Harem (4 page)

The courtyard was paved with almond-shaped cobblestones and dominated by an ornate marble fountain. Windows looked down from all sides. Hürrem felt as if the whole Harem was watching her.

This was the courtyard of the Sultan Valide! These were her apartments.

The guards hurried her to the centre of the court and there released her. 'The Kapi Aga says you are to wait. And be sure to sing.'

'Sing, why? What is happening?'

But the men had done as they had been ordered and they wheeled away without another word, the sickle-bladed
yataghan
s at their waists rattling in their scabbards. Hürrem stared after them.

She waited there for an eternity but no one came. Water murmured in the marble fountain. Perhaps the Kapi Aga had arranged an interview with Hafise Sultan? she thought. But then why had they insisted she bring her needlework? What else was it they had said? 'The Kapi Aga says you are to wait. And be sure to sing.'

The Kapi Aga wanted her to break the sacred silence of the Harem?

She grew tired of waiting, found a cool spot in the shade of the fountain and sat down, crossing her legs beneath her, Osmanli style. She spread the handkerchief on her lap, took out her needle and went back to her embroidery. She chose to hum a love song her mother had taught her, about a boy whose horse had fallen in the snow, trapping him; as he died by inches on the winter steppe he told the wind how much he loved a certain girl and how he had never had the courage to tell her. He asked the wind to carry his words across the plain so that she would remember him. It was a stupid, sentimental song, Hürrem thought, but she had always liked the tune and after a while the words came back to her as well.

She soon forgot her initial anxiety and did not even notice the tall, slender figure in the white turban until his shadow fell across her lap.

'The first law of the Harem is silence.'

She looked up, startled. The man was standing with the sun behind his back and she had to shield her eyes against the glare. He did not speak like a eunuch and he was not black like a Nubian. There was only one other man who might walk freely here.

'Perhaps we should cut out the tongues of all the nightingales then. And the bees. We should do something about them also. All this incessant buzzing. Don't they know the rules?' There. It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

For a moment he just stared at her. Hürrem remembered that her first action before speaking should have been to lower her forehead to the ground and make her obeisance. She put down her embroidery and went to her knees. She touched her forehead to the hot stones, a futile gesture, it was already too late. She should beg his forgiveness for breaking the silence. Well, there was no point now, he had spoken and she had answered him.

She was suddenly aware that the old Kislar Aghasi - the Chief Black Eunuch - was standing behind Suleiman, his face beaded with perspiration, fanning himself with a silk handkerchief. He looked as if he were about to faint.

'Do you know who I am?' Suleiman asked her.

'You are the Lord of Life.'

'What were you singing?'

'It was a song I learned from my mother, my Lord. A love song. About a stupid boy who let his horse fall on top of him.'

'He was singing to the horse?'

She giggled, then stifled it. 'I think not. I dare to say the horse had lost much of its charm by then.'

She heard him laugh. 'What is your name?'

'They call me Hürrem, my lord.'

'Hürrem? Laughing one. Who gave you that name?'

'The men who brought me here. They could not pronounce my name. Though I suspect they were not intelligent enough to pronounce their own names either.'

He laughed again. 'Where are you from, Hürrem?'

She squinted up at him. This was the moment for which she had gambled so much and all she could think about was the pain in her knees. How long would he make her squat here on these cobblestones? 'I am a Tatar,' she said. 'A Krim.'

'Do all you Tatars have hair of such amazing colour?'

'No, my Lord. I was the only one in my clan so burdened.'

'Burdened? I think not. It is quite beautiful.' He stroked her hair and held a lock of it in his fingers, as if he were examining a piece of material in the bazaar for quality and strength. 'It is like burnished gold. Is it not, Ali?'

The Kislar Aghasi murmured his agreement. Liar! Hürrem thought. You have only spoken to me once, and on that occasion you called me an undernourished carrot.

'Stand up, Hürrem.'

At last! She did as she was told. She knew she should lower her eyes, as she had been trained to do, but curiosity got the better of her. So this was the Lord of Life, the Possessor of Men's Necks, the Lord of the Seven Worlds! He was handsome, she supposed, but not especially so. There was the shadow of a beard on his face, which lent a certain majesty to his beaked nose. He had grey eyes.

