Cybele's Secret Read online

  “I won’t, of course.” I thought of the strange woman in black and decided not to ask who she was. “I do admire you for doing this, Irene. If more women of learning were prepared to follow your example—”

  She raised a hand to silence me, clearly embarrassed. “I do it because I enjoy it, Paula. Women have so much to offer. It is regrettable that social custom and religious stricture limit those possibilities. And it can be dangerous to offend the wrong people here. Istanbul is a place of high culture and refinement. It can also deliver sudden and deadly violence. Shall we wash now? Do allow Olena to assist you. She will do wonders with your hair. Tell me, are all your sisters formed like you, slim as willow wands and pale as snow?”

  I felt myself blushing. “Jena’s like me,” I said as we went to the basins, where Olena began to sluice my sweating body with warm water that ran from the pipes at the turn of a little spigot. “The others are far more beautiful.”

  “You speak without rancor.”

  “I don’t care much about such things,” I said. “Good health and intellect are more important to me than beauty.” Olena had applied soap and was scrubbing my body with a rough sponge; it felt as if she was scraping away my skin.

  “Oh, but you are lovely in your own way,” Irene said, lifting a scoop to trickle water over her shoulders. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that? A young man at home, perhaps?”

  I grimaced. “Hardly,” I said. “Young men like curves and smiles, blushes and modest speech. I have yet to discover one who meets up to my expectations.”

  “I’m certain you will change your mind in time, kyria,” said one of the other women seated close by. “Wait until you meet the right young man. Or are you too much of a scholar?” Her Greek was good. I could not tell what her origins were; since nobody was wearing a stitch of clothing, all I had to go by was general appearance, and these women were quite a mixture.

  Irene took the opportunity to introduce me. The names were Turkish, Greek, Venetian, all sorts. I nodded and smiled, still not quite used to conversation without clothing. Several of those present did not speak any Greek, and I stumbled through some basic phrases in Turkish, trying hard to follow their questions while Olena scoured every inch of my skin, rinsed me off with a deluge of fresh water, washed and combed my hair, then laid me on the slab. She proceeded to pummel and knead me until my body felt boneless. During this process, I found myself unable to conduct a conversation at all, and I drifted into a daze while the women chatted amongst themselves. I only came back to full awareness when I heard the name Cybele.

  They were speaking Turkish. Something about a fascinating story, or a rumor. Something about danger. I struggled to pick up enough of it to understand. “What are they talking about?” I asked Irene in Greek.

  “Gül here has heard some scandalous gossip, Paula,” said Irene in the same language as Olena rolled me onto my back and started in anew. “Talk of a secret religion right here in Istanbul. It’s very shocking; the imams would be outraged.”

  “A secret religion?” I murmured against the fists working on my rib cage. “What kind of religion?”

  “A pagan cult,” said one of the Greek women. “Based on the worship of an ancient earth goddess. Gül’s husband heard that the Sheikh-ul-Islam himself is investigating it.”

  “The Sheikh is the Mufti of Istanbul, Paula,” Irene explained. “The Sultan’s chief adviser on religious law. A highly influential man. He is certainly not the kind of individual one would want as an enemy. But perhaps this is not true about the cult.”

  There was a silence, almost as if these women were waiting for me to make a comment.

  “I did hear something along the same lines,” I said. It seemed safe to offer that much, since they knew about it already, and perhaps I might glean useful information for Father. “What would this Sheikh do if he discovered who was running the cult?”

  “The consequences would be dire,” Irene said. “It’s not like one of the mystic dervish cults associated with Islam, such as the Bektai, whose devotees combine adherence to Muslim beliefs with certain freedoms—for instance, in that group men and women worship as equals, and there is a certain degree of celebration involved, music and dancing and so on. But the Bektai are recognized by the religious authorities, even if frowned on by the more conservative leaders. This—Cybele cult, I suppose one might call it—would not be acceptable to Muslim, Christian, or Jew, since it would be based on ancient pagan ways, idolatry and sacrifice and so on. Its practices sound somewhat wild.”

