She laughed softly to herself. For years she had wanted to get away from him, and now she would. She would, of course, have her own palace, her own slaves, her own eunuchs who would all be entirely loyal to her—not spies for that wretched agha kislar, Hadji Bey. She had won, as she had known she would from the day the midwife had placed her son in her arms for the first time. Ahmed would be sultan now, and there would be no danger from Selim He would, she imagined, be quite a broken man. Bajazet could not live much longer, and the first act Ahmed would perform as sultan would be to sign Selim’s death warrant.
The doors to the sultan’s quarters opened before her, and she entered.
“My dear lord,” she began smoothly, “why have you treated me in such a fashion? I have not been permitted to leave my suite for almost three days now. Even my garden was forbidden me, and my slaves were also held prisoner. What have I done that you should treat me so harshly?”
Slowly Bajazet turned to face her. “You have failed,” he said quietly. “Selim’s entire family and household are safe.”
She paled, but recovering quickly, asked, “Why should they not be, my lord?”
“Do not pretend, you she-devil,” he thundered at her. “I know you are responsible! Your assassins were loose-lipped!”
“Who dares accuse me?”
“Murderess!” he hissed, ignoring her question. “For too many years I have ignored your treachery and evil because you were the mother of the heir, but he is heir no longer. Last night your precious son fled the palace in secret He is as one dead. I shall declare Selim my heir by the time of the evening prayers.”
“You can’t do that!” she shrieked at him. “My son is the heir! My son!”
“I cannot do what? I am sultan here, madam, a fact you have conveniently forgotten over the years.”
“Even if you pass over my son, Safiye Kadin’s son, Korkut is legally next in line. What of him?”
Bajazet advanced toward her, his face dark with rage. “Do you dare to preach the law to me, you foul creature? Do you not remember that Korkut publicly renounced his claim to my throne two years ago? He never wanted the sultanate, and besides, he knew it was the only way he could live in peace from your schemes. He is happy as governor of the Macedonian provinces, and completely loyal to my wishes.”
“You cannot disinherit my son!” she screamed again, “I have worked too long for him!”
He towered over her. “You poisoned my true heir, Mustafa, and I closed my eyes to it breaking the heart of the sweetest woman who ever lived. Now you have attempted a worse deed—the slaughter of thirteen innocent children, four lovely women, and over two hundred slaves. All this in the name of putting your son on my throne? Is there no end to your evil? I should have had you killed years ago!” The veins at the sultan’s temples stood out visibly throbbing.
“But you did not kill me,” she retorted, “thus condoning my actions. You are as guilty as I am!”
“I shall not go to my grave before I right that wrong,” he shouted, springing at her. His powerful hands closed about her throat and he squeezed with all his strength. Besma uttered a strangled cry and clawed at his fingers with her crimson nails. It was too late. By the element of surprise, the sultan had gained the advantage. Slowly he pressed harder, and she began to crumple to the floor. Her face, purple with trapped blood, began to turn blue. Her black eyes bulged from their sockets and then suddenly she went limp.
Hadji Bey moved quietly from the secluded comer of the room where he had been standing, and gently pried the sultan’s fingers loose. Besma fell to the floor, and a strange rattle came from her open mouth. The eunuch bent and felt for a pulse. There was none. “She is dead, my lord,” he said.
The sultan stared down at the bejeweled heap of rich clothing at his feet, then clutched at his chest, uttering a cry of pain. Hadji Bey called to the guards. “Quickly, fetch the sultan’s physician!”
“Wait!” gasped Bajazet “Selim—to be my heir—Selim!”
“Did you hear him?” asked the agha. The guards nodded. “Then you”—he pointed to one guard—“fetch the doctor. And you! Get my servant Talat. Tell no one of this, or your lives are forfeit! Hurry!”
The guards raced from the room as the sultan, uttering another cry, clutched at his head. Hadji Bey helped the ill monarch to his couch and then casually covered the body of the dead kadin with a rug.
