Selim knew she lied. Her beauty and body, even at forty years of age, would have aroused a marble statue. But her performance and her attempt to save his ego and take the entire blame pleased him and helped to restore his sense of proportion.
“I forgive you, you exquisite liar,” he growled.
She looked up at him, her green eyes clear and tearless.
“Don’t you even have the decency to shed a real tear or two?” he grumbled.
She twinkled at him, “My love, I could not be so hypocritical.” Then, sensing the worst was over, she spoke again. “If I may presume on our twenty-seven years together, my lord?” He nodded. “It is this illness that has rendered you feeble. When you are well again, there will will be no problem. How can I accuse you—or how can you accuse me—when we have spent so many nights together in an ecstasy of love, a love that has borne the precious fruit of five children? We are no longer youth and maiden, and though I look forward to the night that you return to me well and strong as of old, can we not this night—the night before you leave us again—simply enjoy the warmth of just being together?”
In reply, he held her hard against his chest “Now I know why I chose you first those long years ago. You and only you have always had the talent to put me at my ease, and the wisdom to speak honestly to me. Praise Allah that He saw fit to present me with such a treasure as you, my beloved Cyra.”
Raising her up, he gently kissed her sweet lips and settled into her arms. For some time, their voices whispered silkenly through the room as they talked together as had always been their habit Then he fell asleep against her breasts.
In the darkness of the chamber, she heard his even breathing, and, knowing he finally slept Cyra allowed herself the privilege of tears. Silently they ran down her cheeks. She wept neither for him nor for herself, but because she knew instinctively that this would be the last night they would ever spend together. Tomorrow he would leave for Rhodes, and she felt that he would not return. The Celt in her knew that he would soon die.
Where had all the years gone? Was it not only yesterday that she had come to him a cool but frightened virgin? She could see his even white teeth flashing against his sun-bronzed skin as she first tasted the pleasures of womanhood, his relief and delight at the birth of Suleiman and all the other children who followed his anger at his brother’s treachery, and his deep belief that he alone could raise Turkey to the heights of power that had been foretold for it
Of all those in the serai, she had seen the greatest changes in him. He had never been a heavy man, but lately she had noticed that his legs and face seemed thinner, although his belly, always flat was now swollen. He had not been sleeping well, and this, coupled with the terrible pain he felt had turned him into a raving despot when crossed or disobeyed.
Upon learning that Zuleika and his three younger sons had died in the Tile Court, he had had it destroyed Discovering that the Persian captive Shannez, still among his slaves, had openly rejoiced at Zuleika’s death, he had wreaked terrible vegeance. The woman had been publicly beaten, and salt had been rubbed into her open wounds. Then Selim had personally tied her limbs to four horses, which were then driven in four different directions, executing the unfortunate woman in a most horrible way.
His judgments, always fair in the past became increasingly harsher. The slightest infractions of rules among the serai slaves were punished swiftly and often with brutality. Cyra’s heart ached for the unhappiness he felt and the un-happiness he was causing.
The soft gray light of dawn began to filter into the chamber. Still he slept on, and she was grateful. He would awaken refreshed, and the day would go well for him. A slave entered to wake them. Catching the old woman’s eye, Cyra nodded and waved her away.
“My lord” She gently shook him. “Dearest it is time to wake.”
Opening his eyes, he smiled at her and was instantly awake. He rose. “Come to me after prayers, so we may say our good-byes privately.”
She went to him at the appointed time, and he looked almost like the Selim of old—well rested, bathed, shaved, and ready to undertake the long journey back to Anatolia. For a moment they gazed at each other, then kissed fiercely and gazed again.
He knows, she thought wildly. He knows this is the last time we shall ever see each other in this life. She struggled for the right words, but he was too quick for her. “Guide Suleiman as only you can, my love.” Then, turning on his heel, he left her.
