The Kadin

by Bertrice Small

  Marya flew to the window and peeped out. A tall youth on a white pony led the procession. He laughed merrily, his dark eyes sparkling as the children who scampered by his side shouted, The bridegroom comes! Make way!”

  Marya felt her mother’s arm about her shoulders. That is your husband, daughter.”

  “He is so handsome,” she whispered.

  “Pah,” snapped Sonya. “His looks are a bonus and would mean nothing if he were not a good man, which he is. Do you think that papa and I would give you to just any man?”

  The people of both villages murmured appreciatively as Marya Rostov was led past them to the church by her parents. Her gold-embroidered white silk skirt and blouse lay over several petticoats of sheer white wool, two of which were ruffled in silk. A wreath of yellow and white flowers crowned her head.

  “What a little beauty!” exclaimed Pyotr Tumano? to his father. “When you would not let me see her, I had visions of a goat-faced horror. If she is as sweet as she looks, I will be a happy man.”

  Then you will be happy,” replied his father. “If I had let you see her before today, she would be no virgin. This marriage is to settle a feud, not to start another.”

  The couple met at the altar, and Father Georgi Rostov, Marya’s uncle, joined them in wedlock. Shyly Marya looked up at her new husband, who, perceiving her genuine innocence, kissed her tenderly and said, “How do you do, Madam Tumanova. I do believe I love you.”

  Blushing, but with her eyes twinkling, she returned, “And I also, husband.”

  Nikolai Rostov had spared no expense for his daughter’s wedding feast Whole goats and lambs turned slowly over the fires on their spits. The wine flowed endlessly. The tables were piled high with fruits, breads, and cakes. By late afternoon almost everyone was pleasantly drunk, and the bride and groom became the targets of broader and broader jests. So it was with befuddled amazement that the revelers turned at the cry of “Fire!” The village was ablaze, and Marya watched in horror as the Tartar raiders, white teeth gleaming in their yellow faces, swept down on the celebration.

  It was a slaughter. Neither the Rostovs nor the Tumanovs had come armed to the wedding. There were screams and shouts. People began running. Marya grabbed her two younger brothers, Boris and Ivan, and her little sister Tanya.

  “Quick, hide in the woods!”

  Twelve-year-old Boris struggled in her grasp. “I want to fight them!”

  Marya slapped him hard. “Father, Paul, and Gregor are dead,” she hissed at him. “You are now head of the family. Take Ivan and Tanya to safety! In God’s name, Boris, run!”

  He hesitated a moment, then, taking his brother and sister by the hand, sped toward the trees. In less than a minute—though it seemed an eternity—the children disappeared into the forest A terrifying scream rent the air near her, and Marya turned to see Katya writhing in a blodied patch of grass miscarrying her baby while the three men who had just raped her stood nearby, encouraging those who now assaulted her mother. Feeling an arm tighten about her waist she shrieked, only to hear her bridegroom say, “Quick, Marya, the forest! Hide before they take you, too!”

  She looked up at him. His wedding garments were torn and grimy, and a purple bruise was visible on his cheek. He held a bloody meat spit in his hand.

  “I will not leave you. Come with me, Pyotr.”

  He shook his head.

  “Then I will die with you, my husband”

  “They will not kill you, my dove. They are Tartar slavers. Run, my bride, before—” His words were cut short as he fell forward. Behind him a huge Tartar withdrew his lance.

  “Pyotr!” Her cry tore the firelit twilight She fell to her knees and tried to raise him. He was dead. Steathily she reached for the meat spit Grasping it firmly, she leaped to her feet and attacked The Tartar, surprised, received a small wound before disarming her.

  “Murderer!”

  Grabbing her, he ground his mouth on hers in a wet disgusting kiss; and then, with his foot he knocked her legs from beneath her while he pulled up her skirts. They fell to the ground Straddling her, the Tartar fumbled with his breeches while his other hand held her down by the throat

  Struggling to escape him, she felt herself choking. Suddenly a voice cried, “Hold!” As his grip relaxed, she gasped great gulps of air to clear her head. Her assailant was pulled off her, and she was dragged to her feet before a tall Tartar on a horse.

