Ring of Fire III

Salonica

Salonica, Ottoman Empire

Spring 1635

“Atesh!”

Once again the volley of rifle fire tore into the ranks of the bandits. It was more ragged this time. The defenders had taken casualties of their own since the attack on the inner walls of the gunpowder factory.

“To the wall! Forward!” Mustafa bin Kemal shouted. He looked at Sampson and grinned. “Well done, my friend. Those wonderful grenades saved us. Any left?”

Sampson Gideon reached over his shoulder into the grenade pack and held up a “potato masher.” “Last one, Mustafa. We’ll have to use dynamite from now on.”

If we had any dynamite, Sampson thought. He’d sent the last batch to the Sidrekapsi silver mine yesterday. Opening up new shafts at the mine took priority over grenades, by order of Melek Ahmed Pasha himself.

He and Mustafa were at the wall now.

Unlike the inner walls, the outer wall was incomplete and stood less than three feet high. The forest around the factory had been cut back, but it was still less than a hundred yards away.

“What now?” Sampson asked.

“Now we prepare for their next attack, my friend.” Mustafa said.

The bash cebeci- head armorer-turned to his men along the wall. “ Sungu tak! Sungu tak! ”

Sampson felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Fix bayonets? Oh, God, we’re going to die.

The words from the head enlisted man of the Essen military team, Senior-sergeant Duncan MacGregor, came back to him. “Better pray these Turks never need to use their rifles with the new bayonets, Mr. Gideon. They’ll carve you up like a chicken right quick with the bayonets in their hands, but they get too excited to use them on the rifles and just turn it into a club in the heat of battle.”

Sampson stopped Mustafa as he came down the line of men. “Fix bayonets? Mustafa, they don’t know how to use the bayonets.”

Mustafa smiled. “Of course not. But we are almost out of ammunition, and at least the sight of the bayonets will put fear into our enemies. How many rounds left for your pistol?”

“Two cylinders. Twelve rounds.”

Mustafa shrugged. “Use them well. We surprised these rebels. They will be more organized with the next attack. It is obvious they are not simple bandits or brigands. That has to be why we have seen no reinforcements from the orta in the new training grounds.”

Sampson could hear men shouting off in the forest.

“What are they saying?”

“Officers exhorting their men.” Mustafa tilted his head to listen, then laughed. “Calling them shit-eating sons of motherless donkeys. If they have any courage left, they will be shamed into another attack soon. Make ready.”

“Mustafa! Look!” An armorer pointed back toward the factory.

MacGregor!

The senior-sergeant pulled up his horse and saluted Mustafa.

“Bash Cebeci, we have two cannon, at your service.”

“Essen cannon?”

MacGregor smiled. “Of course. The fifteen pounders. With fifty rounds of canister each. The Chorbaci sends his regards and says reinforcements will be here in fifteen minutes. A diversionary attack hit the encampment.”

Mustafa nodded and turned his head to look at the outer wall, then pointed at a bend in the wall a hundred yards away. “There. Put your cannon there. You’ll have good enfilade fire.”

“As you command.” MacGregor winked at Sampson and galloped off.

Once again Mustafa moved down the line of his men. He clapped one on the shoulder and shook him. When he reached Sampson he fixed the bayonet on his own rifle.

“They are coming, Sampson. If Allah wills, we will be victorious. If not…” Mustafa shrugged, then smiled. “We will meet each other in Paradise.”

Sampson took a breath. “I’m not ready for Paradise just yet, Mustafa.”

Mustafa laughed. “Then victory it is. A good slogan.” He turned to the men along the wall. “For the sultan. Victory or death!”

“Victory or death!” the men shouted.

Sampson grabbed Mustafa’s arm. “Here they come!”

A wave of riders and infantry charged from the forest.

“Close, Ismail, too close indeed. If the rebels had reached the magazines…”

Melek Ahmed Pasha, governor-general of the new expanded sancak of Salonica, closed his eyes and imagined the battle that had taken place at the gunpowder factory. He had been too young to see the end of the Habsburg war in 1606, but there had been plenty of wars with the Persians over the past thirty years.

Hopefully, Melek Ahmed thought, that will be ended this year when the sultan takes Baghdad.

But it was not Persia that was the major threat to the empire. As had been revealed by the histories from the miracle city of Grantville, it was the Austrians and Hungarians who were the real threat to Ottoman rule, especially in the Balkans. And the Russians, of course. But they would be later. Much later, God willing.