Talat arrived. “Let no one but the doctor enter this room,” said Hadji Bey to the returning guard.
“Master,” whispered Talat “what has happened here?”
“The sultan has killed Besma and now suffers a seizure. Send a message to Prince Selim that he is to come with all possible speed. His family, too. We must secure the palace before word of this reaches Prince Ahmed. The sultan has declared in the presence of witnesses that Selim is to be his heir.”
“We have won, master! After all these years Kiusem Kadin is avenged. If only she had lived to see her son sultan.”
“Silence, you fool! Bajazet is still our lord, and only Allah has the right to call him to Paradise. As long as Prince Ahmed lives, we are all in danger. Now go, and send our fastest messenger. Swiftly! But arouse no suspicion by your actions.”
Talat left the sultan’s suite as the doctor entered. Going immediately to his royal patient he made a swift but thorough examination.
“Will he live?” asked Hadji Bey.
“I cannot be sure,” replied the doctor. “He has suffered seizures of both the heart and the brain. He is now paralyzed from the waist down. I do not know yet whether the seizures have affected his speech, as he is in shock I will give him an opium pill to help him sleep.” He pushed a gilded ball between the sultan’s teeth and, holding an amber goblet to his patient’s lips, forced water down his throat Turning to the agha, he asked, “How did this happen?”
Hadji Bey lifted the rug. The doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of the woman’s body. “Besma?”
“She defied him once too often,” replied the eunuch.
“It is as Allah wills it,” said the doctor. “Does anyone else know of this?”
“The two guards and my servant Talat, who at this moment sends a message to Prince Selim.” He watched for the doctor’s reaction.
The doctor smiled slowly. “How convenient that Prince Ahmed has fled the palace,” he observed. “His fate is surely cursed Do you know where he is?”
“On the Adrianople road according to our latest reports,” said the agha, “but he will be brought back.”
“To what my friend?”
Hadji Bey studied the doctor. He knew this man had always been loyal to Bajazet but with the sultan’s demise, where would his loyalties lie?
As if reading his thoughts, the doctor spoke. “I could never support Prince Ahmed, my friend You of all people should know that Do you not remember it was I, a young man then, who fought so hard to save Prince Mustafa? I sat by his bedside through the night while the child writhed in an unspeakable agony that I could neither cure nor ease. When he finally succumbed, I wept with joy that Allah had given him the release I could not The sultan rewarded me by making me court physician. I know them all. Prince Ahmed has been weak, spoiled and depraved from the beginning. He is as rotten as an overripe peach. Prince Korkut is a good man, but happy governing Macedonia and indulging his love of ancient artifacts. Prince Selim is the only logical choice, and more important he is the sultan’s choice. I bow with a happy heart to my lord Bajazef’s wisdom,”
“Save the sultan if you can,” replied Hadji Bey. “He must repudiate Prince Ahmed publicly, or there will be civil war. We must avoid that at all costs, and there are those who will support Ahmed in hopes of ruling through him.”
“Not the Janissaries?”
“No, no,” replied the agha. “Bali Agha is loyal first to the sultan, and then to Selim. The Janissaries will follow his lead.”
“Then half the battle is won, and the people adore Prince Selim and his family.”
&nb
sp; “The people? Bah! The people will follow whom they are told to follow. It is certain jackals in this palace whom I fear, but I will root them out”
The doctor nodded his agreement “I must get back to my patient”
“Good I will make arrangements for the sultan’s convalescence,” said Hadji Bey, “and see to the posting of special guards. Word of how serious his illness is must not reach the wrong ears.” The agha walked over to Bajazet’s couch and stood staring down at his lord. The sultan slept the sleep of the drugged, but he looked more peaceful. Hadji Bey sighed softly. He, too, was getting old, and he was tired. He wished his master no ill, for the Ottoman ruler had been good to him; but he longed for the day when Selim, stronger and younger, could take up his father’s burden, and he, Hadji Bey, could put down his own. Sighing again, he left the sultan’s quarters.
