by Zia Wesley
To prepare the body of Sultan Abdul Hamid for burial, it was first carefully washed and then wrapped in a shroud of heavy white silk. His ears, nose and mouth were filled with cotton wool, and he was laid on his right side in a casket made of fragrant sandalwood, with his hands crossed across his breast. Before internment, the chief Ulema [scholar priest] whispered into his ear the answers to two questions he would be asked before being admitted to Paradise.
He was laid to rest with his head turned towards Mecca, alongside his forbearers beside the Hagia Sophia mosque. For the next forty days of mourning, the members of the Ulema would recite the Koran forty times a day.
The entire population of the city of Istanbul—Moslems, Christians and Jews alike—all mourned the death of Sultan Abdul Hamid. It was April of 1789, just two and one half months before Mahmud’s sixth birthday, and three months before an angry mob of French men and women would storm the Bastille to begin the French Revolution.
Although a great show of sorrow was enacted, Nakshidil thought it odd that she was the only one of the Sultan’s five hundred concubines who truly mourned his passing. She would also be the only one who would miss him every day for many years. During the seven years of their relationship she had matured into the woman she would be for the rest of her life, and that woman would always fondly remember her first lover.
Chapter 9
May, 1789
Immediately following the forty days of mourning for Sultan Abdul Hamid, the Janissaries overturned their kettles and began rioting. They accused Selim of traitorous acts despite lack of any proof, attempting to block his ascension to the throne. For more than seven hundred years, the Janissaries had doggedly adhered to a radical fundamentalist interpretation of the Koran. Selim, like his father before him, possessed what they perceived to be a dangerous desire towards modernization. They were correct in that both Selim and his father wished to keep pace with the rest of the world. The Janissaries wanted to continue fighting as they always had, despite the fact that they were no longer able to defeat their enemies by doing so. Recent losses of territories to Russia and Austria forced the government to agree with Selim and they were able to bring the rebellion to an end. However, the Janissaries’ dissatisfaction had been brewing for more than three decades, and there appeared to be no way to appease them short of moving the empire backwards instead of forward.
~ ~ ~
In the Circassian Kadine’s private garden, the new Sultan Selim III and the Kizlar Agasi sipped coffee and discussed the recent debacle.
“Would that we could simply kill them all,” the Kizlar Agasi said.
“Wishful thinking will not solve our problem,” the Kadine replied. “Despite their lack of skill in warfare, the Janissaries still serve a purpose. We cannot eliminate them before replacing them. Imagine the city without police, the army without soldiers.”
“The army may as well be without soldiers,” Selim said. “They lose every battle. We need a new, modern army with modern techniques and weaponry—just as father wished. And considering the havoc Janissaries regularly wreak upon the city—they do more harm than good.”
“You have the power to abolish the Janissaries, Selim, but they will never acquiesce. You will need your own army to enforce it. Creating an army will take years—and I do agree that now is the time to begin,” the Kadine said.
“Perhaps an informal meeting with Monsieur Ruffin might be arranged,” the Kizlar Agasi suggested. “If the French agree to furnish us with armaments we could begin to create a new army without the Janissaries. The French King could certainly use the revenues it would bring, and we have a common enemy in Russia.”
“Yes, but I am still unable to meet with him directly to negotiate, and we would need to choose someone we fully trust in my stead,” Selim said.
“Perhaps the Mufti Velly Zade,” the Kizlar Agasi suggested.
“With Nakshidil acting as interpreter—hidden of course,” the Kadine added.
They all considered the possibilities an alliance with France might offer, and Selim became very excited. He paced back and forth gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “It is an excellent idea. We will need French officers to train our new soldiers, just as father did. But these men will be willing students. We’ll need modern weapons, guns and cannon. We will need written instructions for the weaponry. Naksh can translate all of the French into Turkish.” He threw his hands up in the air, praising Allah. “We have waited too long, and it is time to move forward. In another decade a new century begins. I want the Empire to enter the nineteenth century with the rest of the world, not straggling along behind it, or worse, beaten into dust and left behind. Mother, you are correct as always. Bayazid, make the arrangements as quickly as possible.”
