by Zia Wesley
I am and shall always remain, your humble and devoted servant,
Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, Dey of Al-Djazāir
She unfolded the tiny silk packet and her gold cross that was stolen when she had been stolen, fell into her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her oldest friend was dying and she could not be at his side. How like Baba to couch his plea for her safety within his own wish to see her. He knew her well. She would never put concern for herself before that of someone she loved, or before duty. She held the cross tightly, and wept for everything and everyone she had lost, and for everything she had found and now feared to lose.
When her tears dried, she went to Mahmud and asked him to walk with her in the tiny garden they were allowed to visit. A chill filled the air and their feet crunched fallen dry leaves on the path as they walked. Winter would come soon.
“I received a letter from Baba Ben Osman,” she said very quietly.
“Will he come to our aid?” he asked.
“His ships are already here, within striking distance, he says. He waits for the Pasha’s armies to arrive, which he says are on their way.”
“This is the best news we have received,” he said, trying not to show excitement lest they were being observed.
“Yes,” she said smiling up at him. “I feel hope for the first time. Now, we must wait, but you must hope also, Mahmud.”
“I shall, Mother.”
They sat closely together on a cold stone bench. “There is something I never told you,” she said. “Something I now believe to be of the utmost significance.”
“I am listening,” he said.
She leaned in very close to him, almost whispering in his ear. “Long ago, when I was a very young girl, a fortune teller told my whole life to me after seeing it in a pile of tiny bones.”
His brows raised and he almost laughed. “You?” he asked.
“Yes, me and my cousin Rose.”
“You mean the Empress Josephine?”
“She was not yet an empress at fourteen, but yes. The fortune-teller was an old obeah woman, a Creole, part African and part Irish. She said many things, some of which I’ve forgotten, but she told me about you and spoke of this moment and the things that would lead up to it. They have all occurred.”
“Truly?” he asked skeptically. “Everything?”
She nodded her head. “Yes, Mahmud, and the reason I tell you this now is quite important because you are going to be required to do something against your nature, something terrible that under ordinary circumstances neither of us would condone.”
He listened and watched her face carefully.
“You will have to commit murder,” she said.
A mystified expression crossed his face. “And you condone it? I find that difficult to believe.”
“That is precisely why I tell you this now. When the time comes, you must not hesitate. It will be a matter of your life or his—and it must not be yours, Mahmud.”
“Do you know whom I will... murder?” he asked.
She nodded her head. “Yes. Shall I tell you?”
It was Mahmud’s turn to nod. “Yes, I think so.”
“Mustapha.”
Chapter 19
It had taken ten months after the Janissaries deposed Selim for Pasha Baicatar from the Provence of Rustchuk to gather fifty thousand troops—an army large enough to march on Istanbul. Leaving his men bivouacked two miles outside the city, the Pasha took a small group of twelve with him to the Topkapi Palace. Outside the exterior gate, he identified himself as a representative of the Ulema who wished to ascertain the well-being of the prisoner Selim. The guards allowed them to pass. Once inside, they approached the seraglio gate and sent a message to Sultan Mustapha reiterating the same request and adding a reminder that it was made according to the edicts of the Ulema.
Angered by the audacity of an insignificant Pasha to make a demand of him, Mustapha ignored the request and summoned a henchman instead.
Moments later, Cavus Hamza, the new Kizlar Agasi, walked boldly up to the ornate curtain that hid the throne where the Sultan sat. He cleared his throat quietly to let the monarch know he was present. A hand appeared at the far edge of the curtain, and a high-pitched voice barked out a command. Two servants pulled the curtain aside revealing an enormously fat young man completely draped in gold cloth and jewels, reclining on silk cushions.
“Who are you?” the Sultan squeaked rudely.
“I am the Kizlar Agasi, Cavus Hamza,” he replied with a deep bow.
“On your knees, slave!” he barked, and several guards pushed Hamza to his knees.
“You summoned me, Sire,” he said without lifting his eyes from the floor.
Mustapha lifted his right arm to order the pompous slave’s murder when he suddenly remembered who he was. “Are you the assassin?” he asked.
“Yes, Sire.”
“You should have said so. I want you to kill them both... now, right away.”
“Yes, Sire, the former Sultan and...?”
“And the Heir, of course, you stupid wretch! I am to be the only Ottoman... the only Sultan... I am! Me, Sultan Mustapha.” He settled himself back into the cushions. “Unnerstan’?” he asked, leaning forward.
