“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
THE 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 lig
ht 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.”
21
AWAKENING the following afternoon, Cyra forgot for a brief moment all of the previous day. The sun made dappled shadows of the leaves in her garden, the fountain tinkled cheerfully, and the air was mountain-cool and fresh.
Gazing down at her newly slim figure, she remembered, and, turning on her side to call Marian, she saw the cradle beside her bed. “Praise be to Allah and to Mohammed, His Prophet,” she exulted. “It is a boy! My son! My son, Suleiman!” She looked at the baby. He slept, his tiny hands curled into fists resting on either side of his head. His hair was black and wavy. Lifting the blanket that covered his little body, she noted that his limbs were rosy and sturdy, yet small-boned.
“You are awake.” The voice startled her.
“Selim! What do you think of Suleiman? Is he not beautiful? Is he not the most perfect child you’ve ever seen?”
The prince smiled tenderly. “Yes, my dove. He is beautiful, but that is because he takes after his mother.”
Her laughter was happy. “You great fool! He looks like an Ottoman, and bless Allah for it! He is you all over again.”
“I love you, Cyra! Not simply because you’ve given me a son, but because you are the bravest, most adorable of women.”
“I was not so brave yesterday. I was frightened, my lord, and yet today the sun shines, and all is well. I know now that my fear stemmed from the unknown. I shall never again allow myself to fear it!”
“I have brought you some gifts, my love.” He proffered a fiat leather box.
Taking it, she raised the lid and gasped. Nestled in the velvet was the most perfect emerald necklace and earrings she had ever seen. Each stone in the necklace was perfectly matched and the earrings, oblongs of gold filigree, were scattered with smaller emeralds. “They are beautiful,” she murmured
“They match your eyes. Bajazet gave them to my mother when I was born. I wanted you to have them. I brought you something else.” He handed her a thin gold chain, to which was attached a round medallion.
The medallion was half worked in a filigree of open, crisscross gold The other half was intricately carved gold in the shape of a quarter moon. She fingered it gently, and the tiny bells attached to the openwork tinkled
“I made it for you, Cyra.”
“You honor me, my lord The medallion will be all the more precious to me because it was your hand that created it”
“You are my bas-kadin. It is proper that I do you honor, but I must speak to you about my aunt Since you are now officially head of my women, you may want her to return to Constantinople.”
“Oh, no, Seliml Please let everything remain as it is. I love Lady Refet and I could not get on without her. Besides, if we sent her back, Besma would make her life miserable.”
“You have made me very happy, my beloved. It shall be as you wish.”
Suddenly the baby wailed. The young parents looked startled
“What is the matter with him?” cried Cyra.
“I think,” said Selim, laughing, “that Prince Suleiman is hungry.” Picking up the infant he han
ded him to Cyra, who placed the child at her breast. And smiling contentedly at each other, the young couple listened happily to the suckling of their son.
PART III
The Kadin
1501–1520
22
IT WAS AUTUMN. Snow had already appeared on the distant mountain peaks, yet by the sea the air was still warm. The vineyards and the orchards, bursting with ripe fruit, mingled their scents in a sweet potpourri of apples and grapes.
Lazy bees droned among the late flowers, and from the gardens of the Moonlight Serai came the sounds of children’s voices. There were six little boys, ranging in age from seven to two, who played a rough-and-tumble game across the grass.
“Suleiman,” called the beautiful red-haired young woman, “be careful of your little brothers! Remember, my lion, they are still very young.”
“Yes, mother,” the tall, slender, dark-haired boy called back.
Cyra turned to her companions. “He sometimes forgets that Abdullah and Murad are only two and three,” she said.
Zuleika laughed. “Abdullah can take care of himself,” she said. “He’s so fat I’m surprised they don’t use him for the ball.”
“Murad is fatter,” replied Cyra. “He can’t even see his legs, he’s so pudgy. We’ve never had that problem with the girls, have we, Firousi?”
“No. My girls are just perfect.” She glanced lovingly at her two-year-old daughters, little süver-blond miniatures of herself. They sat playing in the grass at her feet “I’m glad they are twins,” she said. “If I’d had only one girl, she might have been lonely, and I actually think Selim was pleased with them after six boys.”
“Of course he was pleased,” said Cyra, “and he delights in spoiling them.”
The three young women looked at each other and smiled. Eight years in captivity had changed them little. It was true their figures had matured with childbearing, but their own self-discipline had prevented the usual harem fat from setting in, and they were still slender. Their faces, if it was possible, were more beautiful, but happiness accounted for that They were truly happy.
The Kadin Page 17