by Zia Wesley
The suggestion seemed to hold infinite possibilities... dangerous possibilities. Rather than titillate, Selim’s words had a sobering effect upon her. Although her expression did not betray her fear, her inner voice said, No. This must not happen. My life and the life of my son depend upon my good judgment.
“Perhaps, Monsieur. But now I must excuse myself. We will discuss my cousin’s letter another time, Mihrisah.”
Nakshidil curtsied. “I have enjoyed meeting you, Monsieur Selim. Goodbye.”
Selim’s eyes remained fixed on the door that the exotic young woman had passed through as if she might reappear. His mother watched him intently. “I think it is time for you to choose a concubine, Selim.”
“Yes, Mother. I believe you are correct.”
Chapter 7
Selim resembled both of his parents equally: his mother’s oval face and wide, sensual mouth; his father’s dark auburn hair, aquiline nose and exotic, brown almond eyes. He was tall and thin, with a delicate, almost feminine appearance, the result of his childhood brush with death at the hand of Nuket Seza. The poison had left his body weak and prone to sickness, and possibly given rise to his soft, poetic soul. But his fey physical appearance did not hamper his ability to ride or wield a sword as well as any man, and he possessed a highly intelligent and facile mind with an unquenchable thirst for life. His curiosity and excitement were infectious, and when he spoke, he transported his listeners into a world of wonder and possibility. Selim was a man who found all aspects of life infinitely interesting, living as if the days were not long enough to learn, absorb, understand and appreciate everything life offered. He shunned sleep lest he miss something of interest or importance. There was nothing he found uninteresting. Everything mattered and everyone had something of value to offer him.
Unlike most of his predecessors who spent their formative years incarcerated in “the Cage” without education or human contact, Selim had been well educated and lovingly nurtured. His uncle had personally overseen the boy’s mastery of the Turkish Book of Laws, the secular bible that dictated the intricate formalities of the Turkish court: ceremonies, customs, dress and etiquette. He had also mastered the arts of calligraphy, poetry and horsemanship. His mother fueled his desire for knowledge, opening his eyes to the world outside the harem, outside of Turkey. She instilled a thirst for Western knowledge and culture, and the more he learned, the more he wished to know. In short, at the age of twenty-two, Selim possessed all the qualities he would need to rule the empire, along with a fervent wish to modernize it. He embraced change amidst a culture that had been bred to fear it. As sophisticated as the Turkish people could be, so were they equally rooted in the dogmas of their ancient past, and few recognized this as clearly as Selim.
Nakshidil represented the embodiment of Western ideals, and Selim wished that he did not find her so attractive. Had she not been his uncle’s favorite, he might have allowed himself to hope for more from her in the future. But protocol, honor and respect for his uncle prevented him from acting on his desire. Consequently, he resolved to gain as much knowledge from her as he could without allowing himself to want anything more.
Selim had mastered every language spoken within the palace walls, and now wanted to learn French in preparation for the day when King Louis XVI might agree to send an ambassador to Turkey. The French king had already sent an unofficial attaché in the person of Monsieur Pierre Ruffin. However, as “Chargé d’affaires” he lacked the official status of Ambassador, which according to Turkish law prevented the Sultan from meeting with him. With Nakshidil’s help, Selim hoped his uncle would write a letter to the French court containing such a request. Knowing his uncle’s fondness for the young Frenchwoman, he felt sure that all she had to do was ask. Once the Sultan’s seal enclosed the letter, Selim could meet with Monsieur Ruffin personally to put it in his hands. It seemed the perfect way to begin a dialogue with France, and Nakshidil was the key. He would not allow his personal feelings to disrupt this fortuitous opportunity.
~ ~ ~
Selim and his mother sat in her garden, drinking coffee.
“I have considered your wish for me to take a woman, Mother, and, of course, you are correct, as always. Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes. I have been thinking of this for quite some time, speaking with young women who might be appropriate. There is one in particular. She is young and beautiful with a sweet disposition, and she even speaks a bit of French.”
“French?”
“Yes. She is handmaiden to Nakshidil and although trained in the arts of an odalisque, has not been taken as one of your Uncle’s. Perestu is her name.”