The following week Pierre Ruffin met with the Mufti Velly Zade in a secret room of the Divan, with Nakshidil acting as translator from behind a pierced screen. Ruffin was intrigued to finally be in the presence of the Frenchwoman who, if rumors were correct, was quickly becoming the power behind the throne. But protocol forbade him from addressing her directly as well as from seeing her. He hoped that one day an opportunity might present itself. At the moment, he was happy to agree to petition King Louis to furnish the Ottomans with the manpower and weaponry they requested. He would also again petition the King to either appoint an official ambassador to Turkey or provide him with the credential.
~ ~ ~
As that meeting was taking place, the Circassian Kadine reclined on a divan in her room of state, where she listened to and arbitrated women’s formal complaints against one another. On this morning, a young bath servant stood before her. She was olive-skinned and slim hipped like a boy, with long, straight black hair and piercing black eyes. She held her head high and proud, her back erect in a defiant manner, steeled against a hostile world.
The Kadine was careful to conceal her shock, because the young girl bore a striking resemblance to Sholay.
The Baskatibe, who had brought the girl before her, said, “My lady, this girl has stolen jewelry on three occasions.”
“Only once,” the girl snapped back angrily.
“Quiet!” the Baskatibe commanded. “She admits to only one theft, my lady, and claims that someone made it appear she was responsible for the other two.”
The Kadine thought for a moment, and then asked, “Have you angered another woman?”
The girl looked the Kadine in the eyes and answered, “I am sure I have angered many women, my lady.”
The answer made the Kadine smile. “Why is that?”
“I am accustomed to taking what I want. I chose to be a servant... to serve women rather than the Sultan. I prefer the affections of women, and do not pretend otherwise like they do... my lady.”
“I see. So, they punish you.”
“Yes, my lady.” With her last words, she blushed and lowered her head, then raised her eyes and smiled.
A familiar feeling spread through the Kadine’s chest—a warm, soft opening. Her smile was the same as Sholay’s. Had Sholay’s soul entered this girl’s body to visit her?
“You may go, Hoca,” the Kadine told the Baskatibe. “I will speak with this girl and resolve the problem.”
“As you wish, my lady.” The Baskatibe bowed and left.
The Kadine asked, “What is your name?”
“I am called Hafise, my lady.”
“Hafise, perhaps we might discuss this matter further in the privacy of my apartments later this evening?”
The girl’s eyes smoldered as she looked directly into the Kadine’s. “That would suit me very well indeed, my lady.”
“After dinner then,” the Kadine said.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said with a bow, and left.
~ ~ ~
The ceremonies heralding Selim’s sultancy had lasted seven days. One of the many gifts the Sultan offered was allowing women who so wished to leave the seraglio permanently. They could choose to move to the Palace of Tears or return to their famili
es. Only forty chose the Palace of Tears. Of the remaining four-hundred-and-sixty women, some returned to their families to marry men of the family’s choosing, while twenty-three asked Selim to choose husbands for them. Within a month of Selim’s ascension, only seventy-two women remained in the seraglio, all of them young. They knew that Perestu was now the favorite, but the Sultan was only twenty-seven years old, and would favor many other women in the years to come. It did not hurt that he was also handsome and kind. Consequently, seventy young women chose to live in hope.
Nakshidil had been comforted by the long period of mourning, and with the help of her closest friends, Perestu, Mihrisah, and the Kizlar Agasi, had come to terms with Abdul’s death. She remained in her apartments with her son, Mahmud, and had not seen Selim during the mourning period, or allowed herself to wish for his company. It was a self-imposed penance made to honor Abdul, the man who had been so good to her.