“It was fortunate you arrived in time with your reinforcements.”

Ismail bin Abdullah, chorbaci and commander of the new regiments training with the weapons provided by the Republic of Essen, shook his head.

“The battle was nearly over by the time we arrived, my Pasha. Mustafa bin Kemal and the Essen technical expert, Sampson Gideon, rallied the armorers once the local janissary infantry company was routed.”

“Mustafa bin Kemal? Is he not the nephew of Evrenos Bey?”

Ismail nodded. “And his maternal grandfather was a Bektashi pir.”

“Ah? I assume he is mastering the new mysteries of the pious foundation we have established in Salonica?”

“So I have heard,” Ismail said. “The fate of the Bektashi and the other Sufi orders will be much different than in the universe from which Grantville came, God willing.”

Melek Ahmed nodded. Bektashi mysteries were just that to many members of the ulema, the religious leaders of the empire. The conservatives had no interest in them and even dismissed them contemptuously as nothing but heresies. So it was unlikely they would investigate an unusual mystery in a Bektashi lodge in a newly minted province, despite the fact that increasing numbers of Bektashi dervishes were visiting to learn about the latest knowledge.

Unless the Kadi decided to investigate. “You still think the Kadi, Ebu Said, is behind this attack, Ismail? I find it hard to believe. What would his purpose be?”

Ismail shrugged. “He is a Kadizadeli, my Pasha. Your reforms in Salonica alone would be enough to incur his ire. But he is also Albanian and milk-brother to Yusuf Bey.”

Melek Ahmed felt his lip curl. “Yusuf Bey. Too wealthy for his own good. If Yusuf Bey is behind this attack…” He looked down at another rebel body on the ground. “Were any prisoners taken?”

“Half a dozen,” Ismail said. “No officers. They have been taken to the Red Tower.”

“Good. Let me know immediately if any useful information can be extracted from them.”

“As you wish,” Ismail said. “And Mustafa bin Kemal? Without him the factory would have fallen to the rebels.”

“A reward. Two kese. That will also make Evrenos Bey happy, as some of the honor will reflect on him. And a kese as well for the Jewish Englishman, Gideon, when he recovers from his wounds. This explosive he has manufactured for us…what is it called?”

“Dynamite.”

“Yes. The ‘dynamite’ has allowed us to open new shafts in Sidrekapsi and increase production by twenty percent.”

Ismail smiled. “The sultan will be happy to hear that.”

“Indeed. And he will need that extra silver if he expects to attack Vienna after Baghdad. Never have two campaigns been planned so close together. Will your new regiments be ready?”

“They will,” Ismail said. “The gunpowder factory will have two hundred tons of the new powder within a year, and the next supply of weapons from Essen should arrive this summer.”

Melek stroked his beard. “The sultan has given me great power in this sancak. But if Yusuf Bey and Ebu Said stand against us, we will need plentiful evidence to have them removed from power. Find me that evidence, Ismail.”

“I will, my Pasha. On the grave of my mother, I swear it.”

Lara was just beginning to prepare the mid-day soup when Hannalica Castro entered the kitchen.

“They can’t do this. They just can’t!” Hannalica cried. “The inspection of my trousseau is tomorrow!”

“Who can’t do what, Hannalica?” Lara asked. She tasted the soup.

“Him! That Englishman, Sampson Gideon. They’ve put him on my bed. Mine!”

Lara felt herself go still. Hannalica’s bed was the most comfortable bed in Don Diego’s household. There was no reason to put Sampson on Hannalica’s bed unless…

“He is injured?”

Hannalica nodded. “There was a battle at the new gunpowder factory this morning. He’s been shot. Not badly, they say, a minor head wound, but still…what if he gets blood all over my bed?”

“Then we’ll clean it up, Hannalica. Don’t be such a spoiled child.”

Hannalica stomped her foot. “I am not a child. I am fifteen and about to be married into the most important family in the Aragon congregation.” She lifted her chin and looked at Lara. “Not that I would expect a Ukrainian slave to understand that.”

“Don’t get snippy with me, Hannalica,” Lara said. “Or have you forgotten who made the poultice to fight your night terrors when you were ten? Or the amulet to guard against the evil eye of the girls you think are jealous of you?”

