The French Sultana

by Zia Wesley

  “A beautiful young boy,” the Kadine replied, as she carefully removed the headdress and wig that almost completely concealed the girl’s face. She was surprised to see that the girl had cut off all her hair. “Oh, you had such lovely hair. Promise me you’ll grow it back. You make a fetching boy, but I prefer you as a girl,” the Kadine said, gently caressing her face with one hand. She unfastened the ties of the costume’s blouse and slipped it off the girl’s shoulders to reveal her small naked breasts, the nipples rouged a pale red. “With perfect little breasts, rouged for my arousal I see,” she said.

  “With special honeyed rouge, my lady. For your enjoyment.”

  “They need no enhancement for my taste, Hafise. The next time, you may leave them naked. But how could I not sample your delicious presentation?” she asked, taking one of the erect nipples into her mouth and sucking off the delicate sweetness.

  Hafise arched her back and gently cupped the back of the Kadine’s head to hold her mouth to her breast. “Oh, please,” she whispered passionately, “kiss the other too.” While the Kadine hungrily suckled the second breast, Hafise quickly removed the costume’s trousers. When both breasts had been licked clean, Hafise smiled and dropped to her knees, opening her legs wide. She arched her back, resting the back of her head on the floor, and spread her nether lips with her hands, then whispered hoarsely, “Now this, my lady, please, I beg of you... taste this for me.”

  The Kadine removed her caftan and crawled between the girl’s legs, then lifted her small buttocks up to bring her sex to her mouth. “More honey? You need it not.” She licked every drop of tinted sweetness, and then began to lightly suck the little pink plum, already swollen and throbbing.

  Hafise moaned with pleasure and thrust her hips rhythmically. “Oh, please, yes, don’t stop, don’t,” she begged, thrusting her hips harder until she gasped with a final release, her whole body shaking as waves of pleasure coursed through her. When the contractions ceased and her breathing settled, she stood and held her hand out to the Kadine. “My lady,” she said indicating the divan. “Please allow me.”

  The Kadine rose and walked to the divan with a slight stumble. “I feel a bit dizzy,” she said holding her brow.

  “You must have stood up too fast, my lady. Lie down for me now, and let me pleasure you.”

  The Kadine lay back and closed her eyes. Her head lolled to one side on the pillow as if she were drunk.

  “How beautiful you are,” Hafise said. “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” she said, kissing the Kadine’s breasts. “It is a pity I cannot stay with you.” She kissed her belly and moved slowly downwards to the nether lips. “So beautiful.” She ran her tongue lightly along the inner line of one of the lips, then probed it gently inward, finding the entrance and using her tongue to lightly thrust in rhythmically.

  The Kadine moaned and tried to speak but instead mumbled something unintelligible.

  “That’s right,” Hafise said. “Just relax and go to sleep.” She moved up to lie next to the Kadine and moistened her middle finger to insert it in the Kadine’s vagina. Moving her finger slowly in and out, she used her other hand to brush the long dark curls from her face. “I thought about telling you instead of killing you, but my freedom is dearer to me than any lover might ever be. And I will not only be free, I will be very, very rich. I am sorry we did not meet in a different place, but I must leave now, my beauty, and no one will ever know where I have gone. The poisoned honey rouge will give you a peaceful death.”

  She kissed the Kadine’s lips, then stood up and carefully searched the apartment until she found the famed royal jewelry. Wrapping the ropes of diamonds around her waist and securing other precious items in hidden pockets in her trousers, she donned the costume and the cloak, then checked her reflection in the dressing mirror. When she took off the cloak, no one would ever think she was anything other than a Tressed Halberdier.

  As she left the Kadine’s apartments, she put her finger to her lips, signaling the guards that the Kadine still slept. She ducked into the private kitchen, which was deserted at that hour. Once inside, she removed the cloak, folded it and stuffed it behind a stack of wooden crates in a corner. She picked up an empty firewood box and exited the kitchen through the service door used by the Tressed Halberdiers to walk out of the harem.

  Her boyish figure had not betrayed her true identity beneath the costume, and the long side curls obscured her face. No one took any notice of a boy walking home from work.