~ ~ ~
Another two weeks passed before Perestu entered Nakshidil’s apartments one evening with a message.
“Selim wishes to see you, Naksh.”
Her heart jumped into her throat. “Me?” she asked dumbly.
Perestu smiled and took her hands. “Yes, you.”
“Now?” she asked.
Perestu laughed. “Yes, now, my lady.”
“But, I am not prepared or properly attired,” she protested.
“My lady, you are not an odalisque traveling down the golden path for a night of pleasure. Your friend Selim simply wishes to see you.”
Aimée laughed nervously. “Of course, you are right, Perestu. How silly of me.” She squeezed the girl’s hands and stood up. “I shall go right away,” she said, kissing the young woman on the forehead and leaving her rooms.
Her heart pounded in her chest with every step along the hallway to the Sultan’s apartments, a path that she had walked daily for seven years. This was how her heart had pounded the first time she made the journey, with the Kizlar Agasi trailing closely behind and the Kadine’s diamond belt around her hips. Everything was different now. She was a widow, living in the palace with autonomy, at no one’s beck and call. Tonight she was going to see Selim, the lover of her fantasies whom she could never possess. He probably wished to discuss some private matter of state or something concerning her new French library plans. She paused outside the ornate double doors and took a deep breath before signaling the guards to pull them open.
Sultan Selim reclined on an ornate divan. “Please, Nakshidil,” he said, inviting her to make herself comfortable on an adjacent divan. “You may leave us,” he told his guards.
When they were alone he said, “I am truly sorry for your loss and have faith my uncle reclines comfortably in an honored place with the blessings of Allah.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
There was a long silence and then he said, “I feel as if I have waited my whole life for this moment, and now I hardly know what to say.”
Nakshidil held her breath.
“We live in a complex situation, Naksh.”
The sound of her pet name in his mouth made her blush.
“I had thought of meeting with the wise men of the Ulema,” he continued, “to seek their advice on this matter, but thought better of it. Some of them have close ties to the Janissaries, and it would be unwise to expose you and Mahmud any further, especially when you are both already considered a threat to their goals. But these are not truly the things I wished to speak of with you. It appears I am having some difficulty speaking my mind clearly.”
“So uncharacteristic, my lord. Perhaps I might be of assistance?” she asked.
“Yes, you might. You can tell me if you will have me,” he said bluntly.
“If I will have you?” she asked incredulously. “How is that possible, my lord? You must sire children, heirs and if I were to become pregnant... there would be no provision...”
“You will not,” he interrupted.
She stared at him blankly, her heart beating wildly in her chest.
“I am unable to sire children, Naksh. It is one of the effects of the poison. My physicians feared it might happen, and confirmed it several years ago. No one knows except my mother, of course, and now you. It would give my detractors another weapon to use against me. It is my intention to make your son, Mahmud, my chosen heir. Although I am not yet certain of exactly how to manage that. I suppose I hope the situation will somehow take care of itself. The thought of Mustapha on the throne would be certain disaster.”
The information hung in the air like the aftermath of an explosion. Nakshidil’s mind was going in too many directions at once for her to think clearly. My son will be the undisputed heir, she thought. Selim will kill Mustapha. The thought brought her to her feet. “This is terrible news and wonderful news. My lord, Selim.” She knelt before him looking into his eyes and said quietly, “I would have you and only you until the day God takes me from this life.”
He raised her to her feet and gently wrapped her in his arms. “In all the knowledge I have acquired, there were no lessons on how love might feel. I imagined it would feel different than anything else in the world; that I would know clearly if I ever had the good fortune to experience it. The first moment I saw you, Naksh, seven years ago, I felt something like a tiny flame igniting in the very center of my body.” He took one of her hands and placed it on his heart. “Can you feel the heat of that little flame?” he asked.
She took his hand and placed it over her own heart. “Can you feel mine?”
“You are shaking,” he said.
