at the back of the room, Eleonora was crying in the arms of the rabbi’s wife. After the ceremony, Yakob saw to some business in Tulcea and they took the six o’clock hackney back to Constanta, the hoopoes following at a respectful distance overhead.
Chapter Two
The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Servant to the Holy Cities, Caliph of Islam, Commander of the Faithful, and Supreme Padishah of Various Realms, His Excellency Abdulhamid II gazed up at a sea of interlocking green and blue ceiling tiles while the palace barber lathered his face with soap. In a nearby room, he could hear the plucking of an oud and the languid chatter of concubines. A bulbul sang out from its cage and, dappled through latticework, the mid-morning sun fell in a heap at his feet. Abdulhamid shut his eyes and, inhaling the soapy scent of jasmine, listened to the blade work up his neck.
This same man had shaved Abdulhamid every morning for the past thirty years, since the initial wisps of manhood first sprouted on his royal chin. Prior to that, he had served seven years in the court of Abdulhamid’s father. He was an old man, the barber, but his hand was steady as a calligrapher’s and, even after so many years of practice, he still approached each morning’s shave as if it were the most important task of his life. This was a gravity Abdulhamid dearly appreciated. With so much intrigue and conspiracy swirling about the palace, one needed to trust one’s barber completely. It was not unprecedented for a member of the Sultan’s court to attempt regicide. In fact, three of his distant relatives—Murat II, Mustafa Duzme, and Ibrahim I—had been assassinated by supposedly devoted members oftheir staff: Murat by his cook, Mustafa by his bodyguard, and Ibrahim by his barber.
Abdulhamid opened his eyes and watched the barber wipe his blade on a strip of leather. Then, shutting them again, he sank ever deeper into his chair, allowing the distant music of the oud to wash over him like sea water. There was such sadness in those strings, so many years of sorrow. It was al-Farabi, if he remembered correctly, who related the story of the oud’s invention, its bowed neck inspired by a skeleton hung from a carob tree. Whose skeleton it was Abdulhamid couldn’t recall—Lamech, or possibly one of Noah’s sons. In any case, it was an ancient instrument with roots in grief.
In the midst of these thoughts, the Sultan sensed a presence hovering over him.
“Your Excellency?”
It was the Grand Vizier, Jamaludin Pasha, his face red from exertion and his mustache laced with what looked like a string of saliva.
“Your Excellency,” he said, wiping his face. “I am sorry to interrupt your shave, but I have a most disturbing piece of information.”
“Please,” said the Sultan, indicating for the barber to continue. “News of my domains is no interruption.”
“Your Excellency, Pleven fell three days ago to the Russians. Osman Pasha and what is left of his men have pulled back to Gabrovo.”
This was most disturbing news indeed, not especially surprising but troubling nevertheless. The Sultan sighed, watching in his peripheral vision as the barber tweezed out the hairs along his cheekbone. Pleven was the latest in a long string of military embarrassments. Most likely, it would mean the end of the war, thenanother conference of the Great Powers, another excuse to carve up his empire. Not that he minded losing hold of Bulgaria or Romania. They could sink into the earth for all he cared, as could Greece and the Balkans. It wasn’t the land that bothered him, it was the shame, the slavering chops of the Great Powers circling his house like wolves. He couldn’t care less about Bulgaria and Romania, but he knew it wouldn’t end there. The Russians wanted Kars, the French had long coveted the Levant, and the Greeks wouldn’t stop until they got their grimy paws on Stamboul.
“Osman Pasha thinks it would be best to withdraw his men to Adrianople, but he
Chapter Two
The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Servant to the Holy Cities, Caliph of Islam, Commander of the Faithful, and Supreme Padishah of Various Realms, His Excellency Abdulhamid II gazed up at a sea of interlocking green and blue ceiling tiles while the palace barber lathered his face with soap. In a nearby room, he could hear the plucking of an oud and the languid chatter of concubines. A bulbul sang out from its cage and, dappled through latticework, the mid-morning sun fell in a heap at his feet. Abdulhamid shut his eyes and, inhaling the soapy scent of jasmine, listened to the blade work up his neck.
This same man had shaved Abdulhamid every morning for the past thirty years, since the initial wisps of manhood first sprouted on his royal chin. Prior to that, he had served seven years in the court of Abdulhamid’s father. He was an old man, the barber, but his hand was steady as a calligrapher’s and, even after so many years of practice, he still approached each morning’s shave as if it were the most important task of his life. This was a gravity Abdulhamid dearly appreciated. With so much intrigue and conspiracy swirling about the palace, one needed to trust one’s barber completely. It was not unprecedented for a member of the Sultan’s court to attempt regicide. In fact, three of his distant relatives—Murat II, Mustafa Duzme, and Ibrahim I—had been assassinated by supposedly devoted members oftheir staff: Murat by his cook, Mustafa by his bodyguard, and Ibrahim by his barber.
Abdulhamid opened his eyes and watched the barber wipe his blade on a strip of leather. Then, shutting them again, he sank ever deeper into his chair, allowing the distant music of the oud to wash over him like sea water. There was such sadness in those strings, so many years of sorrow. It was al-Farabi, if he remembered correctly, who related the story of the oud’s invention, its bowed neck inspired by a skeleton hung from a carob tree. Whose skeleton it was Abdulhamid couldn’t recall—Lamech, or possibly one of Noah’s sons. In any case, it was an ancient instrument with roots in grief.
In the midst of these thoughts, the Sultan sensed a presence hovering over him.
“Your Excellency?”
It was the Grand Vizier, Jamaludin Pasha, his face red from exertion and his mustache laced with what looked like a string of saliva.
“Your Excellency,” he said, wiping his face. “I am sorry to interrupt your shave, but I have a most disturbing piece of information.”
“Please,” said the Sultan, indicating for the barber to continue. “News of my domains is no interruption.”
“Your Excellency, Pleven fell three days ago to the Russians. Osman Pasha and what is left of his men have pulled back to Gabrovo.”
This was most disturbing news indeed, not especially surprising but troubling nevertheless. The Sultan sighed, watching in his peripheral vision as the barber tweezed out the hairs along his cheekbone. Pleven was the latest in a long string of military embarrassments. Most likely, it would mean the end of the war, thenanother conference of the Great Powers, another excuse to carve up his empire. Not that he minded losing hold of Bulgaria or Romania. They could sink into the earth for all he cared, as could Greece and the Balkans. It wasn’t the land that bothered him, it was the shame, the slavering chops of the Great Powers circling his house like wolves. He couldn’t care less about Bulgaria and Romania, but he knew it wouldn’t end there. The Russians wanted Kars, the French had long coveted the Levant, and the Greeks wouldn’t stop until they got their grimy paws on Stamboul.
“Osman Pasha thinks it would be best to withdraw his men to Adrianople, but he
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