The Kadin (18 page)

Hale climbed into her father’s lap and settled herself. “I don’t like Uncle Ahmed,” she announced. “He’s a nasty man!”

23

T
O THE RELIEF OF
Selim and his family, Prince Ahmed’s visit to the Moonlight Serai was short. When word came that his apartments in the Eski Serai were ready, he departed, and for the next year or so the inhabitants of the Moonlight Serai lived in relative peace, their Uves free from intrigue. Unfortunately, this state of affairs could not last.

The portion of the Eski Serai turned over to Prince Ahmed was not a pleasant place. He was not yet the father of a living son—stillbirths, miscarriages, and puny females had been the fate of his ikbals—and without a kadin, no one particular woman in his harem was dominant His favorites changed hourly, with his moods, and this led to confusion. The ikbals of Ahmed were far too busy plotting against one another to oversee the household slaves, and the prince, in his eagerness to be free of his mother, would not permit Besma to do so. Consequently, the apartments of Ahmed and his women were filthy and disorderly.

Hadji Bey knew ail of this but said nothing to the sultan. Instead, he allowed tales of the heir’s slovenliness and decadence to filter across the empire. Biding his time, the agha felt that with luck, Selim, an obviously devout Muslim and the father of six healthy young sons, would inherit Bajazet’s throne with no war and little bloodshed.

Aware of the enormous disparity between her own odious offspring and the handsome son of her dead rival, Besma decided to pay her son and his household a visit

Entering the apartments, she noticed with distaste the dust balls beneath the furniture, the clothing carelessly strewn about rotting fruit in a bowl, and the distinct smell of urine. A slave asleep on the floor received a sharp kick from her foot. He leaped up.

“Where is your master?”

The slave pointed to the gardens. Besma, her step extremely firm now, followed his trembling finger into the warm sunshine. She stood for a moment in the shadow of a column, viewing the scene before her.

Her son lounged bare-chested on a divan by a pool in which several young girls and boys were swimming naked. The years had changed Ahmed greatly. Short of stature, he had always been heavier than one might desire, but the excesses in which he had indulged had turned his neat pudginess to sloppy fat He had developed breasts that flowed into great rolls of blubber that fell over his trouser top. Though liquor was forbidden by Muslim law, he secretly drank, and the secret was all too obvious in his beady, bloodshot eyes and the blue-veined, bulbous nose that had once been as straight and hawklike as Selim’s. His graying hair and beard were untidy and badly needed barbering.

Besma’s eyes now moved with sharp distaste to several others of Ahmed’s suite. They were posturing in a most disgusting and all too obvious tableau. One called to him to look, and when he did, he laughed in delighted fashion.

Besma stepped into her son’s view. She nodded curtly at him and turned to the group tableau. “Get out!” she commanded. “I wish to speak with my son!” They stared in astonishment at her.
“Get out!”
The prince’s retainers fled.

“You forget yourself, mother.
I
am master here.”

“You forget
yourself,
my son. Bajazet is the master here and everywhere else in the empire. You would do well never to forget it”

“What do you want?” he asked rudely.

“To speak with you about your conduct and from what I have just seen, I come not a moment too soon. Your apartment is filthy! I find your slaves asleep on the floor and your women and boys disporting themselves in a vulgar fashion. Word of this incident will be all over Constantinople by nightfall. While your reputation grows worse, Selim’s grows better. You openly break our laws, wallow in dirt, consort with boys, and mistreat your women. He is seen in the mosque regularly, his home is a place of joy, and his sons are legion. You would think he was the heir!”

“
I
am the heir, mother.
I
will rule after my father. Selim is merely a younger son.”

“Selim is the darling of the people, you
fool!
Each time he rides into the city, they cheer. Lately he has taken to corning with his three older sons—the heir, Suleiman, and the princes Mohammed and Omar. The people cheer louder. If you took the time to come out of your pigsty, you would see for yourself.”

“I
am the heir,” repeated Ahmed.

“Bah!” snapped his mother. “You will never live to rule unless you change your ways, and should you chance to outlive Bajazet, will your brothers let you rule?”

Ahmed’s face crumbled. “What shall I do, mother?” he whined.
“I am the heir.”

