The Kadin

by Bertrice Small

  “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?”

  He nodded.

  “Have you taken the medicine the doctor prescribed?”

  “It only makes me feel worse, my love. It eases the pain but addles my brain and makes me sleepy. If I must choose between pain and witlessness, then I choose pain. Should I show the least sign of weakness, there are those who lurk in the shadows only too ready to pounce upon me and bring the House of Osman tumbling down.”

  Cyra sighed but said no
more. Selim’s pain was obviously worsening, and of late he had become more irritable when suffering the attacks. The sun was now coloring the city below the palace, and the prince departed her chambers to make his preparations for the coronation.

  Selim Khan put on the sword of Ayub on a windy spring morning. It was done hurriedly and with little pomp. He rode from the palace, his black garments of mourning for his brothers relieved only by the white egret feather in his turban. At the tomb of Ayub, the Mevlevi dervishes, a religious order who had been allied with the House of Osman from earliest times, awaited him

  The Mevlevi had always been the ones to declare a sultan to the people, and now, hastily gathered, they were reluctant to name Selim sultan over the still-living Bajazet. Selim grew impatient with their chatterings, and, unconciously paraphrasing his bas-kadin’s words, he snapped at the head dervish, “While you fuss like an old woman, the northern tribes gnaw at our borders. Turkey needs a strong sultan. You yourself have seen my father’s condition. Must I kill him to satisfy your conscience? If the price of saving Turkey is the death of Bajazet, then, by Allah, kill him yourself! I will not harm one hair of his beard, but I will be sultan!”

  The head of the Mevlevi stared at Selim for a moment, then, grasping the prince’s hand, led him to a raised platform and proclaimed to the assembled crowds that Allah had willed Selim Khan to be their sultan. He fastened the bejeweled silver-sheathed sword onto Selim and stood back to allow the people a good look at their new lord.

  The crowds stared in silence at the tall, grim-faced man. Then a small cheer began toward the rear of the assembled crush and rippled forward like a wave until it reached a roar. Sultan Selim Khan flashed a brief smile at his people, then, leaving the dais, leaped on his horse and, surrounded by his personal guard, returned to his capital.

  At the palace gates the Janissaries swarmed forward crying, “The gift! Make the gift!”

  And the pages who rode with the sultan reached into their pouches and flung handfuls of precious jewels to the eager soldiers. It was a bold and generous gesture. The head of the Janissaries, Bali Agha, struck Selim on the shoulder—the traditional greeting to a new sultan—and demanded, “Can you lead us, son of Bajazet?”

  The meaning was clear. The fierce Janissaries had been idle for several years now and were eager for battle.

  “I can lead you,” replied Selim, “and I will soon fill those noisy kettles of yours with enough gold to give them a more pleasant sound!”

  Those within the sound of his voice began to chuckle, while others quickly repeated the sultan’s words to the men in the rear. The courtyard erupted with laughter.

  “Long life to our sultan, Selim Khan,” came the cry as the new monarch, pushing his horse forward, rode through the mass of men.

  Selim did not go to war for over a year. His first task was to straighten out the administrative workings of his government, which had grown lax during Bajazet’s illness while Selim had been away, chasing his brother throughout the empire. Then, too, time was needed to greet the delegations that came to bring tribute and pay homage to the new sultan.

  One of these delegations came from the city of Baghdad. It presented to Selim one hundred rolls of brocaded fabric, one hundred gilded baskets of tulip bulbs, one hundred perfectly matched pale-pink pearls—and the caliph’s fourteen-year-old sister.

  Knowing in advance the gifts of the Baghdad delegation, Cyra had suggested to the sultan that he give the girl to their eldest son, Suleiman. “She can be nothing more to you than a concubine, my lord, but if you give her to Suleiman, she may possibly become the mother of a future sultan, and you will do great honor to Baghdad. We shall need their friendship when we march on the shah of Persia.”

  So Selim watched with interest—and possibly a small feeling of regret—as the ambassador from Baghdad handed out of the bejeweled litter a slender girl of medium height. Her hair was the color of dark honey, her eyes velvety brown, her skin a rich, golden cream. She was dressed in all shades of pink, from the deep rose of her trousers to the pale mauve of the diaphanous veil that barely masked her features.

  “The youngest and most beloved of my master’s sisters, o sultan of the world. Gulbehar, the ‘Rose of Spring.’”

  “We are grateful for this touching demonstration of the caliph’s loyalty,” replied Selim, “but a man of my many winters could easily frost so fair and tender a bud. Therefore I shall present her to my eldest son and heir, Prince Suleiman. Like Gulbehar, he, too, is in the spring of his life. May she please him well.”

  From the latticed screen behind the sultan’s throne, Cyra laughed softly at the incredulous look on Suleiman’s face, and the expressions of delight on the faces of the Baghdad delegation.

  “Well,” said her slave and confidante, Marian, “are you satisfied with your meddling?”

