And I Darken
Page 32
And, he had added in a disinterested tone, I do not think women capable of much learning. It is to do with the shape of their heads.
Lada excelled after that. She memorized more sections of the Koran than either of the boys, and intoned them in a mocking imitation of Molla Gurani. She completed every theorem and practice of mathematic and algebraic problems. She knew the history of the Ottoman state and Mehmed’s line of descent as well as Mehmed himself. Mehmed was nearly thirteen, born between Lada and Radu. He was a third son, his mother a slave concubine, and his father favored the eldest two sons, which subjected Mehmed to gossip and shame. It was dreary knowledge, and Lada worked hard not to relate to or pity Mehmed.
But above all, more than any other subject, she devoured lessons on past battles, historical alliances, and border disputes.
For a while she had feared that Molla Gurani had meant to trick her into studiousness with his challenge, but he remained as impassive as ever, showing no pleasure in her attentiveness, never rising to her baiting. It did, however, greatly chagrin Mehmed whenever she surpassed him. That became her new goal.
Every day she waited for a beating, for some new horror to be visited on her and Radu, for the real reason they had been brought to Amasya to be revealed. The suspense made her quiet and sullen. Radu, meanwhile, gained back some of the weight he had lost. Lada no longer heard him crying at night. She hated seeing him grow comfortable. It would make whatever lesson was coming for them that much worse.
After all, Mehmed was the son of Murad. He was not their friend. He was their captor.
After their main studies, Molla Gurani always spoke with Mehmed about nothing but the Prophet and the destiny of the Ottomans to overthrow Byzantium and Constantinople once and for all. Lada soured at the notion that a mysterious god hovered above everyone, singling out a sultan to spread the Muslim religion to the world. She had never seen such a god, nor any evidence of him. The Ottomans were successful because they were organized, because they were wealthy, and because they were many.
Most afternoons, tired of studying and drained from being constantly on guard against whatever new devilry the sultan had planned for them, Lada wandered away, leaving Radu to nod and agree and fetch things like a puppy for his masters. Amasya was no Wallachia, but it was closer to it than Edirne had been. The city was built into the rocky hills, with a ponderous green river curving lazily along its base. Many of the buildings, including the keep where Lada and Radu stayed, were built into the side of the mountain itself. Behind the keep, growing up the hill in tangled, dense orchards, were apple trees.
Lada amused herself by lying on her back, throwing a knife straight up to try to snag an apple. Sometimes she did. Sometimes the knife came back down and nearly stabbed her. She was equally entertained by both outcomes. The mere fact that she was allowed to have a knife again was evidence of how invisible, how unimportant she had become.
Even the crispest apples tasted mealy and bitter to her in Amasya.
The orchard was where she lay one day in early autumn, as the light turned low and golden, so heavy around her she imagined she could taste it. It would taste nothing like the apples of her captivity. It would taste like home. Home.
She lifted the pouch around her neck free of her top, pressed it to her nose, and pretended she could still smell the evergreen sprig and the flower, now so old and dry it had crumbled to almost nothing. She had moved them to the pouch the night they fled Wallachia, and carried it with her ever since.
A couple of Janissaries passed nearby, unaware of her presence. They were joking, and though they talked in Turkish, one of them still carried the shape of Wallachian vowels on his tongue. Lada got up, then darted from tree to tree, following the soldiers to their barracks, a cluster of low stone buildings grouped around a dirt courtyard. Harsh laughter accompanied the ring of swords clashing. Lada peered from behind a wall, watching.
She was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and pushed forward into the open. “A spy!” called out an uneven voice, still clinging to the last remnants of youth. “Or a thief!”
To Lada’s horror, at least a dozen Janissaries turned to see what the matter was. Open curiosity on their faces, they formed a loose semicircle around her.
“That is no spy,” said a short, barrel-chested boy with a single thick eyebrow over both eyes. “The little zealot keeps her as a concubine.”
“Not very pretty for a whore.” The soldier behind her tugged on a strand of her hair. She ducked under his arm, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back to pin him. It was a trick she had learned under the harsh tutelage of Mircea and perfected by practicing on Bogdan and Radu. The soldier shouted angrily and tried to pull away, so she twisted harder, pushing up against the joint. He yelped in pain.