He examined her head to toe, as the
spahis
had done the day her father had traded her. He did not seem especially displeased with what he saw yet when he had done he gave a long sigh. 'What is that you are embroidering?' he asked her.

'A handkerchief, my lord.'

'Let me see it.' She handed it to him. 'A fine piece of work. You have great skill. May I have it?'

'Have it ready for me tonight,' he said and placed it carefully over her left shoulder. The Kislar Aghasi's eyes widened in shock. Placing a handkerchief on a girl's shoulder signified that she was now
gözde
, and that the Sultan wished to sleep with her. No girl had been so favoured since he had assumed the throne.

Suleiman walked away without another word. The Kislar Aghasi looked as if he would burst; then he remembered himself and hurried after him.

Hürrem stood there, frozen to the spot, long after they were gone. Her body trembled with triumph and excitement.

Gözde
!I am in the eye! Now I just have to stay there.

***

Suleiman hurried along the cloister, both angry and relieved. He had been forced to betray his own desires, but at least he had acted swiftly and decisively. After his mother's lecture to him that morning he accepted that he had neglected his duty, and had asked the Kapi Aga to arrange a suitable girl. This Hürrem that head picked out for him was appealing in an elfin way, she at least had an entertaining turn of mind. Most Harem girls were insufferably empty and vain.

And if she got pregnant his mother would be satisfied and he could return to Gülbehar and carry on his life in peace.

Topkapi Saraya

A crescent moon trembled in the night sky. Suleiman and Ibrahim had dined well on sturgeon, lobster and swordfish, taken that same morning from the Bosphorus, all washed down with sherbets made with violets and honey. They had completed the meal with a bottle of Cyprus wine, even though it was forbidden by the Qur'an.

It was a small transgression, but one that gave him a measure of satisfaction, for in all other ways his life was proscribed by protocol.

At waking: the Parer of the Nails, and the Chief Barber to shave his head; then the Master of the Wardrobe, who laid out his day's clothes, each piece scented with aloe wood; then the Chief Turban Winder to curl yards of linen around his fez.

Five days a week he arose at dawn to attend the Divan; Fridays he rode to prayers along the Divan Yolu to the Aya Sofia, in procession with his Grand Vizier, his astronomers, his Chief Huntsman, his Chief Keeper of the Nightingales, the Master of the Keys, the Master of the Stirrup and four thousand of his
Yeniçeris
and
Spahis
of the Porte, his regular cavalry.

Afternoons: a short nap, required by custom, tired or not, reclining on two mattresses, one of silver brocade, the other of gold. He was attended at all times by five guards, deaf-mute eunuchs.

Within the confines of state, such small rebellions as a glass of wine were great victories.

Ibrahim was his greatest scandal, of course. During the siege they had slept in the same pavilion, had worn each other's clothes. He knew he outraged the whole court by showing such favour to a slave but then, for him, he was not a slave; he was confidant, confessor and counsellor. If anyone helped him shoulder the burden it was not Gülbehar or Hafise, nor even the Grand Vizier. It was Ibrahim.

After they had the wine, Ibrahim sat cross-legged beneath the window. They were the same age, but somehow Suleiman felt so much older. Careworn might be a better word. But this betrays our heritage, he thought. I am the son of a man they called The Grim; Ibrahim is the son of a fisherman.

He had been born in a village on the western coast of Greece. He was stolen by traders and taken to the slave markets in Stamboul, where he was bought by a widow from Manias. She raised him a Muslim, and when she discovered his flair for music and languages, she had arranged for him to have a good education. He learned to play the viol and he could speak Persian, Turkish, Greek and Italian.

Later she sold him for a handsome profit into Suleiman's service when he went to Manisa as the new governor of Kaffa province.

When he became Sultan in 1520 he brought Ibrahim with him to the Porte and made him his
hasoda-bashi
, head of household. He sought him out for counsel now more often that he did Piri Pasha, his old Grand Vizier. After Rhodes he even made him one of his counsellors, just below Piri Pasha himself in rank.

This is why we Osmanlis are glorious, Suleiman thought. Even a Christian slave can rise by his own merits to become almost pre-eminent in the greatest Islamic empire the world has ever seen. What was it the Fatih had said?