  ~ ~ ~

  Once again, Nakshidil had lost her closest friend, her only confidant, her mentor and benefactor and the mother of her beloved. Once again, she felt alone in the world. Underneath her sadness was the familiar fear that she and Mahmud were in danger. No one knew for certain why Mihrisah had been killed. Many of her jewels had been stolen, but Nakshidil was not certain it had simply been an act of greed. The Baskatibe, who knew the cold and calculating Hafise well, was sure that was the case. But, how had the girl escaped, and who had been her accomplice in the Palace? Nakshidil would need to be on guard again, to increase her protection of Mahmud. She had become far too comfortable in her daily routine, too trusting. She had forgotten the danger that lurked beneath the Palace’s opulent surface, and vowed never to forget again.

  ~ ~ ~

  His mother’s death solidified Selim’s resolve to rid the empire of the treacherous Janissaries. In his mind, there was no doubt it had been a warning, and he was determined not to heed it. The wars with Russia and Austria were presently being lost due to their antiquated fighting techniques and weapons. He resolved to put his mother’s plans into motion with the support of the allies she had carefully created: the Kizlar Agasi, the influential Mufti Velly Zade, the Grand Vizier Koca Usef Pasha and those who supported his cause within the Divan. A new army and navy would be created, and for the latter, he would raise Koca Usef Pasha to the position of Grand Admiral. Nakshidil’s benefactor, Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, would add his ships and men. He would ready himself for war with the Janissaries. A letter from King Louis confirmed France’s willingness to grant his request. It read:

  “We have sent from our court to Constantinople officers of artillery to give Muslims demonstrations and examples of all aspects of the art of war, and we are maintaining them so long as their presence is judged necessary.”

  He had everything he needed to make his and his parent’s dream a reality. The Empire was going to move forward.

  ~ ~ ~

  Nakshidil was still in mourning for her friend Mihrisah, when Rose’s letter arrived.

  August 23, 1789

  My dearest cousin Aimée,

  I write you from Trois Islets Plantation, where I have been since April. It is so wonderful to be home again. My darling Hortense is with me, and being made such a fuss over by everyone. Sadly, my son, Eugène, is not. The courts upheld my husband’s petition to take Eugène into his custody, so he remains in France, where he will be trained as a soldier. Only eight years old, and already he is learning how to fight and kill.

  I do not know if word of the unrest in France has reached you. When I sailed for home, there had been some small skirmishes and several riots. In July, an angry mob wishing to overthrow the monarchy stormed the Bastille and has now formed an illegal government. Lieutenant Beauharnais denounced his aristocratic privileges to join the revolutionary rabble, who have made him a “deputy of the new regime,” whatever that means. At least he has not been hanged or imprisoned like so many of our friends. The revolutionaries call themselves the “people’s national assembly.” Poor King Louis.

  I plan to remain on Martinique until France comes to its senses and returns to normal. However, the unrest seems to have spread to Martinique as well, in the form of discontent amongst the slaves. Why do people suddenly seem to be so unhappy with their lots in life? I am grateful for my darling Hortense, but even she is unhappy here, missing the gay, cosmopolitan diversions of Paris.

  Are you still enthralled with your new
life, and what of your child?

  Aunt Lavinia still resides in Fort-Royal. My parents are getting on and their struggles have taken a toll on them. The plantation is failing more than ever, now that the slaves have become so taciturn and unruly. Father agrees that some type of compromise must be made, but no one has yet come forward with an acceptable plan. To simply free them would throw us all into ruin.

  By the time this letter reaches you, I may have already returned to France, as I must first send this to Monsieur Ruffin’s office in Paris to be forwarded to you through him. Write to me in care of Monsieur Ruffin, as he will know where to forward your letters. I wish we were not so very far apart.

  I send you fond hugs and kisses.

  Your loving cousin,

  Rose

  Nakshidil was excited to receive a letter from Rose, but found the news about France confusing and disturbing. She immediately summoned the Kizlar Agasi and translated the pertinent information for him.

  “What does this mean?” she asked.

