The Kadin (23 page)

Suleiman, who would be sixteen in two months, Mohammed, who was now fifteen, Omar, who was fourteen, and Kasim, now thirteen, left with no regrets, much to the annoyance of their mothers. Cyra had to admit to herself that her firstborn son was nearly a man. Twice recently she had caught him fondling her slave girls, and when she had chided him, he had merely grinned and asked her for what other purpose had Allah created pretty girls?

Of the remaining princes, only twelve-year-old Abdullah and eleven-year-old Murad objected to being left with the women. A few well-administered slaps from their annoyed mothers ended the rebellion. Bajazet, Hassan, and Nureddin, ages eight six, and five, were too young to care.

Selim’s sons were not, however, entirely separated from one another. They attended the newly formed Princes’ School, along with their young uncle, Prince Orhan.

Selim’s daughters were to remain with their mothers. Hale and Guzel, who had just celebrated their eleventh birthday, were assigned several learned older women who would broaden their educations. The princesses could speak, read, and write Turkish, English, French, Chinese, and Persian, and had been taught mathematics, history, and geography as well as both Eastern and Western literature. Their sewing and embroidery improved daily, and they played several instruments, sang, and danced, but they were painfully ignorant in the matter of their function as females, as well as court etiquette. Their first lessons in such manners left them weak with laughter. The only men they had ever known intimately in their short lives were their father and brothers, who had cosseted and spoiled them constantly.

Firousi was distressed to learn that there had already been several offers of marriage for the twins. Selim’s second kadin vehemently protested that her daughters were far too young and, besides, were not yet capable of bearing children. The twins themselves were not overjoyed at the news of their possible marriages. Tears in their eyes, they begged their father not to separate them. When the time came, they would accept marriage, but only, they swore, to the same man.

Selim was not insensitive, and when he thought about it, the possible advantages of bestowing these exquisite girls upon one useful man far outweighed the disadvantages. He gracefully acquiesced, and the matter was dropped for the present

Meanwhile, Cyra was formulating her own small plot Suleiman’s friend Ibrahim had returned to Constantinople, and she knew her son missed his friend One evening as Selim relaxed with his water pipe in her quarters, she tackled the situation.

“Do you remember Ibrahim—Suleiman’s young friend from the country?” Selim nodded “He has returned to his father’s house. The old fool is trying to make a merchant out of him, and he is very unhappy.”

“It is a son’s duty to obey his father in all matters,” replied the prince.

“The boy is no more meant to be a bazaar vendor than Suleiman,” she said in an exasperated tone.”?e is bright and clever. If I might venture an opinion—”

“Do continue, my dear,” said Selim dryly.

“Ibrahim should be trained for government service. He could be a valuable asset to us one day,” she finished triumphantly.

“You are suggesting that Ibrahim continue his education in the Princes’ School?”

“Why not? He had all his lessons with Suleiman when we lived in the country. The tutors report he is highly intelligent, and Suleiman would be very happy to have his friend with him again.”

“It is not the custom for an outsider to study with the imperial princes. We are no longer at the Moonlight Serai. But,” continued Selim, “there is no reason that Ibrahim and Suleiman cannot continue their military training together. We might also arrange for Ibrahim to have
some
lessons at the palace school.”

She protested.

“No, his father has made a decision concerning Ibrahim’s future. I will not interfere in those plans.”

Cyra pouted, “But his family would be honored if we took an interest in him.”

“Come now,” teased the prince. “You are the most ravishing creature in the world. You have been taught to give pleasure, and here you sit like an adorable spider in the middle of your luxurious web, weaving schemes. Weave a spell upon me instead, my beloved. My mouth is parched for the cool sweetness of your lips.”

Her eyes caught his as he plucked the jeweled pins that held her hair. It fell like a shining curtain around them

“I never grow tired of you,” he murmured, brushing her lips with his. “You have never become dull or boring like so many others. You are full of life and constantly changing. I have always wondered what kind of country your Scotland must be to breed women like you. You are my slave, and yet you are the freest woman I know. No man could ever own you.”

Laughing softly, she nestled against him. “Perhaps it is our climate that makes Scots women as we are, or perhaps I am like my cats in having the ability to adapt to my situation, or”—and this more thoughtfully—“perhaps I remember that one day I shall be the sultan valideh. If I stopped learning now, I should make a poor one.”

“Do you look for that day?”