“Yes, my lord, I am shaking with desire. But wait,” she said pulling back from him. She composed herself by regulating her breathing and smoothing the folds of her kaftan. “I think you should sit, my lord. There,” she said, indicating the divan she had been sitting on. He looked at her curiously, slowly walking to the divan, where he began to recline.
“Not like that,” she said gently. “I want you to sit on the edge, like this.” She demonstrated, then got back up. As Selim sat, she stood in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I am not a woman of your harem, and have no intention of being treated as one.” She spoke very sweetly and with a slight smile on her face. “Therefore, Selim, it is my wish to command you.” His brow furrowed. “Would you not enjoy that, Selim?” she asked.
“I do not know, but I think I should enjoy anything you so desire.”
“Good. So shall I. And now I think you should remove your robe and then open your trousers.” She knelt before him. “I wish to see your manhood, and if it pleases me, I’ll take it in my mouth.”
He was almost too excited to unfasten his clothes, but did as she bade, freeing himself, already fully erect. “Naksh,” he whispered.
“I am not Nakshidil, Selim, and you may not call me by that name. Not here when we are alone like this.” She wrapped one hand around his member and looked up into his eyes. “You... and only you, will call me Aimée.”
She took him in her mouth, licking and sucking expertly, then lifted her robes and straddled him where he sat, riding him slowly until she screamed with pleasure.
Chapter 10
The next morning Nakshidil woke early. She stretched beneath the linen coverlet and grinned, rolling over to hide her face in her pillow. She had been with Selim. Holy Mother of God, she had truly made love with Selim! And what had she done to him? It was not a dream, not a fantasy. He was huge and hard, pulling her down to drive himself deeper into her real flesh. Oh Selim, at last, Selim. She squeezed her legs tightly together and squealed into her pillow with delight. She was ecstatic, had never felt happier. She could not wait to tell Mihrisah. The Kadine had been right, as always. Patience and kismet worked perfectly together.
She almost jumped from her divan, splashed her face with fragrant water, and allowed Zahar to comb out her hair. Then, she donned a linen caftan and walked as fast as she could without running to the Kadine’s apartments.
It was still very early,
and a servant informed her that the Kadine had not yet risen.
“I shall wake her very gently,” Nakshidil assured the woman with a giggle. “She will be very happy to see me this morning.”
Nakshidil quietly opened the door to the Kadine’s sleeping area. She could see her friend’s tousled black hair strewn across her pillow, a naked arm lying over the coverlet.
“Mihrisah,” she whispered. “Wake up, Mihrisah. I have wonderful news,” she said in a small, singsong voice. She gently placed her hand on the exposed naked arm, and then jumped back in shock with a scream stuck in her throat. “Mihrisah,” she yelled.
Three servants ran into the room and saw Nakshidil standing against the wall with her hands covering her mouth. They rushed to the Kadine’s bed and turned her cold body over. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling.
Moments later, the Kizlar Agasi arrived and the distraught servants instantly identified Hafise as the visitor who had been with the Kadine the previous night. They told him she had arrived at the Kadine’s invitation shortly after dinner, and left quietly, signaling them that the Kadine was asleep, just before dawn. All of the harem women and guards knew the wretched girl, and a search began immediately. The guards questioned everyone. Many were intimidated and threatened, but it yielded no information beyond the fact that the girl had been with the Kadine the previous night and not returned to her sleeping quarters. Hafise had vanished.
Cavus Hamza had not been on duty that night, so he was not even questioned, and the girl’s method of escape was never discovered.
In fact, it had been quite simple. Hafise arrived at the Kadine’s apartment wearing a long cloak that covered her from head to toe. As she entered and the Kadine dismissed her servants, she removed the cloak to reveal the costume she wore. She was dressed like a Tressed Halberdier, one of the young boys who delivered wood to the harem. The Kadine laughed at the clever masquerade, delighted by the girl’s sense of humor.
“Do I not look like a young boy?” Hafise seductively asked.