  “Yesukai, you great fool! Can you not see that this girl is the cause of our good fortune? Behold, the bride!”

  “But Batu, why may I not have her?”

  The hetman dismounted. “Are you a virgin, girl?”

  She did not answer.

  Grabbing her by the hair, he cruelly twisted her face to his. “Are you a virgin?”

  “Yes!”

  “No little games in the mountain before the wedding?”

  “We met for the first time today.”

  “Bring a torch,” shouted the chief.

  It was handed to him. He thrust it toward Marya.

  “By the gods, a real beauty!” Turning to his men, he roared, “Hear me, all of you sons of the Devil. Any man who so much as glances at this girl is dead. She will bring us a fortune in Damascus. What a beauty! And a virgin to boot. Gather up the women and children, you idlers, and pen them in for the night We leave at dawn!”

  The church was the only building left in the village. Marya and the other survivors were herded into it but not before all the little boys were separated from them.

  “Why have they taken the boys?” Marya asked her aunt

  “They will castrate the prettier ones to be sold and trained as eunuchs,” said the woman numbly.

  Shortly afterward, most of the boys reappeared—frightened but unharmed. Three were missing, and their mothers cried out in anguish and tore at their hair as horrifying screams came from outside the church. Moments later, three Tartars entered, carrying the unconscious, disfigured boys to be cared for by the women.

  At dawn, they began the trek to Damascus. The Tartars rode while their captives walked. One of the castrated boys had died in the night

  Marya, now numb with shock, plodded along, speaking to no one. At first her fellow unfortunates had looked to her—their chiefs daughter—as their leader, but now they left her alone. Marya’s aunt walked at her side, glowering fiercely at any Tartar who came too near, bringing her food which she scarcely touched, and warming her with her own body at night.

  As Marya’s plumpness dissolved, Batu became frantic. He saw a fortune slipping through his greedy fingers if the girl died Appropriating a donkey from a farmer, he let her ride so that he might save her strength. Desperately he sought the choicest delicacies—newly ripe peaches, crisply browned doves, wine, and fresh breads—to tempt her. Finally he threatened her aunt with instant death if Marya did not eat She ate, but her young body remained thin and stark. Her lovely hair and bright eyes became dull and lackluster.

  Upon reaching Damascus, Marya showed emotion for the first time since her wedding day, when Batu removed her from the rest of the captives. Sobbing, she had to be forcibly separated from her aunt who along with the rest was sent to one of the city’s open slave markets.

  Leading his prize, Batu headed for a bathhouse, where on his orders Marya was scrubbed, plucked, massaged, creamed, and her hair braided Dressed in new clothes, she followed the Tartar chief to one of the better private slave merchants. But even a scrubbing and fresh clothes could not hide her dismal appearance.

  “No,” said the merchant “Virgin or not I will not buy her.”

  “Listen,” replied Batu, “you should have seen her when we captured her. A plump, silvery-blond pigeon! And look at those eyes! When did you ever see eyes like that? Pure turquoise!”

  “Batu, my friend,” retorted the merchant patiently, “she may have been all you say, but now—no. She is an emaciated bag of bones. She is pining away of a broken heart I’ve seen many like her. She will not live a month. I cannot embarra
ss either myself or my discerning clients by offering such a shoddy piece of merchandise. Take her to the open market with the rest of your cargo. You can get a few dinars for her there.”

  Gnashing his teeth, Batu dragged Marya from the house to the marketplace. She arrived in time to see her aunt sold to a rich, kindly-looking farmer who wanted a housekeeper for his motherless brood. Marya smiled to herself. If she knew her aunt the hapless farmer would find himself a bridegroom before the year was out.

  Gradually Batu’s stock of captives dwindled until only Marya remained. The auctioneer did his best but no one wanted the sad, stark girl. Furious, Batu was ready to beat her, when a stern, deep voice ordered, “Hold!”

  They turned to see a very tall, elegantly dressed man striding to the platform.

  “What do you want for the girl?”

  Batu gaped.

