The Kadin (16 page)

Rising from the dais, Selim graciously acknowledged the thanks of Cervi and her family and then disappeared behind the carved screen. Giving Cyra a quick kiss, he took her by the hand and hurried her off to his quarters.

She stretched herself out upon a divan while a servant removed Selim’s heavy ceremonial robes and turban. Comfortably dressed in wide pantaloons banded at the ankles and a wide-sleeved silk shirt open at the neck, he sat down beside her. Silent slaves brought a bowl of fruit and thick, sweet, steaming coffee in tiny porcelain cups. Cyra made a face and pushed the coffee away.

“Cool water,” she said, “flavored with tangerine.”

It was placed before her, and Selim waved the slaves away. Cyra looked at him adoringly.

“Thank you, my dear lord, for your mercy to the woman Bosfor.”

“I heard you gasp when I pronounced sentence.”

“Poor little baby. His mother will die.”

“The beating may not kill her.”

“If she is whipped with a feather, Is that not the usual weapon?”

“The sentence is a just one, Cyra. The Koran is very clear on the matter of adultery. Had she named the man, he would have suffered an identical fate. That she did not, led me to believe there is some good in her and moved me to mercy.”

“When you pronounced sentence, our son quickened within me, and I felt him move for the first time.”

Selim grinned happily. “He approved my judgments.” He pulled her up. “If I can influence him in the law, then perhaps I may turn him to the expansion of the empire, also.” Leading her over to a large, square table, he pointed to the map upon it.

“Europe,” he said, slamming his hand down on the table. “Someday I shall expand the empire to cover all of it, perhaps even the island your Scotland shares with England. I shall convert many to the true faith!”

“Show me where Scotland is,” she asked.

He pointed to a small red patch in the blue sea.

“It’s so tiny!” she exclaimed. “Where is San Lorenzo?”

His finger moved to a yellow section.

“It’s even smaller than my homeland.” She sighed. “I wonder how my father does. And Adam and my grandmother Mary.”

He debated telling her, but then decided she should know. “Your father and his family have returned home. He was much distressed at your loss.”

He saw the tears she would not allow to fall well up in her eyes.

“It is better, Selim. Father did not really tike San Lorenzo. He missed his estates.”

Noting the unspoken question in her eyes, he smiled to himself. Sure of her love and loyalty, he knew she would not distress him by asking, but he also knew her curiosity pricked her sorely, so he spoke.

“Rudolfo di San Lorenzo has married Princess Marie-Hélène of Toulouse.”

Her outburst of giggles startled him.

“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Poor Rudi!” Her laughter lit up the chamber. Then, seeing his bewilderment, she gained control of herself. “One summer the heat was so unbearable that we went to the mountains to a village noted for its waters. Princess Marie-Hélène was there also. She was several years older than both myself and Rudi. She is fat and dark and given to numerous moles on her face. She spent most of her time eating and complaining about the lack of suitable companions.”

“Poor Rudi, indeed,” chuckled Selim. “Almost to have had you, and to end up with a fat princess.”

Cyra peered again at the map. “How do you read a map?”

“The different countries are set in different colors, each marked with its name. The capital cities are also indicated.”

“Here is Turkey!” she exclaimed gleefully. “And Constantinople! But where are we?”

His finger moved to a spot slightly northeast of the city.

“This whole green part is the empire?”

He nodded.

“By Allah! It is huge!”

“No,” he replied. “Since my grandfather took Constantinople, no new territory has been added. In fact, we have lost territory since my father became sultan. The Egyptian Mamelukes now control Cilicia, and Venice has seized Cyprus. But someday I shall regain these lost lands of ours—and take others.”

“Will your father let you go to war, my lord?”

“My father is more interested in beauty than power. If he wished, he could be a great warrior, but he prefers to remain in Constantinople, adding to the palace and gardens of the Yeni Serai. Allah help us if the Christians decide to start one of their dreary Crusades.”