'Our Empire is the home of Islam, from father to son the lamp is kept burning with oil from the hearts of the infidels.

'So solemn, my lord?' Ibrahim said, setting the viol aside.

Suleiman sighed. 'Do you ever have regrets, Ibrahim?'

'Of course not. Look us here tonight. Good food. Good wine. What is there to regret?'

'But do you not sometimes wish you were someone else? Do you ever wonder what might have happened if the pirates had not come to the village that day and snatched you away?'

'I know what would have happened. I would be eating fish for breakfast and supper and mending nets on the beach all day. Instead I sleep in a palace, drink the best Cyprian wine and am held in favour by the greatest Emperor on the earth.'

'Your life would have been simpler.'

'My life would have been worthless.'

'You enjoy all this, don't you? You enjoy going to war and you relish the endless politicking in the Divan.'

'We are at the hub of the world, my Lord. We are writing history!'

'We are serving Islam.'

'Well yes, that too.' He picked up the viol again. 'We are Islam's greatest servants.'

Liar, Suleiman thought. You do all this for its own sake. That is why I love you and envy you so much. I wish I was more like you.

'I think sometimes you should have been Sultan and I the son of a Greek fisherman. We might have been happier that way.' He got to his feet, rubbed his face with his hands.

'Shall we sleep now, my Lord?'

'You may sleep, Ibrahim. Your life is simpler than mine. I have yet one more duty to perform.'

***

Hürrem had been escorted to the Keeper of the Baths to be bathed and massaged. Her nails were dyed, her hair perfumed with jasmine, her skin pomaded with henna to prevent sweating, her eyes blackened with kohl.

She was then escorted to the
Kiaya
of the Robes, who dressed her in a rose-coloured chemise and purple velvet kaftan, with a robe of silver and apricot brocade over the top. The
Kiaya
of the Jewels brought a diamond necklace as heavy as an iron collar and a string of fat Arabian pearls to plait into her hair, as well as a pair of heavy ruby earrings that reached to her shoulders.

They must all be returned in the morning, she was told.

A
gediçli
held up a mirror so that Hürrem could inspect her reflection. She regarded the apparition that stared back at her with something close to disbelief. 'I look completely hideous.'

The
Kiaya
of the Robes put her hands on her hips. 'It is the way.'

'It is the way to make a man fall on the floor laughing.'

'You ungrateful little minx. Do you not realize the great honour that has fallen on you? Remember, it happened to me once, so don't think you are so high and mighty. You could end up Mistress of the Robes on day, and no more than that!'

'If you dressed this way on your big night, it's a wonder he didn't make you Mistress of the Royal Lavatory.'

The
Kiaya
hissed with outrage and sent the two
gediçli
out of the room. 'Now listen here! I don't deny that you and I ever got along too well, but I'm still willing to help you. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I know what it's like, I was
gözde
once, when Bayezid was Sultan. Let me tell you what you should do to please him …'

'I do not need advice from a failure. I know what I have to do. I have to get pregnant!' And she swept from the room.

There were two guards, the same pair who led her to the courtyard earlier in the day. They escorted her along a maze of gloomy, cold cloisters and down a narrow staircase. The hem of her gown and the trailing sleeves of her kaftan kept catching and tearing on the wood. She felt a chill draft of air on her cheek and she was propelled into the night through a heavy iron door. A boxlike carriage was waiting for her. She caught a whiff of horse and ancient leather and then a soft, fleshy hand pulled her inside.

The carriage jerked forward and the horse's hoofs clattered on the cobbles. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she made out the bulky silhouette of the Kislar Aghasi opposite her.

'Where are we going?' she said.

'To the Sultan. He is waiting for you in the Topkapi Saraya.'

The curtains were drawn. Hürrem tried to shift them aside to peek outside but he snatched her hand away. 'Is it far?' she said.

'No, not far.' She could feel his eyes watching her, huge and yellow, like a cat. 'The Kapi Aga arranged this for you,' he said.

'Why would he do that?'

'A question I have been asking myself all day.'

'And what answer did you come up with?'

'I have none. He looks very pale these days, like a man awaiting execution. Have you not noticed?' When she did not answer, he added: 'Or perhaps he is unwell.'

'Perhaps.'