“Will you do exactly as I say?” she demanded of him.

He nodded.

“I will install a woman here from the Pavilion of Older Damsels to oversee your slaves. At least you will give the impression of cleanliness. Your drinking must stop! As for your depravities, try to keep them to a minimum. The agha has spies everywhere, and he is no friend of ours. When you are sultan, the first thing I shall do is have his head lopped off.”

“Is that
all?”

“No! I am going to persuade Bajazet to bring Selim’s four oldest sons to the Eski Serai. Suleiman is nine now, and the youngest of the four, Prince Kasim, is six. As your heirs they must be placed in protective custody and not be allowed to run wild in the countryside like peasants. Next year we shall get Abdullab, The year after, Murad, and as each of Selim’s sons reaches the age of six, we shall obtain them. Here, under our watchful eye, who knows how they might develop?”

“Will Selim let them comer

Besma smiled nastily. “He will have no choice,” she said. “If he does not accede to his father’s wishes, he goes against him; and if he does that, it is treason. We have him in a box!”

But Hadji Bey knew of Besma’s plot within minutes of her decision. It had been ridiculously simple to plant several spies among Ahmed’s maltreated slaves. The agha quickly dictated a message to his secretary, which was then enclosed within a small capsule, fastened to a pigeon’s leg, and the bird was immediately dispatched to the Moonlight Serai. His next move was to see that the sultan was made unavailable to Besma for the time being.

Several days later, Selim arrived in Constantinople, with Suleiman riding at his side. They presented themselves at the palace, and the agha quickly arranged for an audience with Sultan Bajazet, who had not seen his oldest grandson since the boy’s circumcision rites. He was delighted by the fresh-faced youngster who stood before him.

Suleiman was tall for his age, and very slender, with the young, hard muscles of a well-trained body. His eyes were gray-green, his skin tanned from the outdoors, and his short black hair curly. There was no doubt that Suleiman was an Ottoman, and the sultan was pleased with him.

The boy wore yellow trousers, bright red leather boots, a white shirt embroidered by his mother in green silk, and a green wool cloak. Stuck in the green silk sash that girdled his waist was a small, ornate gold dagger set with semiprecious stones. Bowing, he greeted his grandfather, “May you live ten thousand years, great sultan of the world.”

Bajazet was delighted with his grandson, and Selim, noting this, quickly spoke up. “I have come with an invitation, my lord father. Never since the day I left your palace have you come to visit my home. I have six fine sons, and only one knows you. My wives complain that my hospitality is that of a beggar, not a prince, that my father is not invited to eat salt with me under my own roof. Surely the empire can spare you for a few days so you may honor my home with your presence.”

“Oh, yes, grandfather,” piped Suleiman. “Do come! I will take you hunting with me!”

“So you hunt, lad? What have you caught?”

“These, sire.” He laid before the sultan six flawless white ermine skins. “Father took me hunting in the mountains last winter. I trapped them They are a gift for you, grandfather.”

The sultan carefully fingered the furs, but no trap marks could be seen. He smiled down from his throne at his grandson. “Would you like me to come to visit, Suleiman?”

“Yes! Yes!” nodded the youngster vigorously.

“Then so be it,” said Bajazet “I shall ride out with you this very day.” And he descended from the dais, took his grandson by the hand, and walked from the throne room.

The sultan was expected to remain at the Moonlight Serai for a week, but at the end of that time, Sarina, who had at long last to everyone’s delight conceived a child, gave birth to a lusty boy. With the proud grandfather’s permission, the infant was called Bajazet and the sultan tarried in his son’s household.

One afternoon as the sultan left the apartments of the new kadin and her son, Selim came to him. “Walk with me in the gardens, my father. I would speak to you, and there is less chance of our being overheard there.”

“What troubles you, my son?”

“It is Suleiman and his brothers. They are past six, and as heirs to your throne they should go to your protective custody. I felt that before you returned to Constantinople we should discuss this matter.”

