Sofia
pit for the sacrifice is now dug,” Nur Banu announced.Safiye leaned forward and looked again. She saw Selim, assisted by a shepherd, struggling with the first of the sheep.
“One sheep for each member of the household,” Esmikhan explained. “Male sheep of a certain age.”
“Male sheep? Even for the females here?”
“Yes. Without blemish.”
Safiye forced herself to look at the pheasant’s feathers. It was difficult to imagine that through this unremarkable figure lay the path to everything of which she’d ever dreamed. Well, the unremarkable doors were always the easiest to turn. She remembered Andrea Barbarigo and young Veniero, but neither with regret. They were behind her; in time, so would this Murad be.
Actually Safiye found herself more interested in which sheep might be hers. Or did slaves not warrant one? Next year at this time I shall certainly have one of the finest, she was convinced.
Now Nur Banu’s personal slaves brought out the garments that she had chosen for her daughter-in-law-to-be. First, of course, came the great shalvar of finest crimson silk and the diaphanous undershirt that had a trimming of lace from faraway Flanders, as delicate as spiders’ webs. The yelek, or floor-length jacket, was the color of lilac blossom and worked all over the bodice with threads of a deeper purple and of gold into a pattern of full-blown roses, each with a cluster of three tiny pearls as stamens in the center.
The jacket buttoned to below the hip so the curve in from the bosom and out again could be followed without distraction. Then a girdle of crimson velvet was tied about Safiye’s hips in such a way that the golden fringe of its ends would bounce against her left knee when she walked. The girdle was set with five amethysts the size of almonds. Amethysts, too, were the stones in the earrings Nur Banu fastened in Safiye’s ears and let cascade down to her shoulders. But there was no such coordination in the other jewelry she put on, all of which was lent for the occasion by all the members of the harem, all deeply concerned in the evening’s outcome.
Because it was not hers to keep, Safiye soon lost interest in examining each piece. She leaned over the weight at her neck to look into the yard once more.
“Our master Selim strokes the sheep’s throat, oh, so gently,” she said. “He is speaking, too. What does he say to it?”
“He offers a prayer,” Esmikhan’s voice came from where she was struggling with a clasp behind her. “As it says in the Koran: ‘Mention Allah’s Name over them.’
Bracelets of every description were forced up to the elbow so there was hardly room for them to jangle against one another on either forearm. Necklaces, rings, and anklets, too, were added until Safiye exclaimed, “Please! I can hardly move.”
Nur Banu conceded after a moment’s thought and, while the older woman gave her next orders, Safiye escaped to the grille once more. This time she gasped in horror. Five sheep lay twitching in death and the sixth was jerking its life’s blood into the pit over the white of entrails.
“Why—why he is killing them!”
“Of course,” Esmikhan replied. “You have never eaten meat before?”
“How quickly he draws the knife!” Nur Banu leaned over Safiye’s shoulder to catch a glimpse. “The beasts hardly struggle.”
Safiye’s hair was sprinkled with gold dust. Like the baker dredges his pastries with sugar. But it was a desperate thought. The first thing that had come to her mind was the roast and its salt.
“The gold is redundant,” Esmikhan chatted happily.
Nur Banu kept the phial of gold dust carefully in her own possession and spoke with earnest precaution. “Nonetheless—”
The hair was formed into four thick plaits, but given enough freedom at the ends to show the willfulness of its curl.
“My son, Allah shield him, never looked more handsome.” Nur Banu said with pride looking out the window yet again.
Safiye looked and saw only how a shepherd thrust a tube up a dead sheep’s leg.
“A few good puffs of air and the retainer can remove the fleece all at once,” Nur Banu said.
Safiye saw nothing but white light and clung to the grille to keep her feet.
A small red cap studded with pearls served as an anchor for the great lengths of fine, transparent veil. Red embroidered calfskin slippers went upon her feet. Then finally her face was painted: her eyes into almonds, her brows into “Frankish bows,” her cheeks into peonies, and her mouth into a full-blown rose which, with its natural pearly teeth, rivaled the glory of those worked into the yelek.
“The meat is divided, as the holy Koran says: ‘when their flanks collapse...feed the beggar and the suppliant.’ How the poor praise the generosity of our master!
“But come,” Nur Banu said, breaking her own report. “Come, girls. The cook is taking his portion into the kitchen right now. There’s not a moment to lose!”
Now the harem scurried out of the bath and into the main part of the house, for there was hardly time for a proper evening prayer before the door to Murad’s apartment would be opened.
Away from the grille, and shown her own reflection, Safiye’s courage returned. The beauty that stared back at her from the mirror could not be crushed by any slavery, to fashion or otherwise. And it was clearly destined for only the greatest of things.
That evening at prayers, Safiye looked upon these foreign prostrations in much the same light as she looked upon the Turkish dances and songs she had learned. Though there was haste in the movements that evening and Safiye was weighted down with many ornaments, still she managed to include between the lines of Arabic a little prayer to Saint Catherine that her aunt had taught her. Just such a prayer would have been uttered on her wedding day, if she had married that lowly Corfiot. Rather too much favor with heaven, she thought, than too little.
In the confusion that followed as the menial slaves hurriedly rolled up