“I dread it,” she replied, looking him straight in the face. “For me to be sultan valideh, my son must be sultan, and when he is—” She stopped, stricken. “Oh, my Selim! I love you so! Never leave me! Rule a thousand years! I am bas-kadin to the greatest prince who ever lived, but so many times in my heart I have wished you were a simple farmer or merchant so we might live our lives in peace and grow old together as normal people do!” She burst into a frenzy of uncontrollable sobs so great her body shook harshly with them

He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly, murmuring endearments. “There, my dove. Hush, sweet moon of my delight Don’t weep, my love, my incomparable love.”

She always amazed him. That she loved him and their children, he knew. That she put him and his interests first he did not doubt; but that she was capable of such deep emotion with regard to him, he had not realized. His cool, beautiful, competent kadin wept like a girl in the first flush of love; he had not expected it and it frightened him. Such loyalty made him weak, and he needed time to think, so he tried to cajole her out of this mood. He slid his hands beneath her thin night garments and caressed her smooth body. She sighed contentedly, but then stiffened.

“Selim!” Her voice sounded exasperated.

“Heart of my heart”—his voice was sheepish—“you frightened me. I have never seen you like this.”

The storm was past and her laughter rang clear in the dim, scented chamber. Relieved, he grinned, and his own laughter joined with hers. “Your proper kadin has returned to you, my lord. Don’t stop. Your hands are a healing balm.”

“Ill-mannered slave!” he replied in mock rage. “It is you who should strive to please me!”

She applied a skillful caress. “Like this, my lord? Or perhaps this, my lord?”

He looked at her through fierce, half-closed eyes. She returned the look and bending, placed a burning kiss on his waiting mouth.

28

W
HEN
P
RINCE
A
HMED
fled Constantinople, he went to the palace at Adrianople and declared himself sultan. Civil war broke out Most of the provinces, neither understanding the situation nor realizing how unfit Ahmed was to rule, supported him. The battle lines were drawn—Selim, the Tartars, and the Janissaries on one side, and Ahmed and the provinces on the other.

Now, two years later, the battle was over, and Hadji Bay, eager to give the news to the kadins, hurried down the corridor leading to the apartment of Prince Selim’s bas-kadin. Brushing past the slaves guarding the door, he entered the salon.

They were all there, seated about the fire, embroidery in hand. He wondered silently why women were considered the weaker sex. In his fifty-seven years on this earth he had observed their strength over men many times. Not necessarily physical strength (although after watching the act of birth he wondered if men could be that strong), but their great strength of will

It pleased Hadji Bey’s vanity these twenty years later that his choice of women to help his prince become sultan had been correct Not only had they produced among them nine fine sons, but they had accomplished a greater miracle in their unity and solidarity. Never in all the ages had four women shared one man without backbiting and betrayal. He wondered whether they could now maintain this serenity. He coughed softly. “Good day, my daughters.”

Cyra rose and came toward him, hands outstretched. “Dear Hadji Bey. What news?”

“It is over,” replied the agha. “Prince Ahmed is dead, and our Prince Selim is victorious!”

“Praise Allah!”

“Does the sultan know?” asked Zuleika.

“Not yet, my lady. He is having one of his bad days and would not comprehend. When his mind clears, I shall tell him.”

“How did Prince Ahmed die?”

“Badly, my lady Cyra.”

“This is no time for levity,” she said sharply. “You know precisely what I mean.”

“Yes, madam, but even in the sweetest victory it is wise to keep a sense of humor lest we become pompous and overimpressed with our own good fortune.”

Cyra blushed. “I stand corrected.”

The agha patted her gently and marveled silently at the blush. The woman before him was thirty-three years old, and the mother of four. She was sophisticated in the ways of the world, and yet she still had the good grace to admit a fault He had waited many years to see Selim become sultan. Now he prayed Allah he could see Suleiman attain the same goal. This fantastic woman’s son would indeed be great

“Come, my lord agha. Sit by the fire and tell us of Ahmed’s end,” she said, leading him to a comfortable spot and helping to settle him “Some peach sherbet?”

A slave girl placed a crystal goblet held in a filigreed gold holder in the eunuch’s hand.

“Wherever Ahmed went he lost his followers as quickly as he gained them Realizing the battle was lost he deserted his last few followers and fled to the nearest village, hoping to find refuge in anonymity. Poor prince! As usual, he made an unfortunate choice. The village he chose had been pillaged and ravaged by his own men but two nights before. He was recognized. The villagers held him until Prince Selim arrived.”

Zuleika’s eyes were shining with expectation. She reached for an apricot and bit into it so fiercely that the juice ran down her chin. “How did he die, Hadji Bey? How did the pig die?”