“Very good. I think it is also a good time for me to learn to speak French. Will you please arrange a meeting for me, perhaps tomorrow night?”
“Of course. I will send her to you after dinner. I think you will find her very pleasing.”
Perhaps not as pleasing as her mistress, but that cannot be, he thought.
~ ~ ~
As usual, the Circassian Kadine saw farther into the future than anyone around her. Selim and Nakshidil were almost the same age, while the Sultan would most likely not live for more than another decade. When Selim became Sultan, hundreds of ambitious, cunning women would compete viciously for his attention. The Kadine saw Selim inheriting the sultanship with Nakshidil at his side, guiding him towards westernization, and Mahmud next in line. It would ruin her plans if a jealous woman, threatened by Nakshidil’s special relationship with Selim, were to have a voice. Whomever Selim aligned himself with must owe allegiance to Nakshidil, and never threaten their relationship. The empire might be ruled for generations by scions the Kadine had personally influenced—scions that would guarantee Turkey’s emergence into the modern world.
Meanwhile, Selim must not be tempted by his uncle’s favorite. He must not cause any disruption between himself and the Sultan, or between Nakshidil and the Sultan, who was happy and pliable in her hands, exactly where the Kadine wanted him. Selim must forge a friendship with Nakshidil, but have sex with other women. Therefore, Perestu. The young girl was so devoted to her mistress that she would present no resistance in the future. After all, Nakshidil had raised her to her lofty position, and she could just as easily take it away.
~ ~ ~
A few weeks later, the Kadine arranged for Selim to “accidentally” meet Aimée again in her apartments.
“My son is anxious to know of Paris, and to learn the French language,” she explained.
Consequently, Aimée spent the entire morning in preparation as if she were meeting a lover. She looked radiant in rose silk and sapphires. “Paris is wondrous, Monsieur Selim, I am happy to tell you about it, and to instruct you in French. It would please me greatly.” She looked down and smoothed the folds of her caftan to hide the blush in her cheeks.
Aimée spent the next hour describing the homes she had visited in Paris, the churches and opera houses, the art, clothing and wigs. She spoke of the food and dining customs that, in her opinion, paled in comparison with those of the Turks.
“But I do miss the aperitifs, sherries, and champagne,” she said.
“What are they?” he asked. “Perhaps you might instruct the cooks to prepare them for us.”
Aimée laughed. “I have no idea how such things are made. They are spirits—drinks made from fermented fruits, grapes, cherries and such. But champagne—oh my,” she said wistfully. “I wish you could taste it. It bubbles in the glass.”
Selim listened raptly. Sometimes he found himself lost in the blueness of her eyes, or the waves of her golden hair, completely unaware of her words or their meaning. He wondered if he might find her equally as fascinating if she spoke gibberish. He liked watching her little rosebud mouth as it formed words, especially French words. Thoughts of her occupied his mind constantly—even when he made love with Perestu. He bade the girl to be silent and closed his eyes to imagine Nakshidil.
“In Circassia,” the Kadine interjected, “when
I was a girl, there was a spring whose water was highly valued for its healing ability—much like the ones we have here. But that water bubbled from the ground. We collected it in clear glass urns to watch the bubbles dance.”
“Yes,” Nakshidil nodded enthusiastically, “Champagne bubbles do appear to dance, and sometimes, while bringing the glass to my mouth to drink, the bubbles burst and tickle my nose.”
“Of course, we had strong spirits in Circassia,” the Kadine added. “Made from grains and potatoes—much like the Arak we have here.”
“Here?” she asked. “But spirits are forbidden.”
The Kadine waved her hand dismissively. “There are spirits here—and those who drink them. Have you forgotten Nuket Seza? Remember that many of us were not born Moslem.” She sipped her coffee and cocked her head thoughtfully. “You know, Naksh, it may be time for you to accept our religion. I did when Selim was born, and now Mahmud must be raised so.”
“I have considered this, Mihrisah, and surely you are correct. Of course Mahmud will be Moslem, but for myself, it is difficult to deny the beliefs I still somehow hold.”