She ran all the way to the secret balcony that overlooked the main gate. Firousi and Sarina were there ahead of her, but she was in time. Passing through the entrance, he turned, looked back, and raised his hand in a quick salute. The salute was for them all but the look, Cyra knew, was for her alone.
Several weeks passed, and spring began to make itself felt along the shores of the Bosporus. A secret communiqué arrived from Piri Pasha, who had accompanied his sultan. Selim was very ül The doctors did not believe he would live. No one was aware of this. She was forbidden to come to the sultan. She must remain in Constantinople to give the appearance of normalcy, and, more important, to hold the serai and the city for her son.
Cyra died a thousand little deaths. Her every instinct nagged her to go to Selim. What did anything else matter as long as she was with her beloved husband? If they punished her afterward, she cared not Without Selim, she might as well be dead. But common sense triumphed. She could not help Selim, nor could she keep Azerael, the Black Angel of Death, from claiming his victim It was Suleiman who counted now, the son she had borne to follow his father. If it were known that the bas-kadin had hurriedly left the city for the south, the secret would be out and unthinkable troubles ought erupt The transition from Selim to Suleiman must be made swiftly and with a minimum of fuss. Only she could prevent a possible rebellion in the capital, and the capital was the key to the Ottoman Empire. The price of her son’s success was almost more than she could bear.
Then, several weeks later, as she sat quietly embroidering with Sarina and Firousi, she felt the room go icy cold. Suddenly her face was wet with hot tears that coursed silently and uncontrollably down her cheeks. Guiltily she glanced up to see if the other kadins had noticed, and discovered to her surprise that they, too, were silently weeping.
No words were said—no words were needed. The sultan’s stricken kadins knew in that one moment the sad and awful truth. Selim of Turkey was dead.
PART IV
Hafise
1520–1533
35
THE SULTAN WAS DEAD, and alt of Western Europe, heaving a sigh of relief, waited to sec what kind of a ruler his son would be. For now, however, there was time to breathe.
Thanks to the cleverness of Piri Pasha, the transition between sultans had been smooth, Selim’s grand vizier had managed to keep the sultan’s death a secret from his soldiers—and therefore from all of the empire—for almost six days. By that time, Suleiman, having been notified, and riding hard from Magnesia, had reached Constantinople and put on the sword of Ayub.
For three weeks Cyra lay on her couch, hardly moving. Marian and Ruth were desperate. Coaxing, they tried to feed her broth and soft white bread but for every three meals they brought her, she picked at one. Desperate for a solution, Marian went to the agha.
“You must help us, my lord Anber. For three weeks she has lain prostrate with grief. We cannot rouse her.”
“I will come and speak with her,” replied the agha. “I think I have the key to unlock her self-pity.”
Waddling into her bedchamber, he seated himself by her couch. “My lady, it distresses me to see you so. Especially when your help and wisdom are needed”
There was no response.
“I must know when you will be well enough to move to new quarters. The lady Gulbehar demands that you vacate these apartments now that she bears the title of bas-kadin.”
A flicker.
He continued “What a pity your son has not found the time to declare you the valideh. By right the title is your
s, but alas, since you do not hold it, Gulbehar rules supreme in the harem.”
“What do you mean, Gulbehar rules the harem?”
“You know the etiquette, my lady Cyra. She is the sultan’s bas-kadin. You are merely the former sultan’s bas-kadin.”
She sat up. “Leave me. I would dress and see my son, who seems to have forgotten who made him sultan.”
“As you will, madam,” replied the agha, smiling archly. Entering the salon, he said to Marian, “Attend your mistress. She wishes to dress and see her son. I think our young sultan is about to lose his first battle. May it not be a portent of things to come.”
Cyra dressed carefully. She would never again wear the slash-skirted dress of a kadin. Instead, she put on the tunic dress of a valideh. Though she had lain for weeks in grief, her servants had not been idle. The tunic was of black brocade embroidered in gold thread and teardrop pearls. Her beautiful hair, still bright, was braided into a coronet and held with pearl pins. A sheer black silk veil edged in fine lace covered her head.