Hannalica lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Lara. Truly. But why couldn’t they have taken him to the hospital?”

“Would you want to go the hospital?” Lara asked. “Yes, it’s light and airy, but it’s also in the middle of the cemetery. Tombs for tables and chairs. Senor Gideon will be much more comfortable here.”

“But what about my trousseau? Where are we going to put my things? Dona Gazela doesn’t like me already, I know it. If she sees even the least thing out of place tomorrow…”

“It will be fine, Hannalica. The weather is good. We’ll put everything in the courtyard. We have plenty of room since your brother Raphael and his family moved to Izmir.”

Now, if she could just keep her sister Lina from finding out that her secret love was injured…

Lina came running into the kitchen. “Lara! Sampson’s been hurt!”

Oh bother.

“He is so handsome. Don’t you think so, Lara?”

Sampson Gideon kept his eyes closed. He knew that voice. Who…his memories returned like a wave rushing in to the shore.

Ah, Lina. Sampson felt himself squirming inside. He’d been attracted to the red-haired Ukrainian slave in Don Diego Castro’s household from the first time he had seen her in the kitchen. And her older blond sister as well. At first it had made him uncomfortable that such beautiful women were actual slaves (and possibly concubines) in a Jewish household. But Issac Castro, the Republic of Essen’s consul in Salonica and Don Diego’s cousin, had assured him that the use of slaves in the houses of Jewish notables was a normal practice. Slavery in the Ottoman Empire was a much more fluid concept than the slavery in Brazil, Issac had told him. Many slaves were manumitted after their years of service and those who converted to the religion of their owners often became an integral part of the household and the community.

“Handsome enough, I suppose.” Sampson heard amusement in Lara’s voice. “Let’s get this over with before he wakes up.”

It was the clucking noise that made Sampson open his eyes.

“What are you doing, Lara?” Sampson asked.

Lara stopped rotating the rooster over his head.

“Don’t stop, Lara, finish!” Lina said.

“I have to start over or it won’t work, Lina. It has to be done all at once.”

Lina put her hand on his arm. “Be still, Senor Gideon. This will make you feel better. Truly. Lara is a healer. Your pain and injury will pass from you to the rooster.”

“I see. In that case, please finish, Lara.”

Do not laugh, Sampson, he thought. Don’t!

Lara smiled down at him. Then winked. Ah, now it made sense. This was for Lina’s sake, not his.

Lara rotated the rooster three times over his head, then neatly wrung its neck.

“You will feel better soon, Senor Gideon,” Lara said.

“Thank you, Lara,” he said. He looked at Lina. “And you too, Lina.” He tried to sit up and his head seemed to swim. Once again he felt Lina’s cool hands on his arm.

“Careful, Senor Gideon. You will not feel truly better until the ritual is complete.”

“Ritual?”

“The Kappara. Sacrifice.” Lara said. She held up the rooster and stepped to the door. “The rooster must be eaten by the patient and his family. Since Don Diego and his household are the closest thing to your family here in Salonica, we will put the rooster into the mid-day soup. Chicken broth is good for the health and soul anyway.”

“Stay with him until the soup is done, Lina,” Lara said, shaking the rooster at her sister. She walked out the door.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sampson said. His head began to swim again. “Well, maybe not. Lina, can you help me lie down?”

Lina’s hands were strong and firm now. They cupped his cheek as his head settled back on the pillow. Her fingers brushed lightly over the bandage on the left side of his head.

“Once the soup is done, I will bring you a big bowl, Senor Gideon. Lara has put fresh vermicelli in it as well. It is very tasty.” Lina licked her lips and smiled at him.

Sampson found himself squirming again. He couldn’t help wondering how tasty Lina’s lips might be.

Issac Castro watched from the doorway as the two slaves fed the soup to Sampson Gideon. It was difficult not to laugh out loud as the two young women fussed over him.

They are as infatuated with him as he is with them, Issac thought. It is probably good that he has had to spend all his time at the gunpowder factory.

Issac cleared his throat.

Lara and Lina looked up at the doorway.

“Is he well enough to carry on a conversation?” Issac asked.

Lina looked disappointed.

“Of course, Don Issac,” Lara answered. “We were just leaving. Lina, get the soup bowl.”

“But…”

“Now, little sister.” She turned toward Sampson. “We will bring you dinner this evening, Senor Gideon. I will have Lina go to the market to get the fruit you want. That should go well with the meat dish I have planned. Something to give you more strength.”