“Nothing need be denied. There is no reason why your beliefs may not exist alongside those of the prophet Mohammed. Conversion does not require you to give up old beliefs, merely to adopt new ones.”
“I had never considered it in that way,” Aimée said.
“Tell us more of shampona,” Selim said. “When is it served, and what does one wear when drinking it?”
Nakshidil smiled broadly at his naïveté and remembered how strange Turkish customs first seemed to her. “Champagne is served on many occasions, dinners and banquets, at the opera and ballet. One need not wear special attire to imbibe it, but as you mention it, people are usually dressed quite festively while drinking champagne.”
Selim loved it all. Western civilization seemed so... civilized, especially their styles of clothing.
“When I am Sultan, I shall have shampona brought from France. I shall also banish turbans and caftans in favor of modern attire. Our cumbersome costumes serve no useful purpose whatsoever, and we have not progressed or moved forward in any way. We live as we have lived for centuries. No wonder the rest of the world thinks us barbaric. We think that we are strong, but we are only so in our own limited world. I want to be part of the rest of the world—to explore and learn.”
“You may be surprised to learn how modern this empire is compared to others,” Nakshidil said.
“In what way?” he asked.
“Well, I have not traveled the world, but we had no running water, hot or cold, either in France or on Martinique.”
“How then did one bathe?” he asked incredulously.
“We bathed very little and then, one person at a time, in small copper tubs to which heated water had to be carried. And never naked.”
“Clothed? What a ridiculous idea. It’s no wonder it wasn’t done often. But how did people stand being unclean?”
“With perfumes and powders. I am afraid they were nowhere near as effective as daily bathing. And Paris itself was quite filthy. One could smell the stench everywhere.”
“I am surprised to hear such news. One would think that a country capable of building sophisticated weaponry would also be clean.”
Aimée smiled. “I am unfamiliar with French weaponry, but one would suppose, sire.”
Which led to the discussion of military matters. Aimée professed she knew absolutely nothing, but then she remembered the colorful illustrations from the French history books she had read in school. They depicted soldiers smartly uniformed and neatly lined up for battle. The front rows knelt with rifles poised, the back rows stood at the ready, flanked behind by soldiers on horseback.
Selim was intrigued. “That is just as my father said. He brought a Hungarian general, who was serving in the French army, to train our troops fourteen years ago, but they refused to learn. Our soldiers continue to rely solely upon their fierceness and fervor. In battle, they careen around wildly, wielding weapons in both hands and killing whoever comes within their range. I am told that the Austrian and Russian troops, with whom we are now engaged, make an orderly advance into the chaos, methodically bringing our men down. My father’s attempt to introduce Western military tactics and weapons failed because of the Janissaries’ refusal to accept change of any kind.”
“Please forgive my ignorance, Monsieur Selim, but, why exactly would the Janissaries rather fail than learn a new and better way?” she asked.
“I believe I can answer that best,” said the Kadine. “For centuries Ottoman fighting forces were some of the fiercest on earth. Fearlessness and religious fervor rendered them undefeatable. But over the years, our enemies adopted modern methods and weapons that allowed them to defeat us. That was why Selim’s father commissioned Baron de Tott to modernize our army. It was the first time a foreign advisor had been employed in this manner.”
“Can you guess what the Janissaries did?” Selim asked.
Nakshidil shook her head no.
“They asked how they, as Allah’s true protectors of the Faith, could accept teachings from an infidel. They reminded him that Islamic Law was perfect and irrefutable. Islam needed no improvement, and neither did they.”
The Kadine added, “The Janissaries still refuse to acknowledge the loss of battles as well as wars. It is their fault our Empire is shrinking with the loss of territories. Every time anything new is introduced, they empty their cooking pots and beat on them, while thousands run amok in the city slaughtering infidels.”
“My father attempted to persuade them by refusing to pay their salaries. Even so, the Janissaries continued to riot until they had piled six hundred severed heads by the Gate of Salutation.”
Nakshidil’s eyes widened in horror and she covered her mouth with one hand.
“They eventually conceded and spent the next two years training with European rifles fixed with bayonets but they mocked and disobeyed the Baron at every turn.”