Bajazet gazed across the gardens. Beneath a group of trees sat three of Selim’s kadins. About them his six grandsons and his twin granddaughters, Hale and Guzel, played. The bas-kadin, Cyra, rocked a cradle containing her nine-month-old daughter, Nilufer. Though the sultan would have loved to have his grandchildren about him, he knew the risks involved. “No,” he said “They shall not go to Constantinople. I acknowledge the wisdom of protective custody, but your sons are far too happy and healthy here. It is like the old days before our time, when our people roamed the steppes of Asia. They will grow into better men outside our city. Besides, it will be many years, may it please Allah, before I turn my throne over to my successor. Let us wait until your sons are older, and then we shall discuss their coming to the capital again.”

“Forgive my spurning your generous offer, my lord but custom demands that Suleiman, Mohammed Omar, and Kasim go. What will the people say if they do not? I would not bring criticism upon you, who have been so kind to me.”

Bajazet gazed at his son. This was a game they were playing. Selim no more wanted his sons in Constantinople than he did, and the sultan knew it; but Selim had ever been loyal to him, so he let it pass and cleared his throat.

“The people will say I am an old fool, sentimental, and in my dotage, but never will they say I am not sultan. Because of our laws of succession, your sons will supersede Ahmed’s should the idiot ever have any. In any case, his degenerate habits are ruining his health, and I doubt he will reign long, if at all.

“Between you and the throne stands your brother Prince Korkut. It is not known, but he will never reign. He does not want the responsibility. So you, my son, will one day be sultan, as your brother Mustafa should have been. You will be a strong sultan. I can see this. And after you, Suleiman, who must be stronger yet The restraint of my court at so young an age would sap his strength. I will not allow it! This is my final word.”

Selim fell to his knees before his father. Bending his body until his head touched the sultan’s boot, he said, “I am your loyal and devoted servant my lord. With my whole heart, I thank you.”

Tears welled up in Bajazet’s eyes, and, quickly wiping them away with his sleeve, he raised his son to his feet For a long moment they looked at each other in silence. Then the sultan spoke. “It is
you
who should be my heir,” he said, and, turning abruptly, he strode back into the palace, leaving Selim astounded.

Several days later, Sultan Bajazet reluctantly tore himself away from Selim and his family and rode back to his capital. He had scarcely returned when Besma Kadin swept into his suite.

“And how,” she asked, settling herself comfortably on a low divan, “was your stay at the Moonlight Serai, my dear lord? You remained longer than we expected, and we missed you.”

“It was delightful.”

“And Prince Selim and his family are well?”

“Yes. He has a new son, born while I was there, and named Bajazet after me.”

Besma gritted her teeth. “The oldest boy is nine, isn’t he?”

The sultan nodded.

“It is past time for him and his next three brothers to be placed in our protective custody. When may we expect them?”

“You may not I have forbidden their removal from Selim’s custody. They will remain where they are. It is far healthier.”

“What?” Besma leaped to her feet and paced the room. “Are you mad? They are the heirs! They must be placed where they can be watched. Ahmed must be protected!”

“From four little boys? Better the children be protected!”

“What do you mean, my lord? Protected from whom?”

“I do not think we need go into that” replied the sultan.

“What are you saying?” shrieked Besma.

“That accidents happen. Lower your voice, madam I am still sultan here, and you are my slave. You forget yourself! Perhaps several good lashes will remind you.”

She persisted, “Do you think that I would harm those children? What kind of a woman do you think I am—I, who have given you your heir?”

“I know what kind of a woman you are,” he said coldly. “Kiusem gave me my heir. His name was Mustafa. He died, you will remember, at the age of two and a half, and some say you poisoned him”

“The ravings of a madwoman! Kiusem was driven insane by her son’s unfortunate death.”

“The accusation of a grieving mother. An accusation I knew to be true. Kiusem was
never
mad, nor her sons fools.”

Besma’s mouth fell open but recovering, she asked, “If you think I poisoned Mustafa, why did you not kill me?”

Bajazet sighed. “I have asked myself that question every day for thirty-two years. Perhaps because Ahmed was a baby and needed his mother, or perhaps because your death would not have restored my dear son to me. But take care, woman. You could still end your days in a weighted sack at the bottom of the sea. Ahmed no longer needs his mother, and neither do
I
!”

A wiser woman would have departed at this point but Besma’s anger overruled her good sense. “You dare to call me a murderess?”