Both women left and Issac nodded towards the door as he approached the bed.

“They seem to be taking good care of you, Sampson.”

Sampson smiled. “Excellent care, Don Issac.” He chuckled. “I woke up with a rooster over my head.”

Issac nodded. “The Kappara. The Jews of Salonica have a number of interesting superstitions. It may take some time getting them to think in a more scientific fashion about health. But at least Melek Ahmed Pasha seems amenable to taking preventative measures against disease in the city. If only the rabbis were as easy to convince.”

“Apparently Melek Ahmed sent his protege, Evliya Chelebi, to Grantville to investigate the rumors of a city from the future,” Sampson said. “I think I actually met Evliya at a chess tournament in the summer of 1632.”

“Speaking of Melek Ahmed,” Issac said, “the pasha has rewarded both you and Mustafa for your defense of the factory. Two kese for Mustafa and one for you. That will be a nice bonus to take back to Essen.”

“Take back?” Sampson’s voice seemed to rise in tone.

Ah ha, Issac thought. As I suspected. He wants to stay. A pity.

“That was much too close this morning. If that musket ball had been an inch to the right…your father would never forgive me. It’s time for you to go home, Sampson.”

“But, Don Issac-”

Issac held up his hand. “You yourself have told me that Mustafa is more than competent now, have you not?”

Sampson nodded. It seemed a reluctant nod to Issac, but still verification of the essential truth that the principal job for which Sampson had been hired was over.

“Good,” Issac said. “Once you’re well enough to travel, say in a week or two, we’ll get you on a ship to Livorno and then home.”

Sampson crossed his arms. “But, Don Issac, I don’t want to go back to Essen!”

Issac smiled. The young man had the same stubborn expression on his face his own sons held when they didn’t get what they wanted.

“I understand. Salonica has been an adventure. Exotic compared to Amsterdam or Essen. But every adventure must end, young man. I’ll give you a month. No more.”

“He can’t do this to me, Mustafa,” Sampson said, sipping his coffee. “He just can’t!”

Mustafa laughed and took a sip of his own coffee.

The coffee shop they patronized was less than two streets away from the busy thoroughfare of the via Kalamaria. Still, it was a tranquil place with a fountain in the small square and several Roman era columns to lean against.

Mustafa shook his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. I should not laugh at you. But you cannot fight the tide. Issac Castro pays your salary. And Melek Ahmed Pasha will not want to upset the consul of the nation providing him with rifles and cannon for the regiments he is forming. Unless…”

Mustafa’s look turned speculative.

Sampson felt himself lean inward. “Unless what?”

“You know what,” Mustafa said. “We have discussed this before.”

Sampson sighed. He knew what Mustafa was talking about. Conversion to Islam. If he converted to Islam Melek Ahmed Pasha would reward him with money and a government position at the gunpowder factory.

It was tempting. He’d never been a pious Jew, despite his mother’s wish that he become a rabbi. His interest in science had been a great disappointment to her and they had not spoken in years. He’d thought about conversion for months, especially as he had learned more about Mustafa’s Sufi sect, the Bektashi.

Unlike Judaism and the Counter-Remonstrant version of Calvinism he’d known in Amsterdam, Bektashi doctrine was much more tolerant and pantheistic. Many of its rituals seemed similar to Christian ones and unlike more mainstream adherents of Islam, they allowed the eating of pork, drank wine, and incorporated dancing as part of their faith. But the most appealing part of their doctrine, especially after what he had experienced in Grantville, was their attitude toward the education of women.

What had Haci Bektash said?

“Mustafa, what was that quote by Haci Bektash you told me about?”

Mustafa smiled. “Which one? There are hundreds.”

“The one about the education of women.”

“Ah. ‘Educate your women,’ Haci Bektash said. ‘A nation that does not educate its women cannot progress.’ ”

Sampson nodded. “That’s it. And in the thirteenth century yet. I was just thinking what the rabbis of Amsterdam or Salonica would think about that.”

“Probably recoil in horror at the thought.”

But could he give up his Judaism so easily? What would his mother say? His father?

Sampson shuddered. They would not understand. If he converted to Islam, he would be dead to them. He did not care about his mother. They had been estranged for years. But his father…

He sighed.