  “Very,” replied Cyra. “I spoke with Gulbehar yesterday. She is a good and gentle girl, and will make my son a charming kadin.”

  “Suleiman is shy and easily led, my lady. He needs a strong wife, though not, perhaps, while he has a strong mother.”

  “You forget yourself,” said Cyra coldly.

  “No, dear madam I forget nothing. Sultan Selim—may Allah bless him—will not live forever. One day you will be sultan valideh. I think you look to that day.”

  “Beware, Marian. You could lose your tongue.”

  “My lady, I mean only to warn you to take care. Your position as bas-kadin is an important one and therefore makes you a target There will be those within the harem who will seek to discredit you.”

  Turning from the spectacle below her, Cyra asked, “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing grave, madam Bath chatter. There are those young gediklis in the harem who have been heard to say they will make Sultan Selim notice them Beware, my lady. He is no longer cocooned in the Moonlight Serai with just four women, and he is, in all things, a Turk.”

  “I think it would be wise to distribute some bribes,” said Cyra thoughtfully. “And Marian, keep your eyes and ears open when you visit the baths, but do not worry about the gediklis. Selim may take a hundred to his couch, but none will ever bear him a child except his chosen kadins.”

  Cyra was correct. Selim did take other girls to his bed, but none conceived—the kadins saw to that When the first occasion arose, and a maiden named Feride became a guzdeh, the sultan’s four kadins acted with the utmost decorum. They welcomed her graciously to the small apartment that was given her. When the time was chosen by the court astrologer for Feride to go to her lord’s bed, the kadins themselves led her to the bridal bath, helped to dress her in the traditional blue-and-silver night garments, and sent her off to the sultan in a golden litter with their good wishes. They had even given the over-stimulated and nervous girl a soothing draft of cherry sherbet to calm her nerves.

  Everyone agreed that the kadins were perfect models of Turkish female propriety, and they continued to be so. Feride became an ikbal, and they sent her small congratulatory gifts of jewelry and perfume. When other girls followed Feride to the sultan’s couch, the kadins behaved in the same generous manner. Only a few trusted slaves knew that after each maiden went her way to the sultan, the four kadins gathered in Cyra’s salon to laugh and make merry—and only Marian knew the reason for their mirth.

  Of the female bazaar vendors who came to the harem there was one Esther Kira, a Jewess, who had become a favorite of Cyra. Usually the vendors left their wares with black eunuchs, who would show them to the ladies of the harem, but the tradeswomen came directly to the kadins.

  Esther Kira and the bas-kadin had met soon after Selim’s family came to Constantinople. Esther was seventeen, black-haired, black-eyed, olive-skinned, plump, and merry. She was scrupulously honest and carried only the finest merchandise. Moreover, on several occasions she had obtained special items for Cyra.

  One of these items, purchased in utmost secrecy, was a special herb that Esther swore would prevent conception. So far, Esther’s herb
had worked, and her quilted coat jingled with the gold paid her by the kadins.

  No one thought much of the new ikbals’ barrenness, for in September of 1513 Firousi Kadin presented Sultan Selim with his fourteenth child, a daughter, Nakcidil, the “Print of Beauty.” In October Zuleika followed with the birth of her daughter Mahpeyker, the “Moon-Faced One,” and finally, in late November, a son, Karim, was born to Cyra.

  Of all the bas-kadin’s children the baby, Karim, was the most like her, and perhaps for that reason the dearest to her heart. Little Karim was, from birth, his mother’s image. His skin was a pure Celtic bone-white, and within a few months’ time his eyes had turned to the green-gold color of his mother’s. His hair was red, but not Cyra’s red-gold; it was, rather, a bright carrot color. His features were Cyra’s in miniature.

  “He reminds me of my brother, Adam,” laughed the bas-kadin happily. “He is pure Leslie.”

  “An unfortunate thing for an Ottoman prince,” remarked the sultan teasingly.

  Karim’s birth came at a time when the sultan badly needed diversion. Sultan Bajazet had died quietly at his isolated serai on the Bosporus, and once more the rumors of murder sprang up to haunt Selim. Then, Lady Refet, who had been ailing, died suddenly in her sleep.

  Bajazet was mourned officially and noisily, but Lady Refet was mourned quietly and in the hearts of all those who had known her. The kadins were especially stricken by the death of Selim’s aunt She was, aside from Hadji Bey, their last link with a happy past She had been their mother, their confidante, their friend. The thought of spending their future without her was devastating. If they had anything to be thankful for, thought Cyra, it was that Lady Refet had not had a long, drawn-out illness. In then-last ten years at the Moonlight Serai, she had suffered several severe attacks of breathlessness, and had become weaker with each attack. The reorganization of Bajazet’s harem, though largely administrative, took her remaining strength. In the last few months before her death, she had rarely left her suite, and when she did, she was always carried in a litter.