  “Well, my Tartar friend, surely you have put a price on her?”

  “A hundred gold dinars?” ventured Batu.

  The crowd hooted, but the tall man began emptying coins from a very fat purse.

  “I will give you a hundred and fifty because I see her true worth.” He placed the coins in the amazed Tartar’s hands and stepped up onto the platform. Taking Marya’s icy little hand in his large, warm one, he spoke softly to her. “My name is Hadji Bey, my child. If you will trust me, I will help you to live again.”

  “My family is dead. I have no wish to live.”

  “I know, little Firousi. Your pain is great but if you choose, your future can be bright. Come now. We will go to my lodgings, and I will tell you all”

  Leading Marya from the platform, he placed her in a large palanquin and, joining her, ordered the bearers homeward. Installing her in his house, Hadji Bey ordered a soothing drink for the distraught girl. Convinced that she was now at least physically comfortable, he gently pressed her to unburden herself. At first she was hesitant but gradually the drug that Hadji Bey had ordered put in her drink took effect and, relaxed, Marya poured forth her woes.

  He listened sympathetically, and when at last the exhausted girl finished, he nodded. “Yes, my child, it is all very tragic, but what you have told me has happened many times to many others. It is over and cannot be taken back.” He fixed her eyes with his and went on softly. “You are tired, little Firousi. You have suffered much. Now you will sleep, and when you awake, the pain of the past will be gone. You will begin your life again. You will not forget what has gone before, but you will no longer hurt.”

  Her eyes were drooping, but she spoke. “Only if I am avenged. Batu and seven of his men for each member of my family killed The one called Yesukai for my bridegroom.”

  “It is done, Firousi.”

  “What do you call me?” she-asked sleepily.

  “Firousi. It means turquoise,’ the color of your eyes. Now sleep, my child.”

  Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she obeyed.

  “When I awoke I felt marvelous! And that, dear Cyra, is how I came to be here,” said Firousi.

  “But what of Batu?” asked the Scots girl. “Did Hadji Bey have him and seven of his men killed?”

  “Oh, yes. When we heard of you and left Damascus to come to Crete, I saw their heads rotting on pikes as we passed through the main gate. I never spoke of it. nor did he.”

  “You heard about me?”

  “Oh, yes. Everyone from Damascus to Alexandria knew of the high-born virgin with the red hair to be sold by Abdul ben Abdul. What a price Hadji Bey paid for you! Zuleika and I together didn’t bring a tenth of your price.”

  “I hardly consider that an honor.”

  “You should,” snapped Zuleika. Janet looked startled at the almond-eyed girl’s tone of voice.

  “Pay no attention to her,” laughed Firousi. “She is Princess Plum Jade, a daughter of the emperor of Cathay, and only camel drivers and dirty, barbaric herdsmen bid on her. She would be slaving for some primitive tent dweller if Hadji Bey hadn’t seen her and bought her. In the weeks we have been together I have learned that pride is very important to these people of Cathay. It still rankles that she was betrayed by—”

  “If you don’t mind, Firousi, I’ll tell my own story.” Zuleika rose from her distant divan and plumped herself down amid the pillows next to Cyra and Firousi. Unlike her blond companions, who had wept remembering the past Zuleika’s voice grew hard.

  She would never forget the afternoon that decided her fate. It was spring, and she sat beside the marble fishpond in her mother’s garden watching the large fantail goldfish snap and chase at the falling blossoms that ruffled the serenity of the pond’s surface. The soft voice of her slave girl, Mai Tze, disturbed her, and she looked up questioningly.

  “Mistress, your noble mother requests your presence.”

  “I will come at once.”

  “No, no,” cried the slave girl. “First you must change your robe. He is with her.”

  “My brother, the emperor?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Quickly she returned to her room and, with her slave’s help, changed into a white silk robe embroidered with pink plum blossoms. Mai Tze brushed her long, glossy black hair, braided it, and wound a braid about each side of her head, fastening them with small pearl ornaments.