“I don’t know, Mustafa. My heart feels torn in two. I was born a Jew. But I have no faith. Bektashi doctrine excites me. It feels right. But…”

Sampson put his head in his hands.

After a minute he felt Mustafa’s arm around his shoulders.

“Come with me. I know what you need.”

“What?”

“Mohammed once said, ‘if your heart is perplexed with sorrow, go seek consolation at the graves of holy men.’ I have a friend who is the hodja at the Casimiye mosque. He will let us pray for guidance at the crypt of Saint Casim, he who once was known as Saint Demetrios. Perhaps he will even build an amulet for you that will help you make your decision. Come.”

“What good will this do?”

Mustafa shrugged. “It cannot hurt. And many people have been helped by praying at the crypt of Saint Casim, including my father. Have faith, my friend.”

The chapel containing the crypt of Saint Casim was dark and cool.

“Your name?” asked the hodja.

“Sampson.”

“Sampson,” the religious teacher repeated, holding the knot in the candle flame. “It does not burn. That is good.” Again he held the knot in the flame.

“The name of your father and your mother?”

“Jonathan is my father. Rebecca my mother.”

Again the hodja held the sacred knot in the flame, then placed it in a small packet along with one of the silver coins Sampson had given him. He added a few bits of soil from the tomb and handed it to Sampson.

“This will ease your anxiety and help you make your decision. Carry it close to your heart for a week.”

Outside the mosque, Sampson shook his head.

“Just superstition.”

Mustafa smiled. “Is it?”

Wasn’t it?

For whatever reason, Sampson felt better once he put the amulet inside his vest pocket. Close to the heart, Sampson. Keep it close to the heart.

Yusuf Bey motioned the slave girl away and turned toward Ebu Said.

“An excellent meal, as always, milk-brother. But enough. What news from the Red Tower?”

“Excellent news, Yusuf. There was only one man captured who knew anything about your relationship with the rebel fighters. He has quite mysteriously strangled himself before he could be interrogated. A mystery that I, as Kadi, must investigate, of course.” Ebu Said laughed. “At least we may get something out of this disaster.”

“And a disaster it was,” Yusuf said. “Melek Ahmed has used this incident to increase his grip on the city. The landowners’ advisory council is backing him fully on his proposal for a city police force. They have also acquiesced to his use of prisoners to sweep the streets and clean up the filth. Sanitation measures, he says.”

Ebu Said nodded. “We have lost this round, Yusuf. But a fight does not end with a single blow. We have just begun.”

We have, have we? Yusuf thought. Perhaps his milk-brother had. But he was already feeling the pressures from the other landowners, especially Evrenos Bey’s friends and relatives. And a banker must be careful of his reputation or he will soon have no customers, especially with the Jews eager to lend money. One more disaster and he would have to cut his losses.

“So?” He asked aloud, “what do you have planned next?”

“I think it is time to drive a wedge between Melek Ahmed Pasha and the Jews who seem so eager to help fund him. If we can show that he cannot protect them, they will complain to Istanbul. Let me tell you about the upcoming wedding of Hannalica Castro.”

Yusuf Bey leaned toward Ebu Said.

The applause and cries of welcome echoed around the courtyard of Don Diego’s house as Hannalica Castro walked through the gate.

“She doesn’t seem as happy as I thought she would be,” Sampson said.

Lara smiled at him. The courtyard was crowded with the friends and relatives of the Castro family and Sampson, Lina, and Lara were standing at the back near the door to the kitchen.

“I know why,” Lara said. “Hannalica hates being immersed in water. She almost drowned when she was three. But the ceremony at the baths requires she submit to the tebila, the triple immersion ordained by rabbinical prescription.”

“And if Dona Gazela forgot to cut one of her nails, she’d have to do the immersion again,” Lina said. She bumped into Sampson.

Sampson felt his face flush when Lina’s breast pressed against his arm.

She’s doing that on purpose! Be calm, Sampson. What was the phrase they used in Grantville? Deep, cleansing breaths.

“But I know another reason she’s unhappy,” Lara said.

“ Pelador? ” Lina said.

“Exactly.” Lara saw him looking at her and touched her eyebrows.

“The absence of eyebrows is considered a sign of beauty among the Jewish women of Salonica, Senor Gideon. Pelador, a depilatory paste, adheres to the skin and can be removed only with a great deal of force. Quite painful, I am told.”