The eunuch smiled at her. Age had not softened this proud woman of Cathay. Once she had decided that Ahmed was her enemy, she had been relentless. “Patience, my dear, I am coming to that” He raised the goblet to his lips and sipped his sherbet Refreshed, he continued, “Ahmed was brought before his brother. They say he blubbered and soiled himself like a child. Prince Selim spoke sternly to him, exhorting him to accept his defeat as the will of Allah and die like a true Ottoman. He assigned a black mute to hold his brother’s sword, and ordered Ahmed to fall upon it. The unfortunate prince cried out in terror that he could not, and begged Selim to kill him himself. Our prince reminded his brother that the Prophet forbids brother killing brother. A storm was blowing up, and he was becoming impatient.

“The thunder came closer, and it began to rain. Still, Prince Ahmed could not bring himself to end his worthless life with honor. Then a streak of lightning struck a nearby building, shearing off its side. The assembled company turned to stare in amazement and when they turned back, Ahmed was skewered as neatly as a chicken on a spit.”

“Good,” snapped Zuleika. “So should all traitors end!”

“There is more,” said Hadji Bey. “The mute who held the sword may not be able to speak, but I myself taught him to write. He sent me a message saying that in the moment that all turned to gaze at the lightning, a hand shoved Prince Ahmed onto his sword. No one else saw it The hand belonged to Ibrahim.”

“How horrible,” whispered Firousi in a frightened voice.

“Why should it be horrible that our enemy is dead?”

“Zuleika, you misunderstand me. It is good that Ahmed is dead, but why did our lord Selim have to be his executioner? Why could he not have left that task to the judges? Now the people will say he killed his brother to gain the throne.”

Zuleika cast her eyes upward in exasperation, but Cyra put an arm about her friend. “No, dearest No one will call our Selim murderer. Nor will they call him hypocrite. Had he not delivered the judgment against his brother himself, he
would
have been criticized. Technically, Ahmed was still the heir, since the sultan’s illness has prevented him from publicly renouncing Ahmed and naming Selim. The thousands who fight follow, and believe in Selim would have expected him to dispose of his rival. There was no other way. Selim might have tortured and dishonored Ahmed, but he did none of these things. He permitted his brother to the honorably and quickly. When our lord returns to us, we shall never mention this incident Though Ahmed was his enemy, he was also his brother. Selim cannot help but feel some anguish.”

“Cyra, Cyra,” said Hadji Bey. “You have lived a thousand years to have gained such wisdom! Perhaps when I named you I should have called you Hafise instead of Cyra.”

“I think I prefer being called Cyra to being known as the ‘Wise One,’” laughed the bas-kadin. “If you are called wise, then everyone expects you to be so. It would be too great a strain. I could never satisfy everyone.”

“Aiiee!” cried the grand eunuch, rolling his eyes. “Every word a pearl!”

The other kadins giggled behind their hands.

“Hadji Bey! Really!”

The agha chuckled from deep within his throat “Remember, my lady, levity.”

“Out of my sight, you old schemer,” laughed Cyra.

Hadji Bey rose to his feet and, smiling fondly at the ladies of the future sultan, bowed himself out of the room.

Several weeks later, Prince Selim returned home, to be happily greeted by his entire family; but the homecoming was marred by two tragedies. The first was brought by the prince himself, who, after affectionately greeting each of his women in turn, took his third kadin aside and spoke privately with her. A sharp cry from Zuleika caused the others to turn toward them.

For one brief moment the smooth, calm face of the Oriental woman contorted in agony, and Selim, his own face sad, put his arms about her and muffled the hard, dry sobs. It lasted but a minute, and then Zuleika drew away from the prince. She stood with her head bowed for a moment and then, looking up into his face, brushed the tears from his cheek. Calling to her sons Abdullah and Nureddin, she asked permission to return to her quarters, and left the salon.

Selim returned to the little family group. “Prince Omar is dead,” he said. “He was killed in that last foolish battle between my brother and myself. He died bravely. Suleiman and Mohammed tried to aid him, but my third son was mortally wounded by the time they reached him. There was naught they could do but slay the murderers.”

There was nothing the kadins could say, but words were unnecessary. They had been so fortunate these many years. They had lived as a normal family, and they had known happiness, warmth, unity, and love. Unlike most women of their time, none had lost a child before this.

The second sadness to mar their day was the messenger who brought word of Prince Korkut’s death. This second older half-brother of Selim had, upon receiving word of the younger man’s victory over Ahmed, taken poison. In a scroll delivered to Selim, Korkut reiterated once again that he had no wish to be sultan, but he knew that if he remained living, dissident groups would form to press a cause he could not espouse, bringing further civil war to the empire. Death, concluded Korkut, was the only answer. He closed by bestowing his blessing on his younger brother.