Carefully she outlined her eyes in kohl, lightly dusted her face with powder to accentuate her pallor, and then reddened her lips. The years have not changed me, she thought, carefully searching her mirror for signs of age. There were none. Though her first youth was long gone, she could pass for a young woman of twenty-five, and it pleased her vanity and gave her confidence.
She knew exactly where to find Suleiman. Sweeping into Gulbehar’s chamber, she glanced scornfully at the girl and commanded, “Leave us. I wish to speak to my son in private.”
Gulbehar, not quite sure how to react, and not wishing to face down her mother-in-law in Suleiman’s presence, hastily scrambled to her feet and slipped out
Cyra turned to Suleiman. “For three weeks I have lain ill with grief, and not once have you visited me!” Her voice was cold.
“There has been much to do, mother. I had no time.”
“You have time for Gulbehar!”
“Gulbehar is my kadin, and she is feeling frightened by her new position.”
“I am your mother! Without me you would not have had life. Without me you would not have had Gulbehar! Do not forget that, my young Hon—even in your high place. Now, why have you not declared me valideh? Is the harem to be ruled by a mere chit of twenty-two who wears garnet glass in her hair while I am shunted off to the Pavilion of Older Women? Already your kadin has had the bad manners to demand my apartments.”
Suleiman flushed “I am truly sorry, mother. Of course it is out of the question for Gulbehar to move into the Garden Court It is the home of my mother and my aunts as long as they choose. I shall speak to my kadin.”
Cyra, somewhat mollified, changed her tactics. “Do not be harsh, my son. Gulbehar is young. She has not had the guidance of an older woman these last few years. She is spoiled and has not had the chance to mature in the company of other women, since you have no others. She has given you your only son. Is it any wonder she is puffed up?”
“You are right mother. Living away from court has not helped, either.”
“Your father had four kadins, and the lady Refet was there to guide us. Gulbehar has bad no one. You must declare me valideh. Only then will I have the right to school her—and in fairness, my son, it is my right”
“I shall do it mother!”
“Today. Before the sun sets over the Golden Horn, Suleiman.”
“Before the sun sets, mother, I shall declare you the sultan valideh Hafise.”
“Hafise? I am called Cyra.”
“No one outside the serai knows the names of its women. Hadji Bey named you Cyra, the ‘Flame.’ He saw in you things no proper son would see in his mother. On the few occasions you have traveled through the city, the people have given my father’s kadins names of their own. They called you the “Fiery One.’ Firousi was the ‘Fair One.’ Zuleika was the ‘Woman of Cathay,’ and Sarina was known as the ‘Dark-Haired One.’
“I have always looked up to you, mother. You have been the source of my wisdom, and so I shall publicly call you Hafise, the “Wise One.’ If you would be valideh, you will bear this name and no other.”
“Very well, my son. To please you, I shall be Hafise. I only hope I will not disappoint those who take my new name seriously.”
Suleiman smiled down on her. “You have never disappointed me, mother. I know you never disappointed my father, even at the end when he was so changed. If you can please two Ottoman sultans, how can the people be disappointed?”
“Selim was right You are a diplomat Now, if we can make of you as good a soldier and judge, perhaps history will be kind enough to remember you. Allah! I am ravenously hungry! I have hardly eaten these last few weeks.” Kissing him lightly, she reminded him, “Remember—by sunset” and she left him.
No sooner had Cyra gone than Gulbehar crept back into the room “What did she want?”
“Her rights, which I have too long overlooked,” answered Suleiman. “She will be declared sultan validen by day’s end.”
Gulbehar pouted. “Oh, my lord! That is so old-fashioned!”
Suleiman looked at his honey-haired kadin with her petulant little mouth. He could not help but notice the shimmering garnet glass that his mother had so acidly mentioned, nor the fact that Gulbehar had become undisciplined. Once again, his mother was right She never faded him.