Cyra laughed. “Patience, my lord Selim. Your fears are foolish. The French king, Charles the Eighth, is very busy invading Italy. Henry the Seventh of England is attempting to subdue the Irish again. In Spain, Isabella and Ferdinand divide their energies among the Inquisition, the navigator Columbus, and the persecution of the Moors. As for His Holiness, Pope Alexander the Sixth, it is rumored he secured his high office by bribery and is far more concerned with amassing wealth for himself and his numerous bastard offspring than with defending the faith.”

Selim was astounded by her speech. “You are remarkably well informed for the cloistered wife of an Eastern prince, my love. I doubt that the biggest gossip in Western Europe has as much information as you do. What is your secret?”

“No secret, my lord. Politics interests me. Knowing this, Hadji Bey keeps me well supplied with information. How else may I help you if I cannot be your ears? You have so much to do.”

He put an affectionate arm around her while his other hand gently swept across the map of Europe. “If I allowed it, you would don armor and ride into battle at my side, wouldn’t you? What lucky chance brought me such an intelligent and brave woman?”

“It was ordained long before our time, my Selim.”

“By Allah, how I love you! There is not another woman anywhere to compare with you!”

Sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her passionately.

“This son of ours already interferes with me,” he murmured against her scented hair.

“My lord,” she chided him, “does not Firousi satisfy you? She loves you deeply.”

“Firousi is a charming confection and very dear to me, but it is a meal I crave, not sweets. Besides, the little turquoise may not be sharing my bed much longer. It is likely that she is with child.”

Mischievously, Cyra looked up at him. “Who next, my lord?”

“You are impudent” He scowled at her.

“I am realistic,” she countered. Then, suddenly jumping back, she cried out “Your son has kicked me most rudely!”

“Ho,” he laughed. “He warns you to keep your place, woman.”

She folded her hands over her rounded belly. “Hear me, my son. Whatever may come to pass, I am always your mother, and you are merely my son.”

Selim looked at her with admiring eyes. “What a sultan you would be, my love.”

“What a sultan you will be, my Sehm!”

19

S
PRING HAD COME TO
Turkey with a kiss that year. Never had the rains been so gentle, nor the countryside so lush and green. The faithful in their mosques thanked Allah for his bounty and for their noble sultan. Peace and business prospered, and Ottoman culture, under the benevolent guiding hand of Sultan Bajazet, flourished.

By mid-June, to Firousi’s delight, Selim’s amusement, and Lady Refet’s concern, the silvery-blond Caucasian girl was sure she was with child. Hadji Bey was hurriedly and secretly sent for. He arrived one glorious moonlit night, and was immediately taken to Cyra’s private garden, where Selim, his aunt, and the Scots girl were sitting about the blue mosaic fountain enjoying the first fullness of the Gold of Ophir roses.

“Greetings, my daughter,” said the agha, eyeing Cyra, who was now obviously heavy with child “I see it goes well with you.”

“I think I can take this small barbarian’s insults a bit longer,” replied the girl, patting her swollen belly.

“Insults?”

“He kicks, Hadji Bey. Not just gentle taps, but great and mighty kicks. I can assure you I am quite bruised from him.”

“You are sure, then, it is a son?”

“Oh, yes! No Turkish female of gentle breeding would behave in such a manner. Only a big boob of a boy would dare,” she said, smiling.

“She blooms like the roses, does she not, Hadji Bey?” asked Selim. “How is it possible for one already incomparable to become more so each day?”

The agha smiled. “Your joy brings me joy, my dear Selim, but surely you did not bring me here merely to share it.”

“It was I who sent for you,” said Lady Refet “You must help me before this vainglorious young cock is the death of us all. Cyra will give birth in less than two months, and not four months later the ikbal Firousi will also give birth. When word of this reaches Besma, she will be like a madwoman.”

“It has already reached her,” replied Hadji Bey, “and she has already tried again to gain the sultan’s ear. Fortunately, the death of Selim’s mother is still fresh in his mind and heart, and I intend to keep it so. In three nights the sultan gives a reception. He will be presented to an exquisite girl, a Circassian like yourself and your sister. I call her Kiusem, as your sister was called. She even bears a striking resemblance to the first Kiusem. I have been keeping her hidden for just such a moment but I guarantee that the sultan will be enamored of her and will have no time for the lady Besma’s complaints and ravings.”

