And how much did Saba know? The thought of Saba set off a cascade of feelings. This was a new sensation, different from his deep affection for Sybil, the ambassador’s daughter who had returned to England, and entirely removed from his physical attraction to the French actress who had been his mistress some years back. Consummation was impossible, of course. Saba was a protected young woman from a respectable family. And if he were to marry, it would be to someone of his own class, not a Habesh woman from Sunken Village, no matter how deep the attraction. Forget about Saba, he told himself crossly. It was a foolish fancy, no different from the actress. Listen to your head, not your loins. The image of Elif’s delicate golden head and haunted eyes came suddenly to his mind, and he felt foolish and slightly guilty.
He stopped before a stone house in the village square. Two shoulder-high pillars flanked the entrance. He examined one, running his hand across the protruding circles carved into its side and exploring its concave top. His hand came away smeared with rust. He brought his fingers to his nose. Blood. Then he noticed the sacrificial stone. For animal sacrifice, just like at any other Muslim shrine. He was beginning to see blood everywhere, he chided himself.
It was late afternoon and the square was empty. The villagers were working in their gardens. Women were inside preparing the evening meal, their daughters helping. Little boys napped in the shade. Kamil climbed the steps out of Sunken Village up to the market district of Charshamba. The rhythmic recitation of ilahi drifted into the street from the Sufi tekke at the corner. He paid a boy to deliver a message to Malik, apologizing and saying he would come to breakfast the following morning. Then he mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of the Fatih police station.
11
“May I come in, my dear?”
“Of course, Mama.”
Saba’s room was furnished with a low cushioned divan below the window, a Persian carpet on the floor, a wardrobe, and a narrow wrought-iron bed. Shelves held books, stacks of papers, and manuscripts. A cluttered table was pushed against the wall. It didn’t look like the room of a young girl. Certainly not the room of a woman thinking about marriage. There was not a single piece of embroidery or tatting.
Saba sat on the divan by the open window.
“You’ll catch a cold.” Balkis went over and closed the window. Then she stood, wondering what to say next. She was glad Saba hadn’t witnessed that last scene with Kamil and Amida. It was her own fault. Balkis had let her emotions rule her, something she had promised herself years ago never to do again. Kamil’s resemblance to his father had overwhelmed her. Every detail Kamil revealed about his family had brought her closer to them. It had been irresistible, foolish, and painful.
“Do sit, Mama. You look tired.”
Balkis slumped down beside her, her belly pushing against her breasts. She bit down the pain that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
Saba arranged the cushions behind her mother’s back. “You’re ill, Mama. Can I do anything?”
“I want to talk to you about Courtidis.”
“Mother, please. I don’t want to talk about him. I know you rely on him and I know he’s helped all of us a great deal. You don’t have to worry that I’ll say something to put him off, but I don’t want to marry him.”
“Why not, my dear? He wants to marry you. He’s a good, generous man and he’ll treat you well.”
“Why the sudden rush to marry me off?”
Balkis heard the querulous tone and cautioned herself to tread carefully. “You know that you and Amida are the last of the line.”
“But we’re still young. There’s no hurry.”
Balkis’s stomach turned at the thought of Gudit’s circumcision knife wavering over her daughter’s tender flesh. What was the point of this tradition now when it was more important than ever for the priestess to bear children? Balkis knew she could never allow it. She would have to make this clear to Gudit, who would take Balkis’s forbidding of the ritual as one more betrayal.
“My mother told me that in her mother’s time, there were lots of candidates for priestess and caretaker. There was even rivalry between siblings and cousins. Whole groups of boys went to the monastery together. But by the time Mother was chosen to be priestess, there were only three eligible people.”
“What happened to everyone?”
“The plague hit the last generation very hard, dear. Who knows what else there was? All I know is that we’re at a bad turning. If you and Amida don’t have children, the line comes to an end.”
“Why didn’t Uncle Malik have children?”
“You know him. He’s never shown any interest in that sort of thing.”
“He doesn’t have to be celibate?”
“No. That’s his choice.”
“May I ask you something, Mama?”
“What, dear?”
“Why didn’t you remarry? You could have had more children.”
Balkis sighed. How could she explain without revealing the savagery of the ritual? “After my initiation as priestess, I, well, I wasn’t interested in that sort of thing anymore.”
“What is the initiation like?” Saba asked cautiously.
She wanted to tell Saba, to lift her caftan and show her what had been done to her. Balkis realized at that moment why a young girl must be brought to the ritual like a ewe to the sacrificial stone. She would never have agreed to go through with it if she had known. Why were women willing to spill the blood of their daughters, knowing what it felt like themselves? She had a sudden image of bullnecked Gudit as executioner. A hundred Gudits down the generations, knives in hand, ready to splice the priestess to her faith. And it had worked. She herself had been made priestess against her will, but after the circumcision she had had no choice but to clothe herself in all the power the Holy of Holies and the community bestowed. There was nothing else.
Balkis looked at her daughter. She didn’t need to be sacrificed to the sect in order to rise as its priestess. Saba had faith, something she lacked. The blood rite was for the faithless. That was the secret of four hundred years of continuity.
“Does something happen during the initiation?” Saba asked worriedly.
“Yes, my dear. But it’s not something you need to worry about. We’ll talk about it later. We have time.” She gave her what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
Saba didn’t look reassured. “Is there some reason you want me to have a child now? There’s something you’re not telling me, Mama.”
Balkis patted her on the arm. “I told you not to worry. I simply want you to be settled. It’s time. And Courtidis is a very good candidate.”
“But he’s a Christian.”
“That’s immaterial as long as he agrees to live here and your children are raised as Melisites.”
“Why would he want to live here? He’s not even Habesh.”
“I think the good surgeon will live wherever you ask him to. Why don’t you like him?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him, Mama. I’m not attracted to him like…”
“Are you in love with someone else?”
Saba flushed. “Kamil Pasha.” She said it so softly Balkis wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
“Who?”
“I’d like to marry Kamil Pasha.”
Balkis froze. “Pashas make mistresses of the likes of us,” she snapped. “They don’t marry girls from Charshamba.”
“I can make him love me.”
“You’ve only just met him. You have no idea who he is. Perhaps he already has a wife. Have you considered that?”