“Yes,” the Kadine said. “It was a testament to his military prowess that he was not killed and beheaded.”
“When the training was over, the Janissaries argued that the new methodical approach deprived them of hand-to-hand combat. If everyone stayed together and did the same thing, how could one man demonstrate his individual bravery? They refused to accept or even to grasp the concept of fighting as a unit.”
“I wish that I could show you the books I read at school with all the illustrations. You would find them wondrous,” Nakshidil exclaimed.
“Perhaps we might request some to be sent through Monsieur Ruffin, or your cousin who resides in France.”
“What a wonderful idea. You will see not only the beautiful illustrations, you will see the French language as it should be written, unlike that from my own ungraceful hand.”
Selim wanted to tell her that he found nothing about her ungraceful, least of all her small, perfect hands, and that he secretly dreamed of communicating with her in French as their “private” language no one else could understand. Long ago, he had fallen in love with Western ideals. Now he was falling in love with a Westerner.
“I shall meet with Monsieur Ruffin and request these books,” he said. “And perhaps we might also obtain some barrels of shampona.”
~ ~ ~
In the privacy of her own apartments, Aimée questioned the unfamiliar emotions that engulfed her. She hated the thought of Selim and Perestu making love, naked together, laughing and whispering intimacies. She ached for wanting him. Oh, God, why did it have to be Perestu? Unaware of friend’s secret longing, the young girl enthusiastically shared the intimate details of their lovemaking, Selim’s sweet poetic nature, and his tenderness. Every word was like a knife in her stomach. And there was nothing she could do.
Nakshidil had seen girls who suffered the consequences of revealing themselves to men, their bodies bruised and welted from the beatings dispensed by harem guards. And what if the Sultan rejected her—turned against her
? Might he also turn away from Selim? Both of them had enjoyed such favor, what would happen if they were cast out? Selim might be put into the Cage. She shuddered as a chill ran up her arms making the little hairs stand on end. Mahmud might be put into the Cage as well. How could she risk their well-being as well as her own? She hated the thought of endangering herself and those she loved, but neither could she abide the thought of giving up her time with Selim. It was a complex situation—requiring continual restraint and prudence—abilities in which Aimée was beginning to excel.
The Kadine, in whom Aimée was thankfully able to confide, had a different perspective, seeing Aimée, as she always had, as part of a larger plan.
“Your influence will reach far beyond this sultanship, Naksh—beyond that of your son and mine. I do not know how strongly you believe in fate or destiny. You were surely sent here for a purpose, and Selim is part of that. It is kismet, Naksh. I know that it is difficult—perhaps for both of you.” She thought of her lost love, Sholay, and felt a tightening in her throat. “You are young and your feelings are strong. I know how painful that can be. You must trust in a greater purpose. I feel certain of this, and I am old enough to know that it is true.”
Nakshidil felt grateful to share her innermost feelings with someone, and tried to take comfort in the older woman’s words, but the longing for a man whom she could never have tore deeply at her core.
Two months after their first meeting, Selim sent word to Aimée that the Sultan had agreed to send a letter to King Louis. The letter would express the Sultan’s wish for an official French ambassador in Istanbul. It would explain why Monsieur Ruffin could not be recognized as an empowered representative, or received by the Sultan. That afternoon, Selim dictated the content of the text, and Aimée wrote the letter.
~ ~ ~
The only factor the Kadine had not taken into consideration was something right under her nose, something she should have known but, in fact, knew nothing about. There was a spy in the palace—a white eunuch guard employed by the Janissaries. His employment had begun a little more than ten years earlier, when the Sultan began his reign. Paid with promises of power as well as gold, Cavus Hamza, an intelligent and crafty young man, had already gathered enough information to damage many people. But his interest did not lie in damage unless it served his purpose—putting Mustapha on the throne. It was apparent to him that the Circassian Kadine and Kizlar Agasi were the ones pulling the strings of their puppets, Selim and the Sultan. Physical attack on the Sultan was impossible, and if he eliminated the meddling black eunuch another would simply take his place. However, he had discovered the Kadine’s vulnerability—she liked young women, and eventually he would find one willing to trade anything for her freedom.