  Olena was finished with me. I got up very slowly, dizzy from the massage and the heat, and another woman took my place on the slab.

  “You look almost ready for sleep, Paula,” Irene said. “Come, let’s use the deep pool and then have our rest. We will leave these ladies to their thrilling gossip. I daresay the whole thing is a false rumor, perhaps put about for some political reason that will become plain in due course.”

  A little later I found myself in the camekan, or resting chamber, being served with coffee by Murat while Irene offered me honeyed fruits from a platter of beaten brass. She had given me a length of green silk in which to wrap myself. I considered this to be completely inadequate garb in the steward’s presence, but my hostess seemed at ease in her own meager covering, so I made sure my misgivings did not show, even if some other parts of me did. None of the other women had come through with us. Perhaps they were still engrossed in conversation.

  Murat was gone before I remembered my guard. “Stoyan,” I said, my cup halfway to my lips. “He’s been waiting a long time. Perhaps…” I could hardly run out there with a cup for him, half naked as I was.

  “Murat was displeased earlier when his household arrangements were criticized.” Irene said this with a smile. “That will not prevent him from offering your man refreshments.”

  “I’m sorry if he was offended. Stoyan was just trying to do his job.”

  “Murat is a little sensitive on such issues,” Irene said, reaching to top up her coffee from the elaborately decorated pot, whose holder was of silver filigree wrought in a pattern of vine leaves. “We acquired him from Topkapi Palace. You may not realize how unusual it is for a court-trained eunuch to move to a position outside the control of the Sultan and his powerful advisers. The acquisition of such a rare jewel requires money, influence, and connections. Fortunately, my husband possesses all three and put them to good use on this occasion. In his previous position, Murat had attracted a powerful enemy. He was anxious to move on, and we were in a position to help him.”

  “That must have been difficult. Dangerous, even.” I knew the palace was the scene of hair-raising political intrigues.

  “Money changed hands,” Irene said casually. “A sum that would shock even a merchant’s daughter. The exchange was done expertly, and in secret.”

  “And Murat was content to become a household steward?”

  “Oh, that’s only his official title,” Irene said. “Murat is a great deal more than a domestic manager. His talents are many, his inside knowledge invaluable. I have never considered him a slave, although I do keep slaves in my household: Nashwa and Olena, whom you met in the hamam, for instance.” Irene’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I can see that shocks you, Paula. But you do not know this country. If I had not secured responsibility for these women, it is entirely likely they would have been sold into an existence of utter hardship and degradation. Here, they are trusted members of the household, with all their needs taken care of. Ariadne, the young woman who helps in the library, is not a slave. She’s more of a protégée, someone I thought worth educating.”

  “I’m sorry I seemed critical,” I said. “What you’re doing here is admirable. It makes my own life’s ambition fade into insignificance.”

  Irene’s eyes sparked with interest. She leaned toward me. “Oh, do tell me!”

  Feeling a little awkward, I explained to her about the bookselling business that would eventually expand to include a printing press on
which I would publish scholarly texts.

  “It’s a fine ambition, Paula.” She did not sound in the least patronizing, and I took heart from that. “As a dream, it has practicality. At least you did not tell me you hoped to wed a prince and live in a castle.”

  “Actually, I do live in a castle.” I felt obliged to mention this. “But there’s no prince, and the place has leaky roofs and collapsing floors. Like Murat, it’s a jewel in its own way. One of a kind.”

  Irene gave a lazy smile. “He is certainly that. Now”—she rose gracefully to her feet—“we’d best get you into some proper clothing and send you home before that ferocious young man bursts in and demands to know what I’ve done with you. And look—what perfect timing! Here is Ariadne with some garments for you. I want to dress you in the Greek style. I think the look will suit you, Paula. The line of the skirt and coat is ideal for a slim figure.”

