Appearances and Their Deceptions

[Braschi]

CLOSED but for the lovely Undercoverseeke.

Normally weddings are causes for public celebration and festivities. But when they are part of an alliance that might or might not be treason depending on how the war went, they tend to be somber and somewhat hasty affairs. Especially with the Sultan's spies in every part of the city.

The capital, of course, was completely immune to what went on a thousand miles to the south; the sun came out bright and the wind warm over the Mediterranean Sea. And it was almost disappointing to miss a chance at revelry. But so it was; the bride's father was busy in the war, and she had come almost as sack of flour with a paltry escort to keep a low profile.

The transaction was conducted by an emissary from the Sheikh, who translated everything to the bride in the barbarian language of the south. For a second, Murad was worried that his new wife wouldn't speak his language, but he'd been assured she was educated and would do well in a future court. Custom being that the bride and groom were not to even look at each other before the wedding, there was no way for him to find out for himself.

Indeed, the family adhered to the nomadic custom of the hijab, and he couldn't see more of her than just her eyes. Not that it really mattered; the whole thing was about business anyway. This was a mere eight hundred years after the Prophet had given the Word, and the notion of marrying for love would take a few more centuries to develop.

With the papers sign and the officials paid off, the escort and emissary departed hastily lest they be seen by any lurking spies, leaving Murad and his new wife standing in the courtyard of his palace, alone save for the servant about to open the door. The sneaky way of doing things made Murad feel uneasy under the bright afternoon sun, and he turned awkwardly to the woman, whose face he hadn't yet seen.

"Shall we go inside?" He spoke slowly, with the exaggerated politeness of a stranger. That would change very soon, but, well, there were servants in view and ones reputation is one's reputation. Of course, then there was the issue of his first wife...

Murad.

 

[Undercoverseeke]

Fatima lowered her gaze to the ground in a show of shyness. It had been a long journey from her father's caravan to here, and though she was tired from the trip, she didn't want to show it. Especially not to this stranger who had just become her husband.

She had little idea of what to expect from marriage. It was one of those things that no one among her family had time to explain to a mere girl, and it was always assumed that the mother would pass it along. Naturally, her mother being dead for nearly ten years now prevented that from happening. Still, there was much a girl could learn from listening to the other wives of the caravan, little of it dealing with actually managing a husband but a a great deal of it pertaining to the bechamber...

Fatima pulled herself out of those thoughts and nodded demurely to Murad. She didn't precisely care for him, but then, it was difficult to care for a man you had just met. She understood that this was nothing more than an alliance of power between her father and her new husband, and that she was simply a bargaining chip of sorts. And furthermore, she understood that she had little to say in the matter.

She would accept her fate... for now. But she hoped to learn a bit more about Murad's household while she was here. And once she saw how things worked, she hoped to be able to find her own place within it... and not as a simple lesser wife indentured to the others, either.

 

[Braschi]

"Palace" was a bit of an ambitious term for Murad's home. But, he was intent on keeping up appearances, because few were willing to trust merchants that didn't make money. The size of private chambers had been sacrificed in the interest of providing a more opulent reception area. If all went well, that would change, soon.

When his wife didn't answer with any words, he once again got the gnawing apprension that she didn't speak the language. Not only would that make it hard to instruct her on her place and duties, it would mean that the Sheikh had lied. Then of course, that would beg the next question: to what purpose?

Better not worry about that now, Murad thought, and lead the way into the house. The servant, a tall Nubian man, more of a guard than a footman, gave him a knowing smile as the pair stepped under the doorway. Custom dictated a man's wife walked two steps behind and one to the lift; but that was in public.

Once inside the much cooler room, he stopped and pointed around the opulent setting. Oil frescos rolling down to Persian-covered ottomans and ornate tables. "Reception room," he said, a little too loudly than necessary then mimed as he said, "people come to take coffee. Business." He pointed beyond an archway towards another room. "There I work. I am a merchant." She probably knew that, and although he knew the word for "merchant" in Arabic, he had no intention of letting her not learn the language of The Palace. Besides, he'd been promised a woman who'd understand him.

Normally, there would be a feat in this room, and the bride and groom would escape at some point during the night to consummate the marriage. The next day, the wife would be presented to the servants. But all protocol was rather broken today. The servants were peeking out from around the curtain that lead to the kitchens, and he needed to get the situation and relationship in hand before the servants got any more ideas that could turn into rumors.

Murad stalked through the reception room towards a curtain covering an archway. The usual heat made doors inside the house more of a nuisance, and only the very private chambers had them. Beyond was a short passage that lead to the living quarters. The "palace" didn't have a harem per se, but he'd done his best to arrange the limited private space to accommodate his first wife and his future aspirations. A true harem would be a completely separate building, and guarded. But he wasn't going to waste resources on a useless protocol no-one was going to see.

A short, narrow flight of stairs took him to a rather small room with a domed ceiling. There were windows, cut high up along the curved walls. They looked across a section of roof and gave a beautiful view of the Bosphoros on one side; and on the other Topkapi Palace, a constant reminder of Murad's ambitions. Servants were not allowed in the private chambers, save for the female maids chosen by his wife.

Finally, and for the first time, Murad was alone with his new wife. His first wife, Narin, was certainly listening to the exchange from behind one of the curtains that lead to her chamber. But he'd forbidden her to participate until he'd evaluated his new wife and how she would fit into the household.

He motioned towards a rather comfortable, if a bit worn, cushioned bench. "Sit," he said to Fatima, and sat himself on a more severe straight-back chair across from her.