“Bless you for your foresight” sighed Lady Refet

“However,” continued the agha kislar, “I would advise you, Selim, to take a hunting trip for a few weeks, and
not
to take a new ikbal until Cyra’s child is born.”

“You would do well to heed Hadji Bey’s advice, my dear nephew, before Besma convinces Bajazet that you and your burgeoning family are a threat to him.”

“I do not feel like hunting.”

“Nevertheless,” thundered the agha, “you
will
hunt! We have not schemed and planned all these years for Turkey’s future to have your whims destroy those plans. For myself I care not but what future has your aunt or Cyra, or Firousi, or your unborn children, should the sultan become suspicious? You will hunt my son. Go toward the mountains. Take a few of your Tartars with you, but leave the main force to guard this palace. In two or three days’ time, you will meet ‘by chance,’ with Bali Agha and his troop of Janissaries. He is a young man about your age and holds the highest position in the corps. I can keep Besma from the sultan, but he who controls the Janissaries’ loyalty controls the empire. The Janissaries know little of your good work in Magnesia, They remember only the dull boy of early days, and Besma has worked very hard to keep that image alive. Your half-brother grows more degenerate every day. Though he has been forced by his mother to consort with women, he still prefers boys, and he has no sons. Besma is becoming desperate, and she schemes for the sultan’s overthrow so she may place her son upon the throne.”

“I must be back in time for the birth of my son.”

“I will personally guarantee it,” replied the agha. “But remember, Selim—the birth of your child is a certainty; that you rule after your father is not”

The prince grimaced at the agha’s words, but he was no foot and Hadji Bey had made his point So comfortable had he been these last few months with his life and Cyra that he had almost forgotten his goals.

The next morning Selim, with half a dozen of his Tartars for companions, left the Moonlight Serai and galloped into the hills to hunt—and for a “chance encounter” with the young chief of the Janissaries.

Bali Agha was thirty years old, of great height and commanding presence. Unlike many Janissaries, who, being of European origin, dyed their light hair black, Bali wore his shaggy dark-gold hair proudly. He had discovered early that his lighter locks won him considerable favor with the ladies. His face was square, with a strong jaw fringed with a yellow beard, a high forehead, a short nose, and snapping black eyes that peered from beneath bushy eyebrows, giving him the appearance of a stern lion.

Bali Agha was a disciplinarian, and under his command the Janissaries flourished, grew stronger, and were feared. He and his men were loyal to Bajazet but looked to the future. The future offered them three choices—the heir, Prince Ahmed, Prince Korkut and Prince Selim—the last a devout Muslim, intelligent and a good soldier.

Turkey had had two good sultans under the Ottoman dynasty—Mohammed II, conqueror of Constantinople, and his son, Bajazet II. The empire had grown powerful, and if it was to remain that way, it needed a strong sultan to succeed Bajazet Bali Agha knew that neither Ahmed nor Korkut was that man, and from his powerful position he secretly began to sound out his captains and the more promising of their men on their choice.

The verdict was ovemhelmingly in favor of Selim, and Bali Agha dutifully reported all of this to Hadji Bey. The stage was set, but as long as Bajazet lived and was capable of ruling, Bali Agha and his Janissaries would take no action. However, when the time came for a new sultan to put on the sword of Ayub, Bali Agha and his men would stand behind Prince Selim.

20

T
HE SUMMER
brought with it searing heat With the prince away, his little household settled into a quiet and uneventful daily routine. They might have been any well-to-do family on their country estate had the danger of their existence not been brought home to them by the ever-present sight of Selim’s Tartars.

These loyal soldiers guarded their lord’s home and family with a vigilance that was almost frightening. They had no love for the kadin Besma or her son, and though nothing had ever been said openly, it was their dearest wish that their prince and his heirs succeed Bajazet.

One day in mid-August the sun rose like a fiery ball over the Black Sea. By ten in the morning the roses, which had been briefly refreshed by the night dew, hung drooping.

