.”
Ilhami fondled her big, gold rings. “Well, that would certainly get rid of him. Let's hope that he's stupid enough to do it.”
Alexios was finding it difficult to concentrate. He tried to put the conversation back on track before he lost the thread altogether. “This doesn't explain what you want from me.”
“Well, isn't it obvious? You have influence and trading networks. I want access to them.”
Alexios shook his head slowly. “I've been out of it for almost two years. Maro will have taken over from me.”
“Maro? Ah! I haven't seen him in months.”
She seemed put out. Alexios was suddenly a little worried. “Has something happened to him? Doesn't he do business with you anymore?”
“That's not what I said. However, Maro is Mediterranean. His resources through the Balkans seem rather limited. That area was your private playground, wasn't it?”
Alexios scratched his chin. He may have shaved and washed, but his eczema would need time to go away, if it disappeared at all. “I thought you were not exactly a trader yourself.”
“Oh, but I am! How about my bakery then? Isn't that trade? All my activities can be considered commercial, albeit not always strictly legal or particularly charitable.”
Alexios stared at his hostess' sparkling hands. He didn't dare look up at the purple veil that revealed only the mere outline of a face. “What do I have to gain in this deal?”
“Ah!” Ilhami exclaimed, cheerfully. “I see you're recovering your reflexes. Good. But you have already gained your freedom, which is not so bad.”
“It will not be enough, though.”
“Oh, really? You shouldn't overestimate the interest I have in you, however. So, what is it you want?”
“The young woman who was with me when I was arrested, Verina Ospinas...”
“She has been sent to the royal harem.”
There was a finality in her voice as she pronounced the words, as if she had been announcing Verina’s death. It was understandable, of course; who could hope ever to get one of the Sultan's concubines out of his harem? Alexios knew he was about to ask more than Ilhami would be willing to pay. And more than she would be able to pay, for that matter. He did not care any more. “Very well, I want freedom for her.”
“But she has been bestowed an outstanding honour.” Ilhami whispered like a conspirator.
“I very much doubt that she considers it so. Her freedom is the price for my co-operation. It's not negotiable.”
And it was out; he had said it. What would she do? Turn him out onto the street like a beggar or have him thrown into the harbour? He felt the formidable woman's eyes on him as she scrutinised him through her veil. Her fat, beringed hand caressed one of the silk cushions.
“I'll see what can be done.” she said finally, in a soft voice.