“Good,” Lina said. “She deserves it after the way she’s treated us the past few days. She’s been horrible!”

“She’s been scared witless,” Lara said. “She’s fifteen. About to leave her home and become the wife of Hayyim Molho, future rabbi of the Aragon congregation. And before the night is done she will be a virgin no more. You can only lose your virginity once, little sister, as you well know.”

Lina bumped into Sampson again. “Sorry, Senor Gideon, it is so crowded in the courtyard.”

Sampson looked around. There was no one within three feet of them.

“Of course, Lina. I understand perfectly.” Her hand pressed into his and gave it a brief squeeze.

Well well, Sampson thought. Perhaps I will have as interesting a night as Hannalica.

“So what is your role with the wedding, Senor Gideon?” Lara asked, watching Hannalica and her entourage enter the house. “You did not attend the groom at the baths.”

“True,” Sampson said. He patted the pistol under his coat. “I’m a guard for the wedding party, at Don Issac’s request. There have been rumors that bandits would attempt to kidnap Hannalica. Since I am a Franco protected by Ottoman regulations for foreign delegations, I am one of the few Jews in Salonica permitted to carry a firearm.”

“How exciting,” Lina murmured. “You must come back after the wedding and tell me what happened.”

“It will be quite late, Lina. First the wedding, then la tadrada, which lasts three or four hours. By the time I get home I am sure you’ll be asleep.”

Lina leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “Perhaps not, Senor Gideon.”

“Lina! Stop embarrassing him.”

Lina jerked away from Sampson.

Sampson smiled. “I’m not embarrassed, Lara. Truly.”

Lara sniffed. She scowled at her sister. “Then perhaps you should be. I assure you that my sister will be fast asleep when you return from the wedding reception.”

Lina scowled back at her sister and then walked away.

Lara looked around and then leaned closer to Sampson herself.

“But if Don Diego does not require my services tonight, I am sure I will be awake.” Lara smiled and turned to follow her sister.

Sampson’s breath seemed to catch in his throat.

An interesting night indeed.

Sampson rubbed the back of his neck.

“Tired?” Don Issac asked.

“Just a bit, Don Issac. Do we have much longer to go?”

“Just the banquet,” Don Issac said. “But first we have the ritual to prepare the wedding couple for their future life of intimacy.” He nodded toward the bedroom that Hannalica and Hayyim Molho had just entered.

“They’re not going to consummate their marriage now, are they?”

Don Issac laughed. “Oh no. First we sing, then we open the door and rush in and take the plates of sweets around the room. Then we sit down at the banquet tables.” He pointed at the tables around them.

Sampson sighed. “Another song?”

Don Issac nodded. “And you may find this one quite, uh, rowdy, young man.”

The door to the bedroom closed and the two dozen other guests around them started to sing as the three musicians began to play.

Avridme, galanica, que va amanecer.

Open up, my little chick? Sampson thought. Rowdy indeed.

The guests had sung only two verses of the song when a loud feminine scream came from the bedroom.

No one moved.

It was the second scream that galvanized Sampson into action.

He burst through the door and saw Hayyim slumped over on the bed. At the window two men were struggling to force Hannalica out of the room.

“Stop!”

One of the men snarled and raised his wheel lock pistol as Sampson clawed to get his revolver out of its holster.

The barrel of the wheel lock lined up on his chest.

No!

Instead of a loud bang, there was a fizzling hiss from the wheel lock.

Misfire!

Sampson raised his revolver and fired twice at the gunman’s chest. He fell.

The second kidnapper turned and forced Hannalica in front of him. His knife was at Hannalica’s throat. She was at least six inches shorter than her attacker. Good.

“Drop the pistol, or I kill her!”

A flash of an image from a Grantville television program popped into his mind.

“I choose door number three,” Sampson said. He raised his revolver and fired.

“You have placed men to discourage Ebu Said from wandering too far?” Melek Ahmed Pasha asked.

Ismail nodded. “I have. And Yusuf Bey is being most cooperative in providing the evidence we need to have Ebu Said removed as Kadi. Naturally Yusuf is shocked at what his milk-brother has done.”

Melek Ahmed smiled. “Of course. I am sure that pressure from the other landowners was a factor in Yusuf Bey’s decision. And once again it seems that Ebu Said’s plans were foiled by Sampson Gideon. An interesting young man.”

