Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Hyacinth ran through the corridors and courtyards of the harem with a score of black eunuchs at his heels. Torchlight flickered and lit the darkness as they scurried from room to room.

The screaming increased in pitch and anguish even as they leapt up the stairs to the first and second balconies of the courtyard of the maidens. The young girls stumbled from their dormitories in fear and wonder. Many cried and huddled together—the alarming shrieks enveloping them in dread.

The black eunuchs continued their search—the terror echoing and reverberating throughout the harem. Unlocking the door at the end of the portico, Hyacinth plunged into the darkness of a tight passageway. The stone of the corridor was cold against his hand as he shuffled blindly forward in the dim despite the flicker of the flame that he held before him. Anxiously he searched for the movement of an intruder in the many passages that darted off in all directions, but there was none. He proceeded into the courtyard and suites of the Valide Sultana who was herself frantically running about with a lantern. She grasped him by the forearm and pointed toward the entrance of the Courtyard of the Favorites. Hyacinth ran to it and, using the vast ring of keys at his waist, moved through several locked doors and into the final admirable space. He sent four of his eunuchs to search the hamam, library and small mosque as he surveyed the scene from near the fountainhead. Crouching by the bubbling waters, Hyacinth peered around the yard and then turned his attention upward, toward the highest balcony and the individual suites of the Odalisques—the four mothers of the Sultan’s four sons—from where it was now obvious to him that the screams were emanating. Dread ate at his heart—that he had obviously failed in his major purpose in life, his reason for being allowed to live.

Moonlight shone through the branches of the beech—casting menacing shadows on the stone of the walls and the wood of the balustrade. There was the flicker of movement along the upper verandah.

The screaming stopped.

The eunuchs stopped.

Hyacinth held up his hand for those in his charge to be silent. Passing his torch to the one closest to him, he crept up the stairs and into the darkened recesses of the upper balcony, a dagger held tight. He trod slowly across the floorboards, dreading the slightest creak as he peered into the rooms one by one.

He came to the first suite and eased the door open. The scrape of hinges made him shudder. A nervous sweat made his grip on the dagger slippery. The apartment was dark except for the flicker of a single candle. When his sight adjusted, he was able to see Khanum cowering on her divan in the gloom clutching Mahmut, the eldest son and heir to the throne. She held the boy tight, brandishing a small dagger.

“Hyacinth! Down the corridor, it’s coming from down the corridor,” she whispered in a voice jagged with distress.

The Aga of the Black Eunuchs withdrew and subsequently turned to continue along the balcony in alert agitation. He wiped the perspiration from his hand on his breeches so that he may clench his weapon more firmly.

Mahidavran was at her door, her son Mustafa holding tight to her skirts. Her eyes were wide with terror. She indicated down the balcony.

There were two more suites on the landing, one belonging to Gulfam and her son Murat, the other to Haseki and her new-born Mehmet.

Still the night was deadly silent.

Hyacinth moved with care, dagger in hand. He knew he was invisible in the dark of the balcony, straining to hear the slightest noise. He thought he heard the rustle of material being dragged across a floor—and then a moan. He stopped to listen. Pushing the next door open with his foot, he walked into pitch-blackness. His bare feet padded across the carpets of the first room of the suite. The sleeping divan was empty—its cushions and blankets thrown haphazardly to the ground. With his back pressed firmly against the wall he made his way to the second room and there saw a body crumpled down low on the floor. The ruffled layers of robes spread out around it—motionlessness.

Hyacinth stood in silence, his awareness flicking back and forth, frantically searching the dark of the room for an intruder. The curtains to the outer terrace fluttered in the subtlest of night breezes. Dapples of dull moonlight shimmered across the carpet. Suddenly the body on the floor shuddered and sobbed loud. He ran to her, kneeling by her side and clasping her tight in his left arm while still holding the dagger high in his right and jerking his sight around the space.

It was Gulfam, the third Favorite, that quivered in his embrace.

In her arms was the third son of Sultan Suleyman Khan.

Murat was two years old.

He was dead.