  My protests fell on deaf ears. The clothes, she assured me, were surplus to needs. They had belonged to a member of the household who had moved on. If I liked them, I could keep them. On went fresh smallclothes and shift, then a narrow skirt with little pleats at the side and a blouse with embroidered borders and over it a long waistcoat in a fabric that seemed either cobalt blue or rich bronze, depending on how the light caught it. It fastened with cunning silver clasps shaped like tulips. On top of this, I had a knee-length coat in a lighter blue, with sleeves to the wrists and a pattern worked in many colors of silk thread around the hem. This was worn open in the front. Ariadne rolled my curly hair into a neat bundle at the back and put a little blue hat like a round box on top of my head. Over that went a gauzy scarf anchored with hairpins.

  I was shown my reflection in a bronze mirror and found it startling. The outfit covered me up quite well. Yet it seemed designed to catch the eye, to make men look at me. I was not at all sure it was appropriate wear for a walk through the streets of Istanbul.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling a sudden longing to be back at the han with my father. “If I can repay your kindness in any way, please tell me.”

  “I will, Paula. Do come back soon. Would tomorrow suit you?”

  “I will come if Father doesn’t need me.” I hoped he wouldn’t. Irene’s house seemed a very special place. Surrounded by women who shared the same sort of interests as mine, I had realized how much I was missing my sisters. It was not just being in Istanbul, so far from home. It was having three of them move away, Tati to the Other Kingdom, Jena and Iulia not so far but separated from me by the profound difference marriage and children create. Stela was a child still. I loved my little sister, but I could not confide in her as I might do in Jena.

  Besides, Irene’s library was full of secrets: the symbols I had recognized without knowing why, the writing that had appeared and disappeared, the woman and her embroidery that seemed to have an image of Tati on it. There was a puzzle here to be worked out, and I was good at those. Given a little more time, I would find the answer. I remembered the words I had heard at the docks when I’d seen the black-robed woman the first time: It’s time to begin your quest. Maybe someone was setting clues for me—leading me on a journey. Once, back home, the folk of the Other Kingdom had set a quest for Tati’s sweetheart. Jena and Costi had had their own mission that same winter. Maybe it was my turn. Could such a thing happen when I was so far from home?

  “How is your father’s business in Istanbul progressing?” Irene asked. “Well enough to allow him to spare you again?”

  “I’ll need to ask him,” I said. I could see from her expression that she knew I was exercising a merchant’s caution; she looked, if anything, amused.

  “I mentioned Duarte Aguiar earlier.” Her tone was delicate. “You might wish to pass on a warning to your father where the Portuguese is concerned. He’s highly competitive and does not play by the accepted rules.”

  “I don’t think it’s very likely Duarte Aguiar will be doing business with us,” I told her. “I don’t think he trades in the kind of goods we have brought.”

  “He was at your han and went out of his way to talk to you,” Irene said. “If I was a merchant, that would be sufficient to make me ask a few questions. I speak only as a friend. I know of this man. He is not trustworthy, Paula.”

  “I’ll pass it on to Father. I think he probably knows that already. He’s been trading here for many years, on and off.”

  We stepped outside. Stoyan was still standing just beyond the hamam doorway.

  “I’m ready to go home now,” I said, not meeting his eye. In the lovely new clothes, with my skin still tingling from Olena’s scrubbing and my limbs heavy after the massage, I felt curiously raw and exposed before his gaze.

  “Yes, Kyria Paula.”

  On the way back, we saw a band of red-clad musicians with drums and cymbals and horns, and a juggler tossing up plates. The midday call to prayer rang out over the city when we were only halfway back to the han. We paused under a shady tree, not wishing to draw particular attention to ourselves while the streets were half empty.

  “We will wait here awhile, then walk on,” Stoyan said.

  I sat on a bench and he stood nearby, looking particularly grave. After a little I ventured, “Have I done something to make you angry, Stoyan?”

