The Oracle of Stamboul by Michael David Lukas

Author:Michael David Lukas
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2011-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The Commander of the Faithful, His Excellency Sultan Abdulhamid II put down his book and stared out the green tiled doorway of his mother’s quarters. Her courtyard was much quieter than normal. A young odalisque was practicing the kemenche in a niche between two columns, and water gurgled up through the mouth of the marble fountain in the middle of the courtyard. As the Sultan watched water spill over the side of the top basin, a purple-and-white hoopoe landed on its rim, took a mouthful of water, and flew off. It had the same coloration as the bird he had spotted a few months earlier. Or perhaps it was the very same bird. In any case, it was quite an unusual color.

Glancing at his mother, the Sultan tried to read a few more pages of his book, an English mystery novel called The Woman in White, but the grumbling of his stomach ruined his concentration. It was only the second day of Ramadan and already he was wracked with an unbearable hunger. Abdulhamid chuckled at the irony. Here he was, Caliph of Islam, Servant to the Holy Cities, and yet his stomach growled during Ramadan just like anyone else’s. Indeed, it is true what is written in the Sura of Maryam, To Us shall return all that he talks of and he shall appear before Us bare and alone.

The Sultan laid his book down again and watched his mother practice her calligraphy. Pen pinched between thumb and forefinger, she sat at a low walnut table, her shoulders stiff and legs crossed underneath. She had taken up calligraphy upon her arrival in the court of his father, Sultan Ahmed IV. While the other girls lounged about plucking the oud and gossiping, she sat alone in her private chambers, practicing an endless series of loops and dots in the hopes of improving herself and enhancing her standing. She didn’t need to impress anyone now, of course. She was the Sultan’s mother. When she spoke, the harem girls scattered like deer. It was incredible to think that someone of her birth, a lowly Circasian peasant, taken from her family and brought to the palace at the age of twelve, could rise through force of will and beauty to become one of the most important personages in the empire. She had been able to efface the coarseness of her upbringing almost completely, but Abdulhamid could still recognize his lowly ancestors in certain of his mother’s personality traits—her irritability, for instance. He could tell from her posture that she was still upset with him, and he knew from long experience that he would have to make a concession if he wanted peace.

“If it means that much to you,” he said, breaking a long silence, “I will cancel the meeting.”

His mother finished the word she was working on before she raised her head.

“It doesn’t mean anything to me, Your Excellency. I couldn’t care less whom you invite to the palace. I am only worried about the impression your meetings might have on others.

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