Shadows Over the Bosphorus

Morning in Topkapi. The sun rises over the Bosphorus, painting the domes of the mosques in hues of honey. The second courtyard is alive with movement: servants scurry near the fountain, grooms lead out horses, and Janissaries stand motionless by the gates. From the Divan chamber, Suleiman’s steady voice drifts out—they are discussing the campaign to Belgrade.

At the entrance to the hall, Ibrahim Pasha is conversing with an ambassador dressed in a European doublet. His gaze frequently sweeps across the courtyard, noting every movement. From a side passage, Sümbül Aga appears, walking briskly while clutching the hem of his kaftan.

— Oh, what a disaster... — he mutters. — That redhead refused to eat again. She threw her bowl out the door. If the Valide finds out, it’s her head on the block. Mine, not hers!

The kalfas by the fountain exchange glances.

— She is from the Crimea, — one whispers. — She doesn't speak our tongue. She just glares with those big green eyes.

— She stays silent until the Sultan arrives, — the second replies. — But once he comes, she becomes sweet.

Sümbül Aga hisses at them and scans the courtyard.

— Hey! Someone! Is there anyone here who can explain to that stubborn girl that if she doesn't eat, she'll be thrown out into the street? Anyone at all!

Hearing the outburst, Ibrahim Pasha breaks away from his conversation and casts a brief glance at Sümbül Aga. The corner of his lip twitches. He does not intervene, but he listens.

Suddenly, the sharp voice of the Valide Sultan echoes from the harem, followed by the crash of breaking porcelain. Sümbül Aga turns pale and scurries back. The kalfas stifle giggles behind their hands. Ibrahim returns to his talk with the ambassador, but his expression hardens.

At the main gate, a çavuş in Janissary uniform appears. In his hand is a scroll bearing a wax seal. He heads toward Ibrahim but slows his pace, noticing the commotion near the harem. Ibrahim takes the scroll, breaks the seal, and reads.

— Tell the Beylerbey of Rumeli: the campaign begins in three weeks. Let him prepare the sanjak. And let him find me a competent scribe—the one we had was sent to Diyarbakır, — he speaks evenly, yet loud enough for all to hear.

The courtyard fills with movement once more. Somewhere in the gallery, the figure of Hatice Sultan flashes by, but she does not linger. The morning is far from over. The day is only beginning—and it is already full of tasks, each demanding the hands of others.