Cyra sat on the edge of the mosaic fountain in her garden, dabbling her swollen feet in the water. Under normal circumstances the heat would have been unbearable, but puffed and bloated as she now was at the end of her pregnancy, it was devastating.

Entering the garden, Marian ran to her mistress. “Are you mad, my lady Cyra? Putting your feet in that cold water? You’ll catch a chill.”

“Not in this heat Besides, perhaps a chill will wake that son of mine. He is slothful.”

“What do you mean, slothful? All summer long you have done naught but complain of his kicking.”

“I know,” she sighed, “but for two days now I have felt no movement. Marian—you don’t think he’s dead? I could not bear it!”

“No, no, my lady! Do not fret I once heard my old grandmother say that when the child quiets, the time is near. Have you had any pain?”

“None. I feel strangely serene, and yet I wish to be active. I will check all the arrangements for my lying-in this morning. Please get me a cloth to dry my feet The water has made me quite comfortable again.”

“A cloth for my lady’s feet” Marian called to the attending slave. The slave quickly obeyed, and, kneeling, Marian dried Cyra’s feet and slipped a pair of green leather slippers onto them.

Entering her salon, Cyra called for the little cedar chest and once again, as she had each day for the last two months, she opened the chest and lifted out the tiny embroidered shirts, diapers, and robes. Carefully she inspected each item and then tenderly laid it back. Their size amazed and frightened her. Could a human being really be that small?

At noon she ate rightly of fruit and soft white bread spread with thin slivers of cheese. She had scarcely finished when a messenger arrived with the news that Prince Selim would be arriving by nightfall. She sent the slaves scurrying to prepare for their master’s arrival.

As the afternoon progressed, the sky began to darken with an impending storm. Lady Refet could see that Cyra’s feverish activity was beginning to tire the girl, and she ordered her to her couch to rest

In the stillness of her apartment Cyra slept briefly. Awakened by a clap of thunder, she rose and slowly walked to the windows, opening them to allow the stormy breeze to freshen the stale air of the chamber. A sudden rush of warm water down her legs startled her, and, gasping, she cried out to Marian.

Quick to grasp the situation, Marian led Cyra back to her divan, where she propped up her lower limbs with pillows.

“Tis the babe,” she said. “I thought your restlessness of the past few days boded his birth. Now, he still while I fetch my lady Refet I’ll send Fekriye and Zala to keep you company.”

“But there is no pain,” Cyra protested.

“Time enough for that, my lady. Some begin their entry into this world with pain, others with water. I saw my mother give birth successfully both ways.”

“Marian, have Yussef find Prince Selim’s messenger and send him to hurry the prince. He’ll know the road my lord takes. He is to tell Selim that his son is ready and eager to enter this world.”

“At once, my lady, and I’ll wager my lord outrides the storm,” she chuckled.

Alone for a few moments, Cyra lay, scarcely breathing. Tomorrow, she thought, this time tomorrow, my son will be born, and I’ll hold him in my arms. Then she remembered her mother. Meg had died in childbirth, and Adam’s mother, too. Fear took hold, and she began to tremble.

“Allah—God—” she whispered, “let me live! I don’t want to die. Let me survive to lie once again in my Selim’s arms.” She stopped. What kind of a thing was that to say to
Him?
“Oh, please understand,” she began again.

At that point Lady Refet hurried into the room with Zala and Fekriye.

“I’ve sent for the midwife. Have you any pain?”

Cyra shook her head.

Issuing quick orders, Selim’s aunt helped Cyra to rise, and, working quickly, the three women stripped the girl of her trousers and blouse, sponged her with herbed water, and wrapped her in a light robe. Assisting Cyra to her large bed, which Zala and Fekriye had freshly prepared, Lady Refet tacked her in.

Fatima, the midwife, arrived. Examining Cyra, she remarked, “It will be several hours yet, but not bad for a first child. This one is built for breeding.”

Smiling wryly, Cyra remembered her innocent remark to her father: “But, father, Grandmother Mary says I’m meant to bear children.”