  Waving the slave away, she stood for a moment and gazed at her reflection in the glass. A tall, slender girl with ivory-gold skin, perfectly shaped black almond eyes, a flawless face with high cheekbones, a slim nose, and a small, haughty red mouth gazed back at her. She was well aware that she was beautiful. She turned and walked slowly and with dignity into her mother’s chambers.

  “The Princess Plum Jade,” intoned the eunuch.

  Gracefully she knelt, bowing her head to the floor.

  “Rise, younger sister.”

  She stood up, carefully keeping her eyes lowered and averted from the emperor’s gaze.

  “I have arranged for you to be married,” he said.

  She glanced toward her mother, whose face betrayed no emotion, but whose eyes warned her to be silent

  “You will,” continued the emperor, “be wed to the shah of Persia. In three months’ time you will leave your home for Persia. You will travel with a full retinue of servants and imperial soldiers as befits a Ming princess and a daughter of our late father, the honorable Ch’eng Hua. When you reach Persia, our people will leave you in the hands of the shah’s servants and soldiers. You may retain only your slave girl, Mai Tze.”

  “Thank you, my honored lord.”

  “I have made you queen of Persia, sister. You! The daughter of a concubine. Is ‘thank you’ all you can say to me?”

  “You, too, are the offspring of a concubine, and one not half so noble as my mother.”

  Hung Chih laughed. “You are too proud, sister. You will make the shah an excellent queen, and bind his kingdom closer to China.”

  “I am grateful for this opportunity to serve my lord and my homeland.”

  “Hah,” chuckled the emperor. “Your subtle mind is beginning to calculate the advantages of being a queen, little peacock. Do not change, my sister. I like your pride. Never lose it. Now”—he turned to Plum Jade’s mother—“let us have tea.”

  Three months later, the great caravan of the imperial Ming princess Plum Jade left the Forbidden City in Peking and turned westward toward Persia. It was now midsummer, and as they passed through the many villages of China the peasants crowded out to press gifts of melons and other newly harvested fruits and vegetables upon the princess. She accepted everything with gracious aloofness. She felt nothing for the people who wished her well.

  And toward the shah, her intended husband, she also felt nothing. No anticipation. No hopes. He was considerably older than his sixteen-year-old bride. He had had no previous wives, only a concubine, Shannez, from whom he would not be parted. Unfortunately the woman was barren, and the shah eagerly desired an heir. He also desired to remove the threat of China from his borders, and Princess Plum Jade was the answer to both h
is wishes.

  Her mother had told her all these things and had advised her to insinuate herself into her husband’s affections or she would never truly be queen. It was not necessary to be a man’s first love to be his last

  The imperial caravan traveled the width of China and across the barbarian mountains to the border of Persia. They were ahead of schedule, as the captain of the imperial guard had hurried the caravan to avoid any early snows in the mountains. Their encampment was large, and Plum Jade was grateful for the chance to rest and prepare herself to meet the shah.

  Three days later the Persians were sighted, and the princess’s women hurried to prepare their mistress, dressing her in silk robes of imperial yellow embroidered with white peonies. The Persians thundered into the Chinese encampment, and Plum Jade, watching from the door of her tent, saw that riding with the leader was a woman. It did not take a great deal of intelligence to know who she was.

  “Shannez,” hissed the princess angrily through gritted teeth. “He has brought that woman with him! Mai Tze, slip out and find out which one is the shah.”

  The slave girl did as bidden, returning a few moments later to say that the shah himself had not come, but would instead greet his bride in his capital city.

  Plum Jade was furious, and her fury was heightened by the sudden intrusion into her tent of Shannez and the Persian captain.

  “Get that woman out of my quarters!” she screamed. Her servants hurried to obey but were brushed aside by Shannez. “I see her imperial high and mightiness has heard of me,” laughed Shannez to the captain. “By Allah, she is beautiful! If she had looked like a goat, like so many of these royal daughters, I might have pitied her and been her friend.”

  “Even a goat would not befriend so ill-mannered a bitch as you,” raged the princess. “How dare you invade my quarters without being announced or invited? On your knees, woman! I am your queen!”

  Shannez was astounded. “You speak our tongue?”