  “When people wish to overthrow a king, it is usually because he has become weak. Monsieur Ruffin has always said that the French king is extremely young and inexperienced. It is also common knowledge that the king’s financial support of the war between England and the Americas has drained the country’s coffers. Regardless of the reason, it is a dangerous situation.” He thought for a moment. “However, there is always the possibility that a new government may be more responsive to us. Apart from the men he agreed to send, the King has still not appointed an ambassador. I will bring this information to the Sultan immediately. We must arrange another informal audience with Monsieur Ruffin. He will have more information. Thank you, Naksh. I will advise you of the time of the meeting.”

  August 24, 1789

  My dearest cousin Rose,

  I received your letter yesterday with bittersweet emotions—so happy to hear from you yet so disturbed by your news of France. The information had not yet reached us, and I am not quite sure what to make of it. It is not difficult to imagine people who wish to overthrow their own king. We harbor a similar faction here, the Janissaries. They refuse all change within the empire and, largely because of them, it has remained unchanged for seven hundred years. What do the Parisian revolutionaries desire? Surely, they do not resist progress, as Paris is so very modern. Why are they displeased with their king?

  My son, Mahmud, is now six years old, intelligent and serious like his father, strikingly handsome with his father’s black hair and my blue eyes. He is my joy, as I know you understand, essential as the air I breathe.

  My husband, Sultan Abdul Hamid, passed away four months ago following a long illness. We miss him dearly.

  She paused for a moment debating whether to mention Selim. She longed to reveal her affection for the young man to her cousin, but felt it inappropriate to describe her new love in the same letter that revealed her husband’s death.

  I also recently lost my closest friend, Mihrisah, wife of the former Sultan, and mother of the current Sultan, Selim. She befriended me when I entered the harem, taught me more than I can ever explain, and saved my life and that of my son on more than one occasion. Oh, Rose, you cannot possibly imagine the degree to which my life has changed. We would need to talk for weeks to catch up. How I wish we could do exactly that. I miss Mihrisah and Abdul so terribly. It seems that everyone I love is taken from me, even you, my dear cousin, who reach out to me from so far away.

  Enough talk of death and sadness. Now, I wish to tell you of other things. King Louis has agreed to send us French military advisors to modernize our army, and in preparation, I am teaching Sultan Selim to speak French. Towards this purpose, he wishes to bring tutors and books from France, for himself and Mahmud. Monsieur Ruffin has been charged with finding the appropriate people, and if you know of anyone, please let him know. I have suggested we import some of the comforts I miss as well—chairs and tables, chandeliers, sherry and champagne. The Sultan is very excited to taste champagne, as nothing like it exists here.

  Please give my regards and best wishes to everyone at home, and write soon with news of France. Have our aunts and uncles in Paris also renounced their privilege? Let me know when you return and establish a permanent residence.

  Your loving cousin,

  Aimée

  Chapter 11

  February, 1792

  Mahmud ran excitedly into the Sultan’s garden, waving a small sword. “Uncle Selim, Uncle Selim! May I show you what Captain Bertrand just taught me?” Although they were technically cousins, Nakshidil had encouraged the use of the term “uncle” after Mahmud’s father died.

  Selim sat at a small Rococo-style writing table, recently arrived from France. He ceased writing and pushed his chair away from the table. “Of course, Mahmud. Just try not to kill any unarmed plants or trees.”

  Selim swelled with pride when he observed the nine-year-old boy who was already taller than his mother. His astonishing blue eyes widened with excitement as he held the sword hilt with both hands and took a classic fighting stance. The expression on his face changed from a smile to a frown of focused concentration. Raising the sword high over his head, he brought it down fast, slashing from right to left, then left to right, as he simultaneously moved forward, mowing down lines of invisible attackers.

  He stopped and looked to his uncle for approval.

  “Quite impressive, young man,” Selim said. “I doubt that any of your opponents would still be standing.”

  “Oui,” the boy automatically answered in French. “They would all be dead, sir.”

  “And who is the enemy today?” Selim inquired.

  “Russians,” Mahmud replied. “On horseback.”

  “I see. Well, in that case, you may want to slash a bit higher,” Selim advised with a smile. “You may not want to display your new skill to your mother. Captain Bertrand is here to train our new army, not the royal heir who is supposed to be studying.”