'Do not misunderstand me. Should the Kapi Aga fall into disfavour I shall not weep for him.'

The coach clattered to a halt and the door was thrown open. Hürrem looked quickly around as she stepped down. So this was the Topkapi! The great tower of the Divan loomed above her and torches dotted around the gardens flickered among the bushes. A thousand trees rustled in the night wind.

Two halberdiers, the heavy tressed plumes on their helmets covering half their faces, ushered her through a massive iron-studded door and into the heart of the seraglio. The Kislar Aghasi wheezed and puffed as he struggled along behind. Hürrem was struck by how orderly and spacious it all seemed after the drabness of the Eski Saraya. The walls here were stone, not wood, and the corridors wider and better lit.

They reached two wooden doors, inlaid with mother of pearl and tortoiseshell, that led to the Sultan's private chambers. Two of his private bodyguards, the
solaks
, stood on guard on either side, their
yataghan
s drawn.

Hürrem took a deep breath. This was the moment she had gambled everything for. Be calm, she told herself, you do not have to beguile him; just accept his seed and let it flower into freedom.

The Kislar Aghasi threw open the doors and led her inside.

***

Hürrem looked around in awe.

The walls were decorated with Iznik tiles; peacock blue, orange and viridian in dazzling patterns of flowers and fruit. The ceiling rose to a high dome and below it censers on long golden chains glittering with turquoises and rubies. There was a fireplace shaped like a copper pyramid, and oil lamps glimmered in niches on the walls.

The bed was on a raised platform in the corner, hung with a canopy of green and gold Bursa brocade, supported on columns of fluted silver. There were quilts and cushions of crimson velvet, every one of them laced with pearls. Tapers burned in platinum candlesticks at the four corners.

Suleiman reclined on a divan of shimmering gold velvet. He wore an apple-green robe and a turban of pure white silk with a clasp of heron feathers and an emerald, the size of a baby's fist, glinting from the folds. One arm stretched languorous along the back of the divan. He looked faintly bored.

The door shut gently behind her as the Kislar Aghasi crept from the room. They were alone.

He stared at her for a long time in silence. She could almost hear him thinking: What have they done to you?

She should have trusted her own judgment. She had allowed the
Kiaya
to humiliate her yet again.

She untied the robe and let it slip to the floor, then unfastened the diamond buttons of the kaftan and pulled it over her head. She ripped off the diamond necklace and tossed it on top of the robe with the earrings. Finally she loosened the pearls from her hair and shook it free.

When she was done, she had on only her chemise and harem trousers. She pointed to the rich pile of garments at her feet. 'The
Kiaya
of the Robes chose my wardrobe personally. Of course, these days she is half blind.'

He shrugged. Why doesn't he do something, say something? she thought. And then it hit her; he was as much at a loss as she.

She must shake him from this torpor and she knew only one way to do that. She fell to her knees, covered her face in her hands and started to weep.

'What is wrong?'

'Lord of my Life, why did you choose me? There are so many beautiful girls in the Harem. I am not good enough for you. I know nothing about love or men.

He rose from the divan and put a hand on her shoulder. 'Please, get up.'

'I am too ashamed. You think I am ugly.'

'I think you are … delightful. It is just that when you came in … you are right, the
Kiaya
must be half blind.'

She let him lift her to her feet. She looked up into his face, searching for a clue to what he was thinking. 'I never wanted this,' she whispered. 'I am frightened.'

'Any girl in the Harem would change places with you right now.'

'Then let them. They are far more beautiful than I.'

'Hush now. Come and sit down.' He led her to the divan and sat her down beside him, without letting go of her hand. 'I think you are quite exceptional,' he said and stroked her cheek.

She moved her head slightly to trap his hand between her cheek and her shoulder. 'What should I do?'

'Just be yourself.' He took her face in his hands, almost shyly. He brought her face towards him and kissed her. He tasted of wine. I have learned your first secret! she thought.

He pulled her towards him. His fingers gripped her shoulders so hard it hurt her. Yes, you like that, don't you? she thought. The Shadow of God Upon the Earth was a man like any other; he wanted to hear his woman moan a little.

He pushed her back on the Divan, tore at the pearl buttons of her chemise. She surrendered to him, murmuring softly, almost as if a man loving her could somehow bring her pleasure.