Ismail nodded. “Even more interesting than we had suspected. After the incident at the wedding reception it appears that Sampson Gideon has made up his mind to convert to Islam. Apparently he believes an amulet given to him by the hodja at the Casimiye Mosque caused one of the kidnappers’ pistols to misfire, saving his life and allowing him to kill both of the kidnappers and save Hannalica Molho’s life as well.”

“Excellent! Allah be praised. Once he has converted bring him to me. He has shown great courage and deserves to be rewarded. Perhaps his fortitude will encourage others to emulate him.”

“As you command, My Pasha.”

“But Lara, Sampson is a Muslim now!” Lina wailed.

“So? He is a Sufi, one of the Bektashi. That makes all the difference in the world.”

Lina rubbed her eyes. “It does? But I thought you said being the slave of a Muslim was worse than being the wife of a Jew. And being the wife of a Jew is-”

“Worse than being the slave of a Jew.” Lara finished. “Yes, I know I said those things. That is why we never converted to Judaism. But being the slave of a Sufi, especially a newly converted Bektashi like Sampson, will be much better. In fact, if we please him, he may marry us. And to marry us, he will have to free us first.”

“He will?”

“ ‘May,’ I said. We will have to please him. As well as Roxelana pleased Suleiman the Magnificent.”

“And how am I going to do that?” Lina asked. “You’ve kept me out of Don Diego’s bedroom for years.”

“It was for the best, little sister. Don Diego’s desires have changed since his wife died. He even-” Lara leaned over and whispered in Lina’s ear.

Lina’s eyes flew open. “He didn’t! He wouldn’t!”

“He would and did,” Lara said. “But do not fear. I will teach you what you need to know before we move to Sampson’s household.”

“But Lara, if we convert to Islam, how will that help us? How can we make Don Diego sell us to Sampson?”

“Once we convert to Islam Don Diego will have no choice but to sell us. Jews cannot possess Muslims as slaves. While Melek Ahmed Pasha is liberal in some things, in that he is as firm as the sultan himself. As for why Don Diego will sell us to Sampson-” Lara smiled. “After six years in Don Diego’s bed, I have learned enough secrets about him to twist his mind on such a minor thing.”

Lina shuddered. “Are you sure? It would be horrible if we were sold to someone else. Horrible.”

“Trust me.”

Mustafa bin Kemal walked through the doorway of Sampson Gideon’s new house and nodded. “A magnificent residence the governor-general has given you.”

Sampson smiled. “It’s not much. Six rooms. A small courtyard. A third the size of Don Diego’s house.”

“And Don Diego is one of the richest Jews in the city,” Mustafa said drily. “And where are these new slaves that I’ve heard so much about?”

Sampson waved towards the entrance into the house. “Getting my bedchamber ready.”

Mustafa chuckled. “Really? I think you will have a pleasant time tonight, my friend. But I am here on an errand from the governor-general himself.”

Sampson motioned to the chairs and table in the courtyard. “What is it?”

Mustafa sat down and looked around the courtyard. The table was under the shade of several pomegranate and jujubee trees. The two ancient Roman columns that supported the gate into the house were covered with the vines of jasmine and their perfume mixed with that of the roses along the wall.

“Mustafa?”

“Sorry,” Mustafa said. “The beauty of your courtyard made me lose the path of my thoughts.”

“Melek Ahmed Pasha? He sent you on an errand?”

Mustafa snapped his fingers. “Of course. The governor-general has a request. Your new slaves may be a problem.”

“A problem? What kind of problem?”

“The more conservative landowners suspect that the selling of the slaves once they converted was some kind of plot to keep them under Jewish control. Especially given the circumstances of your previous relationship with Don Diego.”

Mustafa held up his hand as he saw Sampson’s face turn red. “I know, I know. Ridiculous. But to ease those suspicions, Melek Ahmed requests that you marry your slaves, if that is your desire, or sell them to him. That will ease the criticism he is getting from the Kadizadelis in the city.”

Sampson smiled. “Anything to please my patron. You may tell Melek Ahmed Pasha that I will marry the slaves.”

A lilting, seductive voice came from the house. “Oh master, your bedchamber is ready.”

Sampson leaned closer to Mustafa. “But we don’t need to tell Lara and Lina just yet. Agreed?”

Mustafa laughed. “Agreed, agreed. My lips are sealed.”