  “I finished my studies and Mother is playing her harpsichord. Captain Bertrand saw me in the courtyard with my sword and...” He trailed off.

  “You will be a fine swordsman, Mahmud. But a Sultan must also be a scholar.”

  “Father told me I should also know God and the Prophet,” the boy replied.

  “Yes, that too, Mahmud. A Sultan must know many things and be many things.”

  Mahmud was everything a royal heir should be—intelligent and kind, with a strong innate sense of morality. Unfortunately, Mustapha was next in line to inherit and Selim continued to search for a legal way to promote Mahmud’s ascendance in his stead. There was no doubt Mustapha would quickly throw the empire into chaos and take great delight in doing so. At thirteen years of age, he was emotionally unstable, with a violent and sadistic nature, while his mother was a pawn of the Janissaries. Mahmud would be safe as long as Mustapha remained in the Cage. However, if the deranged young man were put in a position of power, hundreds, perhaps thousands of heads would literally roll. It was a quandary that occupied Selim’s thoughts often, and one he could not solve. Murder was the only way to prevent Mustapha from becoming Sultan, and Selim found that difficult to initiate or condone. The only execution he had ordered thus far was that of the Grand Vizier Hassan, Commander-in-Chief during the failed wars with Austria and Russia.

  During the first year of his reign, the army had suffered defeat at the hands of the Austrians. The following year, the army of Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia, attacked the fortress of Ismail, forty miles from the Black Sea, capturing the city and brutally slaughtering thirty-four thousand Turkish subjects. Selim blamed the defeats on the outdated fighting tactics of the Ottoman army that consisted solely of Janissaries, and blamed Hassan for being unable to persuade his troops to modernize. Consequently, Selim became even more committed to creating his new army.

  To that goal, the Sultan sent lists to Paris of the positions he wished to fill. Soon after, French artillery and naval officers arrived in Istanbul with modern
rifles fixed with bayonets, cannons and cannon balls, and engineers with plans for a cannon foundry to be built on the shore of the Bosporus. The Turkish recruits who volunteered attended a new military school in the Levend Ciftlik, where they trained in European military tactics and learned to speak French. It was mandatory for all students to learn the new language, and conversely, the French instructors learned Turkish.

  However, the Janissaries remained stubbornly adverse to the teachings of infidels, refusing to accept instruction from foreign officers unless they converted to Islam. In their resistance, the Janissaries enlisted the support of the Ulema, Islamic priests and scholars, who brought the matter before the government of the Divan. Prolonged discussions on the matter ensued.

  Some Ottoman officials suggested dividing responsibilities by using the Janissaries to fight wars, while creating a new militia to guard Istanbul. Others suggested bribing the Janissaries by meeting their most recent demands for pay increases and improvements in their living conditions. Finally, everyone agreed upon the latter, raising wages and enlarging the barracks while issuing new rifles with bayonets. In response, the Janissaries revolted, confirming Selim’s belief that nothing would convince the Janissaries to move forward or change in any way. He was correct in his plan to create the new army.

  July 1792

  My dearest cousin Aimée,

  Can you ever forgive almost three years of silence? You cannot imagine the devastating changes that have overtaken our beloved France. I struggle to simply keep a roof above our heads and food in our mouths. The country is bankrupt, the people starving and lashing out at one another to survive. Prisons and poorhouses are overflowing, and death is everywhere. Brothers have become enemies, and friends are now foes. My husband and son are strangers to me, distant ghosts that Hortense and I rarely see. Thank heaven for Aunt Désirée, who has given us shelter, or we would surely have perished as so many others have.

  The revolutionary government has imprisoned the King and Queen at the Tuileries. They remain unharmed, yet forbidden to leave the grounds. They say King Louis has given all of our money to help the American colonies fight the English. Those clinging to, or even suspected of clinging to the old aristocracy to which we unfortunately belong are brutalized or imprisoned. “Citizens” now eagerly prove their loyalty by denouncing each other for the slightest (or imagined) occurrence. There has also been a good deal of anti-Catholic ranting. It is not safe here. Perhaps it is not safe anywhere in France.