Free The Sultan's Eyes by Kelly Gardiner Page A

aren’t you?’
    ‘He was the Emperor of Persia,’ I said, but Willem sighed.
    ‘It’s a good story,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
    ‘Go ahead, then.’
    ‘He built a bridge of pontoons across here to attack the Greeks.’
    ‘Can’t see that working,’ said Willem. ‘Far too rough.’
    ‘Exactly. A storm ruined all his plans, so he ordered his men to lash the water three hundred times with a cane as punishment.’
    ‘Did that help?’
    ‘It made him feel much better about everything,’ I said. ‘There’s no record of the water’s reaction.’
    Willem laughed.
    ‘And see there?’ I said, pointing. ‘According to legend, Leander swam across the water to visit his love, Hero, in her tower on the opposite shore. She lit a lamp in her window to show him the way, and all summer he swam across and back.’
    ‘Is this one of those romance tales?’
    ‘The greatest of them all. Now I see these waters, it seems an impossible thing for anyone to do once, let alone every night, in the dark.’
    ‘Somebody probably made it up,’ said Willem. ‘Can’t stand those sorts of stories.’
    ‘Don’t you want to know the ending?’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘Very well.’
    ‘You may as well tell me, though, now you’ve started.’
    I gazed at an old stone fort on the shore. ‘One night — it was winter by then, just like now — a storm blew up. Leander kept swimming, but the waves were too rough, the wind terrible. He was halfway across, perhaps more, when a gust blew out the lamp in Hero’s window. Leander got lost, battered by the waves, and eventually his strength gave out and the sea pulled him under.’
    ‘That’s a rotten story.’
    ‘It gets worse.’
    ‘Not for him,’ said Willem.
    ‘True. But in the morning, Hero saw Leander lying dead on the shore.’
    ‘Uh-oh.’
    ‘She wept and wailed —’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And threw herself from the top of her tower, so that they would be together again in death.’
    Willem was silent for a few moments.
    ‘People do ridiculous things in romances,’ he said, and stomped off below deck, leaving me with the salt air on my face and the sound of sails crackling.
    As we crossed the Sea of Marmara and drew ever closer to Constantinople, Al-Qasim called us together in his cabin for a meeting. There was much talk of baggage and donkeys and setting up a household. Al-Qasim and Valentina had a long argument about how much money we could spend on furnishings. I would have preferred to be on deck to catch a first glimpse of the city, and Willem still seemed to be completely out of sorts. But then, sailing had never agreed with him.
    ‘I don’t care about any of that,’ he said at last. ‘The question is, how soon can we set up a workshop and get started?’
    ‘We’ll have to order a new press from Venice,’ said Valentina. ‘Just something small, to start.’
    Al-Qasim shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his cot.
    ‘There is something you do not seem to realise,’ he said. ‘There is no printing in Constantinople.’
    ‘No jesting,’ said Valentina. ‘I’m feeling bad enough as it is.’
    ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. There have been one or two presses set up over the centuries, but only with the express permission of the Sultan.’
    ‘What?’ Willem cried. ‘Why?’
    ‘The empire wishes to preserve the fine art of calligraphy, of handpainted books. If you had ever seen the works of the court calligraphers or the famous Persian scribes, you would understand.’
    ‘But printing doesn’t have to threaten that,’ Valentina said.
    ‘Really?’ said Al-Qasim. ‘How many calligraphers do you know?’
    ‘But still …’
    ‘You will see,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘In Constantinople, the book is a precious and sacred object. It is said that the Sultan’s library alone contains all the genius of the human imagination.’
    ‘But not printed books?’ said Valentina.
    ‘Well, no.’
    ‘So it contains a selection of hand-inked manuscripts in Arabic?’ I