That night in Cyra’s bedchamber, Selim wept. He had loved and admired the scholarly Korkut, who had administered the Macedonian province so well for their father. Of all the sultan’s sons, Korkut had been the most like him, lacking only Bajazet’s desire to rule; but, more important to Selim, Korkut had been his childhood friend.

“They will blame me for his death,” said Selim. “No matter how it is announced, they will say I murdered him, too.”

“Too?”

“Ah, yes. Already the gossips in the streets whisper that I murdered Ahmed. In two short years they have forgotten the depraved monster he was.”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Yes, my flower, and there is more. They say I hold the sultan under guard. That my father really sent his Janissaries to make me a prisoner as I rode on Constantinople with my Tartars; but that, instead, the Janissaries welcomed me and betrayed the sultan.” He sighed. “Ah, well. Soon they will call me a usurper. The doctors have told me that my father will never regain his health, and the council would declare me sultan. I put on the sword of Ayub in a few days.”

“And about time!”

He looked surprised.

“My dear lord, Turkey needs a strong ruler. Without one, she will flounder and break apart. It is only providence that the kingdoms of Western Europe are too busy with their own internal troubles. Were this not so, they would descend on us like a pack of wolves. They think we are barbarians. Christian princes who for one political reason or another wish to add to their own prestige and treasuries undertake Crusades against the infidel. Look to Spain. Ferdinand and his late queen, Isabella, drove the Moors out with a vengeance. The Moors are a highly civilized people, but they are not Christians. How many of them died under that fanatical instrument of Christianity known as the Inquisition? Oh, no, my lord! That must not happen to Turkey! Our sultan must be strong. We need you!”

“You speak as if you were born a Turk.”

“My lord, I lived only thirteen of my years in Western Europe. The greater part of my life—and all of my happiness—has been here with you.”

He sighed. “If any other woman spoke to me thus, I should call it flattery or guile, but not when you do, my incomparable one. Your truth has been both my joy and my sorrow. Come, kiss me, beloved.”

Her lips met his, and, as always, he felt the storm of desire sweep over him. He marveled silently at his need for her. Never did he grow bored or disillusioned with her, and never could he get enough of her perfumed body.

With Zuleika his lovemaking was always savage. Never could he forget that he was to be sultan, and never could she forget she had been a princess of Cathay. Their love was a battle of wills, and never had she shown herself vulnerable until today, when he had told her of their son’s death.

With Firousi he could laugh, for although the Caucasian girl obviously adored him, she found the rather awkward positions of lovemaking amusing, and rarely could she control her mirth. He had on several occasions threatened to beat her, but instead of fearing him, his beautiful kadin had turned her gorgeous turquoise eyes up to him, lips twitching, and promised solemnly to behave. Then it would be he who would end up laughing.

Sarina, strangely enough, was the shyest of his wives. Afraid of displeasing him, she had always done exactly as she was taught When it finally occurred to Selim that she was a bit frightened in their physical relationship, he, the sternest of warriors, had become the gentlest of lovers, and had won Sarina’s undying adoration. He secretly wondered if this fear of Sarina’s had prevented her from conceiving a child for so long.

With Cyra it was none of these things. She was, he had known from the beginning, his only true soulmate. It was to her he came to talk over his ideas and hopes, and although he would never have admitted it—and she would never have suggested it—Cyra often advised and guided him with great wisdom

The night had grown cool, and she slept now, instinctively aware that for the moment he no longer needed her. Selim gently drew a cover over her and rose from their bed. The pain that had gnawed at his stomach these past two years seemed to be worse tonight Walking onto the terrace, he thought of the task ahead of him, and his mouth composed itself into a grim line.

His father had rebuilt Constantinople after the earthquake, and it was much for the better; but the sultan had done title to expand and strengthen the empire. Bajazet encouraged literature and the arts, but his provinces were near rebellion and unprotected from the nomadic tribes that of late bad grown bolder. There could only be one sultan in Turkey, and as Cyra said he must be strong—not a sick old man of sixty-five. So Selim would ride in a few days’ time to the tomb of the soldier-saint Ayub, and put on the sword which symbolized the leadership of the house of Osman. Bajazet would retire with his three kadins to a quiet serai on the sea where the old man would receive the best of care.

His younger brothers had conveniently died natural deaths while he had battled Ahmed There were no loose ends now. He would be sultan, and after him his son Suleiman would take up the reins of a stronger and more secure Turkey. As he stood watching the muted colors of the early dawn unroll across the sky, he heard Cyra stir behind him.

“Is it the pain again, my lord?”