Lada excelled after that. She memorized more sections of the Koran than either of the boys, and intoned them in a mocking imitation of Molla Gurani. She completed every theorem and practice of mathematic and algebraic problems. She knew the history of the Ottoman state and Mehmed’s line of descent as well as Mehmed himself. Mehmed was nearly thirteen, born between Lada and Radu. He was a third son, his mother a slave concubine, and his father favored the eldest two sons, which subjected Mehmed to gossip and shame. It was dreary knowledge, and Lada worked hard not to relate to or pity Mehmed.
But above all, more than any other subject, she devoured lessons on past battles, historical alliances, and border disputes.
For a while she had feared that Molla Gurani had meant to trick her into studiousness with his challenge, but he remained as impassive as ever, showing no pleasure in her attentiveness, never rising to her baiting. It did, however, greatly chagrin Mehmed whenever she surpassed him. That became her new goal.
Every day she waited for a beating, for some new horror to be visited on her and Radu, for the real reason they had been brought to Amasya to be revealed. The suspense made her quiet and sullen. Radu, meanwhile, gained back some of the weight he had lost. Lada no longer heard him crying at night. She hated seeing him grow comfortable. It would make whatever lesson was coming for them that much worse.
After all, Mehmed was the son of Murad. He was not their friend. He was their captor.
After their main studies, Molla Gurani always spoke with Mehmed about nothing but the Prophet and the destiny of the Ottomans to overthrow Byzantium and Constantinople once and for all. Lada soured at the notion that a mysterious god hovered above everyone, singling out a sultan to spread the Muslim religion to the world. She had never seen such a god, nor any evidence of him. The Ottomans were successful because they were organized, because they were wealthy, and because they were many.
Most afternoons, tired of studying and drained from being constantly on guard against whatever new devilry the sultan had planned for them, Lada wandered away, leaving Radu to nod and agree and fetch things like a puppy for his masters. Amasya was no Wallachia, but it was closer to it than Edirne had been. The city was built into the rocky hills, with a ponderous green river curving lazily along its base. Many of the buildings, including the keep where Lada and Radu stayed, were built into the side of the mountain itself. Behind the keep, growing up the hill in tangled, dense orchards, were apple trees.
Lada amused herself by lying on her back, throwing a knife straight up to try to snag an apple. Sometimes she did. Sometimes the knife came back down and nearly stabbed her. She was equally entertained by both outcomes. The mere fact that she was allowed to have a knife again was evidence of how invisible, how unimportant she had become.
Even the crispest apples tasted mealy and bitter to her in Amasya.
The orchard was where she lay one day in early autumn, as the light turned low and golden, so heavy around her she imagined she could taste it. It would taste nothing like the apples of her captivity. It would taste like home. Home.
She lifted the pouch around her neck free of her top, pressed it to her nose, and pretended she could still smell the evergreen sprig and the flower, now so old and dry it had crumbled to almost nothing. She had moved them to the pouch the night they fled Wallachia, and carried it with her ever since.
A couple of Janissaries passed nearby, unaware of her presence. They were joking, and though they talked in Turkish, one of them still carried the shape of Wallachian vowels on his tongue. Lada got up, then darted from tree to tree, following the soldiers to their barracks, a cluster of low stone buildings grouped around a dirt courtyard. Harsh laughter accompanied the ring of swords clashing. Lada peered from behind a wall, watching.
She was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and pushed forward into the open. “A spy!” called out an uneven voice, still clinging to the last remnants of youth. “Or a thief!”
To Lada’s horror, at least a dozen Janissaries turned to see what the matter was. Open curiosity on their faces, they formed a loose semicircle around her.
“That is no spy,” said a short, barrel-chested boy with a single thick eyebrow over both eyes. “The little zealot keeps her as a concubine.”
“Not very pretty for a whore.” The soldier behind her tugged on a strand of her hair. She ducked under his arm, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back to pin him. It was a trick she had learned under the harsh tutelage of Mircea and perfected by practicing on Bogdan and Radu. The soldier shouted angrily and tried to pull away, so she twisted harder, pushing up against the joint. He yelped in pain.