Marian returned. “The messenger has left, my lady. He has promised to ride as though the seven jinns were chasing him.”

Sighing with relief, Cyra felt a slight cramp in her back.

“I think I had a pain,” she exclaimed excitedly.

“Let us wait a few minutes to see if another one comes, my lady. Then we shall know for certain if your labor has begun,” said Fatima.

The pains began coming with steady regularity but for a few hours seemed no more than the brief cramps that accompanied her monthly show of blood. Then they began to mount in intensity and duration.

The hours inched by, and the prince did not arrive. The wind was high, and the thunder rolled, peal after peal, but the rain did not come. Jagged lightning ripped at the fabric of the sky, giving it a weird illumination.

“I am going to die,” Cyra said to Lady Refet “Just as my mother before me did, I am going to die. I shall never see Selim again.” She began to cry.

The older woman cradled the girl in her arms. “You are most certainly not going to die. Everything is proceeding normally.”

“The pain is terrible, aunt. I do not think I can stand much more. I am so frightened.”

“Pah,” snapped the midwife. “Your pain is slight my little bird.
I
have seen girls scream and shriek with real pain. All is well with you. This is an easy birth. You are frightened because it is something new to you.”

The words were small comfort Night fell, and suddenly they heard the clatter of hooves. Minutes later, Selim burst into the room.

“Beloved.” He held her close.

“Selim,” she sobbed, and then, smiling through her tears, said,
“I
can go on now that I have seen you for one last time.”

Startled, the prince turned to his aunt for an explanation.

“It is all right nephew,” she soothed him. “Cyra is just a bit frightened. Everything proceeds normally.”

“I should have brought a doctor from Constantinople,” raged Selim.

Fatima sniffed audibly. “And what could a doctor do that I cannot? I am, Your Highness, the most famous midwife in the whole region. A doctor would drug the lady with opiates, and the baby would enter the world drowsy and weakened.”

Selim glowered at her and turned back to Cyra. “Take my hands,” he said. “When the pains come, squeeze hard. I will share your agony. I would see my first son born.”

He stayed beside her until the end, refusing all food or drink. As the hour approached midnight, Cyra shrieked, and the midwife cried out ‘The baby’s head! I can see the baby’s head!”

Lady Refet whispered to Selim, “I must go for the witnesses.”

Hurrying out she returned moments later with Zuleika, Sarina, Cyra’s bodyguard, Arslan, her eunuch, Anber, and a harem slave she knew to be in Besma’s pay.

Cyra shrieked again and doubled over. Leading the girl to the birthing stool, Fatima went swiftly to work, the witnesses surrounding them. It was midnight Suddenly the skies opened, and the rain came in torrents. A huge clap of thunder shook the palace, and in the strange ensuing silence the cry of a child rent the air.

“Praise be to Allah and to Mohammed, His Prophet! It is a boy!” Fatima announced, passing the howling infant to Marian. She turned back to attend Cyra.

Quickly Marian cleansed the baby with olive oil, wrapped him in a warm blanket and handed him to Selim. The prince stared down in awe at the small bundle in his arms. His deep-blue eyes were very solemn and seemed to say to Selim, “It is ridiculous that I should be so small and helpless when I have so much to do.”

Cyra had now been helped back to her bed. “Give me my son,” she whispered.

Fatima, finished with her duties, nodded to the prince. He laid the baby in Cyra’s arms.

“Marian, help me to sit up.” The girl gently raised her mistress. Unwrapping the infant Cyra inspected him carefully.

“Everything is there, my lady. I counted,” said Marian.

Cyra giggled weakly. “He has his grandfather’s nose,” she said. Then, “Look! Look at his palms. In the left is a bolt of lightning, In the right a tiny scale!”

Selim and Lady Refet peered down. “She is right nephew. It is a sign. Zuleika said he would be a great warrior and have great wisdom. What will you name him?”

“A warrior with great wisdom,” mused Selim.

“He shall be called Suleiman,” said Cyra firmly.

The prince stared at her a moment and then a smile lit his face. “Yes,” he said. “He shall be called Suleiman.”