Cybele's Secret Read Online Free

can do it. I’ve asked Giacomo to put the word about that we’re looking for a guard. We’ll interview the applicants first thing tomorrow.”
             
    “First thing” apparently meant before breakfast. I had been awake since dawn anyway, roused abruptly by the ringing voice of a muezzin chanting the morning call to prayer from a nearby minaret. A motley collection of men was waiting in the courtyard below our quarters. Father called them up to the gallery one by one, and I observed from just inside the doorway of our apartment, my veil over my head. Some of them spoke only Turkish. Some could not provide names of past employers. Some balked when it was explained that they would be protecting me rather than my father. One or two looked as if they wouldn’t have the strength to fight off a stray terrier.
    Father and I had a good understanding. It needed no words for us to agree on a short list of three men, whom Father asked to wait in the courtyard. We sat out on the gallery, where a small mosaic-topped table and two chairs had been placed for us. In this Genoese quarter, it was recognized that not all visitors were used to the Turkish habit of sitting cross-legged on cushions.
    From our vantage point, we could look down on the would-be bodyguards standing awkwardly around a small fountain.
    “You choose, Paula,” Father said. “I’m happy with any of those three. They all speak adequate Greek as well as Turkish, and they’ve got plenty of brawn.”
    “Are you sure you want me to make the decision, Father?”
    “The fellow’s going to be spending more time in your company than mine.” His attention was caught by movement farther along the gallery. “Excuse me, I won’t be a moment. I must catch Giacomo before he goes out.” He got to his feet and headed off in the direction of the Genoese merchant’s living quarters, leaving me to mull over the bodyguard question on my own.
    In fact, I had not liked any of the applicants much, although I could see they were suitable. The first had looked pugnacious. The second, spotting me, had used a moment when Father’s attention was elsewhere to give me a look I did not care for. There had been something in the third’s tone of voice that suggested he was confused as to my reasons for being in Istanbul at all, let alone needing a personal guard. I glanced down to give them another look over. Now there were four men waiting on the grass by the fountain: A newcomer had joined our short-listed three. I watched him question the others and be given what was clearly a negative. A brief, intense dispute ensued, then the new arrival headed up to our floor, taking the steep external steps in three easy bounds.
    I looked along the gallery, but there was no sign of Father. The man was advancing toward me in big strides. He came to a halt four paces away from where I sat. I took a deep breath and looked up at him. A long way up. He stood head and shoulders over the others Father had interviewed and was, quite frankly, the most intimidating-looking young man I had seen in my life. His eyes were of an unusual yellowish green shade and had an intensity that suggested he was poised to attack. His face was broad, with well-defined cheekbones and a strong jaw, and his complexion was winter-pale. A jagged scar ran from the outer corner of his right eye down to his chin. His dark hair was thick and wayward; an attempt to discipline it into a plait had not been entirely successful. He was of athletic build, the shoulders broad, the arms bulging with muscle. He wore loose trousers under a long white shirt with an embroidered waistcoat over it. A broad sashlike belt held an assortment of knives, and there was a curved sword in a scabbard on his back. I waited for him to ask where my father was. I wished he would get on with it; I was developing a crick in the neck.
    Abruptly, the large young man dropped to one knee, taking me by surprise. Now his eyes were closer to my level.