  “No, kyria. I was becoming concerned. You were out of my sight too long.”

  “That’s unreasonable,” I said. “It’s all right for you and Father to go to the hamam, but as soon as I get the opportunity, and in a private bathhouse at that, you raise objections.”

  “You hired me as a guard, Kyria Paula. As a guard, my judgment is that I cannot keep you safe in such places if I am required to be out of sight.” His tone of calm reason did nothing to improve my mood.

  “If I followed your rules, I’d never go anywhere,” I said, folding my arms belligerently. “You can’t know how desperate I’ve been for a walk, an outing, just to see some of the city. And books; I miss those most of all. This was perfectly safe. There were only women there, and all we were doing was bathing and reading.”

  “You should be with me, or with your father, at all times when you leave the han. You are not accustomed to a place such as this—a place where death is only an eyeblink away.”

  This speech chilled me. I understood why he believed this; it had been true for Salem bin Afazi. But my situation was quite different. “I think you’ve misjudged Irene,” I said. “She does some wonderful things, Stoyan, providing opportunities for people who have none.”

  He was silent awhile, then said, “Yes, kyria. What opportunity does she offer you that you do not already have?”

  “Access to a library,” I said. “The chance to expand my knowledge. I’m hoping to discover something more about Cybele’s Gift.”

  “Shh!” It was a fierce hiss of warning, and I heeded it, mortified that my bodyguard had needed to remind me this particular topic was not for discussion in public places.

  “I’m sorry.” It came out despite me. “As I said, it seemed perfectly safe.”

  “You believe you are in no danger because you are in a private house or garden? That shows how ignorant you are of this city and of the perils that lie in wait for the unwary.”

  “Don’t call me ignorant!” I snapped. How dare he? My scholarship was my one great strength, and to dismiss it thus was, in effect, to call me worthless. How would Stoyan know anyway? A man like him was incapable of understanding how far learning could take one. “A man who earns a living with his fists should not be so ready to dismiss the opinions of an educated woman,” I added. It came out sounding terribly pompous, and I was instantly ashamed of myself, but it was too late to take it back. The silence between us was almost vibrating with tension. After a while, when the time of devotions drew to a close and the street began to fill up with folk again, we walked back to the han an arm’s length apart, and neither of us spoke a word.

  Run! My chest heaved. A cold sweat of utter terror chilled my skin. Which way? Openings yawned to the left and
right of the dark passage. I stood frozen a moment, then chose a path at random and pushed myself on. Ancient webs draggled down to cling in my hair; small things skittered around my ankles and crunched under my feet in the gloom. Run! Run! A strong hand gripped mine, tugging me forward. Behind me pounded the heavy feet of the pursuers. They were gaining on us. Run! But I could go no farther. I bent double, gasping, and my guardian’s hand slipped out of my hold. The darkness descended. All was shadow. Which way was onward and which way back? I thought I could feel the enemy’s breath hot on my neck. His steps had slowed. Now his tread was the prowl of a creature about to pounce….

  “Father!” I cried out. “Stoyan!” I sat up abruptly, my heart going like a hammer. Beyond the door of my tiny sleeping chamber, nothing was stirring. Perhaps I had shouted only in my dream. One thing was certain—I wasn’t staying in here by myself one instant longer.

  I threw on a cloak over my nightrobe and stumbled out to the gallery, almost walking into Stoyan, who was standing by the railing, fully dressed.

  “Kyria,” he murmured, stretching out his hands to halt my wild progress. “You walk in your sleep. Come, sit here.”

  I obeyed. Seated on one of the little chairs overlooking the darkened and empty courtyard, I couldn’t stop shaking. It had all been so real—the shadows, the flight, the menacing presence….

  Stoyan crouched in front of me as he had the first time I met him and put his big hands around mine to steady me. Gradually the shivering subsided and my breathing slowed.