27
THE GRAND VIZIER might be the man who helped the sultan dictate domestic and foreign policy, but Hadji Bey, agha kislar of the sultan’s household, had a stronger hand in Ottoman family business. He acted in the sultan’s name, and his word was law. He was greatly beloved for his kindness and patience, but equally feared for his swift and final judgments. Hadji Bey was one of the most powerful men in Bajazet’s empire.
Under his guidance the word was spread that the sultan had suffered an attack of exhaustion and was upset following the exposure of his kadin’s treachery. Besma, according to official court records had been strangled by an executioner, and her body sewn into a weighted sack and dumped into the sea.
There were some who were shocked, not by the alleged means of her death, for that was common, nor by the unceremonious disposal of her body, for that, too, was the usual practice, but by the fact that the woman who had tried for so long to rule had finally been caught, and justice had been administered at last The few who had known in advance the kadin’s wicked plans now trembled lest they be discovered and punished for not exposing her. Most however, had underestimated neither the sultan’s intelligence nor the agha’s power, and they had merely waited for Besma to make that final, unpardonable mistake.
In another matter, however, the gossip ran rampant Prince Ahmed had fled Constantinople, and Prince Selim was rumored to be entering the capital with great ceremony. Why had the heir fled? Was he part of his mother’s plot? Was the sultan really suffering exhaustion, or had the heir attempted an unsuccessful or possibly successful asassination? Was Ahmed still the heir? All Constantinople waited eagerly for the answers.
The morning was clear and warm. Hardly anyone had slept, and the streets were crowded There was nothing the people loved better than a spectacle, and the agha kislar had arranged to give them one. The populace would long remember Prince Selim’s entry into the capital, and their sympathies would be carefully manipulated to be with him now and always. Should Prince Ahmed later try to take the city by any means, Constantinople would fight to the death for the sultan’s younger son, Selim.
There were many who remembered the time years before when Prince Selim had left Constantinople to govern the Crimean province for his father. Now he was returning, and there was a great deal of speculation among the common folk as to why, but in the meantime it was a festival day, and the crowds were happy.
Suddenly an urchin high in a tree outside the main city gates cried out, “They come!”
Those nearest the gates strained their eyes and saw a cloud of dust in the distance. With agonizing slowness the dust cloud began to take shape as it came nearer. It was the Tartars, Selim’s wild and fierce soldiers. Suddenly a troop of Janissaries, dressed in red and green and mounted on shining dark-brown horses, galloped from the city toward the incoming horsemen.
For a moment the crowds were startled. What was happening? Was Prince Selim being forbidden entrance to the city at this last moment? The Janissaries drew their scimitars. The Tartars madly brandished their spears as they galloped straight toward the Janissaries. Were they going to fight? The people stirred uneasily and pondered the wisdom of flight Suddenly a collective shout rose from the throats of the Janissaries. “Selim! Selim! Selim!” The two groups of horsemen merged into one. “Selim! Selim! Selim!” The happy roar of voices filled the plain before the city.
The Janissaries and the Tartars were as one when they entered the city. They passed through the gates, those hard, disciplined young men, and for one of the few times in Turkish history, the Janissaries were cheered.
Behind them danced a group of gaily appareled children, their skin hues as varied as the colors of their costumes. Some carried baskets of flower petals, which they scattered on the ground about them Others had baskets of gold dinars, which they flung to the crowds. The people went wild.
Following the children was Prince Selim, mounted on Devil Wind. The prince was dressed all in white. He wore tight-fitting silk breeches, a white silk shirt embroidered with gold thread, and a magnificent white silk coat styled in the Persian manner, which was embroidered with gold thread and dotted with small diamonds. His high boots were a soft, gold-colored suede. On his short-cropped dark head he wore a small white turban, the most predominant feature of which was a hen’s-egg-sized yellow diamond from which sprang an egret’s feather. A white wool cloak with a hammered gold clasp flowed down his shoulders and over the horse’s dark flanks.