“You will obey her,” he said, “and give her your respect She is the ‘Crown of the Veiled Heads’ and will be treated as such. Go to her this afternoon, and take Mustafa with you. Give her your felicitations on her appointment Perhaps she will teach you how to dress. You do not look like a sultan’s kadin, but like a country wife!”
Gulbehar’s mouth opened in surprise. Then she began to cry. “You are cruel to me! You have never before complained of the way I dress! It is your mother who has set you against me!”
The young sultan took Gulbehar in Ms arms. “Do not weep. My mother likes you. It was she who pointed out that I do not dress you as the bas-kadin of a sultan should be dressed. She feels your beauty is not sufficiently adorned,” soothed the young diplomat.
Gulbehar, placated, sniffed softly. “Do not look at me,” she said. “My eyes are all red and swoflen.”
“Your eyes are beautiful, my little flower. Now I must leave you. I have work to do.”
He rose, kissed her, and strode from the room. Gulbehar watched him go, then picked up a mirror and began to contemplate her reflection.
By that evening, everyone in the serai and throughout the capital knew that Suleiman had publicly declared his mother the sultan valideh Hafise. The older women of the palace were relieved. In the few weeks that Cyra had lain ill and powerless with grief, Gulbehar’s ignorance had slowly begun to erode the carefully set up system of harem government.
Without firm adult authority, the young girls had grown lax in their behavior, and petty quarrels had been the order of the day. Now uncertainty was the mood among these lovely creatures. They were well aware that Cyra Hafise had a sharp eye and brooked no nonsense.
The following morning, the valideh woke to eat an enormous breakfast Her head was clear and her mind whirling with plans. She had carefully thought before sleeping the previous night of her position now. She was the first wife of a dead sultan and the mother of the current sultan. Never again would she live and love as a normal woman might There was nothing left but power—but such power! She was inviolate. Not only throughout the harem, but throughout the empire, her word was law. There would be times when even her son would defer to her. In a woman of lesser character this might have given rise to fearful abuses, but Cyra Hafise had been well schooled by both Hadji Bey and Selim. Her common sense prevailed.
Conferring with the agha, she decided that all maidens over the age of twenty would be honorably dismissed from the harem. They would be given as wives to those Suleiman wished to honor or reward in commemoration of his accession as head of the House of Osman. Each girl would be given a good dowry, not only of clothes and j
ewels but also of money. Maidens raised and schooled in the harem were highly prized as wives, and the gesture was met with general approval.
Of the remaining women, many were past the age of childbearing and other usefulness. They were retired to the Pavilion of Older Women, where they might live out their days gossiping happily in security and comfort
Firousi and Sarina were delighted to see Cyra her old self again. The combination of Selim’s death and their friend’s prostrate condition had badly frightened them. They, too, had loved Selim, though never so deeply as Cyra.
For Firousi there had always been the memory of the childhood bridegroom from whom she had been snatched on her wedding day. Sarina, on the other hand, had realized that Cyra was Selim’s great love. Afraid to love a man too deeply who loved another, her passion had been reserved for her children. Nevertheless, both women had wept genuine tears at Selim’s death, and they missed him greatly, for he had been the pivotal force in their lives. No longer wives of a living sultan, they wondered what the future held for them They dreaded the thought of inactivity, but here Cyra was ahead of them.
Of the women left after the valideh’s housecleaning, the older ladies were given positions of varying importance within the harem administration that Cyra now set up. Two new and very important positions were created for Selim’s second and fourth kadins. Firousi became the kahya kadin, or head stewardess. Next to the valideh, she was held most in respect and carried an imperial seal, making her a powerful ally. Sarina was honored with the new post of haznedar us ta, or mistress of the treasury. She would control all the expenditures and monies for the harem, making her another strong ally for Cyra.
Of the young girls, only the cream had been kept and more female slaves arrived at the Eski Serai every day. The most promising of the new captives joined the other gediklis, and all the maidens were reassigned to new odas, each presided over by its competent and older oda mistress.
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