The crowds screamed themselves hoarse at the sight of their handsome, smiling prince. He rode with ease, holding himself straight and occasionally raising a gloved hand to wave at the sea of people. They cheered.
Behind him rode his personal guard, and following them were Selim’s kadins and their children. The men in the crowd were merely curious about the unattainable, but the women of Constantinople were beside themselves with excitement at seeing these fabled creatures, their clothing, and their jewels.
Their anticipation was well rewarded. The prince’s wives rode in gilded howdahs hung with pale-green draperies, each mounted upon the back of a dainty white camel wearing a red harness hung with gold bells. The kadins were ranked according to their standing in Selim’s household, Cyra coming first. Each was followed by her sons mounted upon white horses; and following each prince came his sister or sisters in rose-garlanded, gilded willow carts drawn by little gray mules and led by small black boys.
The young princes were full of pride at their part in the procession and sat straight in their saddles, but of the four daughters of Prince Selim, not one acted the same. Nilufer, Cyra’s daughter, sat alert and wide-eyed at her first visit to the city. Hale, one of Firousi’s twins, laughingly threw sweetmeats to the urchins who scrambled amid the procession, while her sister, Guzel, sat shyly beside her, wishing they were in a litter and feeling no protection in her veil. Mihri-Chan, Sarina’s baby daughter, cuddled in her nurse’s arms, alternately throwing kisses to the noisy crowds and playing peek-a-boo with her chubby fingers.
The procession wended its way through the city toward the palace on the hill. The sun was high and hot, but the crowds lining the route stood their ground, and the water vendors did a brisk business.
Selim thought his face would crack with the strain of smiling. He did not feel like smiling, but the people demanded a happy prince, and at least this day they would have one. The painful events of the past week were etched sharply in his mind, and he pondered them carefully. His father lay near death, or so he thought His brother had fled, and now he, Selim, was entering the capital in triumph. If Ahmed attempted to return to the city, he would kill him. He would probably kill him anyway. There was no doubt in his mind now that he would be sultan.
He chided himself for growing son these past years. The softness was neither of mind nor body, but of attitude. For too long he had been separated from Constantinople. Thanks to Hadji Bey, be had always been informed on all state business, but it wasn’t like being in the midst of it Safe in the country at his Moonlight Serai, surrounded by the love and the warmth of his family, he had almost forgotten that his mother had borne him to replace his brother. Well, there was n
o longer a Moonlight Serai. It lay behind them in ruins, and the Eski Serai would now be their home.
The great gates of the palace loomed before him. He reined Devil Wind to a halt and for a moment gazed up at the stone battlements that surrounded this city within a city. Then, putting spurs to his horse, Selim Khan entered through those gates, closing the door on his past and facing his destiny grimly.
He was greeted by Hadji Bey alone, for Selim had insisted that until the sultan made public the change in the succession, there should be no official reception. At that moment the only thing he wanted was to see his father, for during the years Selim had lived at the Moonlight Serai and had had easier access to him, Bajazet had become most dear to his younger son. Understanding this, the agha personally escorted the prince to the sultan’s apartments.
Bajazet’s speech had not been affected by his stroke, but he remained paralyzed from the waist down, and his mind alternated between clarity and forgetfulness. He had aged by twenty years, and it was with shock that Selim beheld him.
“My beloved son,” whispered the old man from his couch.
Selim flung himself before his father in a gesture that was part respect, part grief. The sultan looked down on him for a moment, then said, “Get up, my son. I am an old man and have no regrets, except that I did not kill Besma sooner. Sit here next to me. My mind is not always clear now, and I must speak with you before it begins to wander again.”
The prince rose from his knees and lowered himself to the cushions. “What would you have me do, my father?”
“Are your kadins and children safe? Ahmed is like his mother and will not hesitate to get at you through them”
“They are now within the palace, my father.”
The Kadin Page 23