“Yes, of course, Sire, I understand.”
“Bring Arak!” the Sultan shouted to no one in particular. “And be quick about it now.” His voice trailed off and he seemed to lose focus or interest. “I need my medicine. Bring my gold pills, the big ones,” he whined. “Close the curtain!” he screamed at the top of his voice. From behind the curtain he added, “Bring the bodies here to me.”
Hamza backed out of the throne room, keeping his eyes on the curtain and on the guards. The unstable sultan might change his mind at any moment and shout a command to kill him, as he had almost done moments ago. One day, he thought as he made his way down the hallway, I would like very much to silence that annoying voice.
~ ~ ~
The deaf mute guards who served the Cage had their own means of communication. It was a system that had been developed long ago and passed on for hundreds of years. No one knew of its existence save their own kind. They used their hands. Looking directly at one another, they made signs in the air and in their palms with their fingers. In this way, they could pass on information, share opinions and make requests. They were able to “discuss” those in their care, and none of them had anything bad to say about Selim. In fact, they admired him. Immediately upon his arrival, he observed their method of “talking” and understood that they were deaf and mute, but not dumb.
Selim invented his own method to summon them to his door. His cell did not have windows low enough for anyone to see through, and the deaf guards could not hear his voice. So he used his balled fists pounding on the door to create vibrations the guards were able to sense and feel. Three consecutive thumps meant he needed water, and two meant food. He had even asked to learn their signs for those items.
Observing a strong resemblance between two of his guards, Selim discovered that they were indeed twins. He wondered if their unique connection heightened their ability to communicate with thoughts, or perhaps their inability to hear and speak allowed other senses to develop more acutely. Whatever the source, their quick intelligence was immediately obvious to Selim, and he offered to teach them to read and write. This is how he eventually learned their names—Sala and Havi.
No one had ever shown them kindness or interest and his interest in them caused them to make an effort to know him. Due to their respect for the imprisoned sultan and the congeniality of their relationship, they allowed Nakshidil to visit regularly. She brought books, paper, pen and ink—everyday items that helped Selim to pass the time and enlighten the guards. Although completely covered by her ferace, they liked the way she smelled and the feel of her soft touch when she laid her hand upon their arms. Her touch evoked vague memories of something they remembered liking but did not understand. Like all deaf mutes, they had been taken from their mother as soo
n as they were identified.
Sala was on duty that afternoon when a man, dressed in simple dark trousers and tunic with soft kidskin boots, approached the exterior door of the Cage. He signaled the guard to open the door and stepped into the dim interior as the door closed behind him. He waited several minutes for his eyes to adjust. He knew there were only two guards inside, and they were on duty one at a time. One of them stood in front of the prisoner’s door with a sword in one hand and a curved knife tucked into the front of his waist sash. When his vision had acclimated, Cavus Hamza made a deep bow and at the lowest point, carefully retrieved a small knife from the top of his soft boot. In one swift motion he rose, letting the knife fly, and lunged towards the guard. The small knife found its mark in the guard’s throat and before he could react in his own defense, another plunged into his heart. Hamza held onto the body until it was still, then allowed it to slip quietly to the floor. After removing his blades, he took the cell door key from the dead guard’s belt and unlocked the door.
The former Sultan sat facing the door on an odd-looking piece of furniture on the opposite side of the room, and instantly stood. He felt no need to ask the intruder who he was. It did not matter. There was only one reason for him to be there.
“Do infidels pray to Allah?” Hamza asked.
“I have no way to know the answer to that,” Selim replied, “but I do.”
“Then I will allow you a moment to fall onto your knees and do so.”
“I have no need to pray at this moment,” Selim said.
“You must have lived an exemplary life,” Hamza said.
“Allah is great, and I am his servant.”
Hamza could tell that this man was not going to be easy to kill. Keeping his eyes on Selim, he began to move slowly to his left, and Selim mimicked his movement. The two began moving clockwise around the room, their backs to the wall. When Selim had almost reached the open doorway, the other deaf mute guard stepped through it, over the body of his dead brother with his sword and knife drawn. For an instant, Selim thought he was going to be run through, but the guard nodded his head once to Selim and handed him the short blade. He thought he saw the hint of a tear slide down the guard’s cheek as the two faced off together against Hamza. Following the guard’s lead, they slowly advanced forward. Selim could see the fear on the assassin’s face that he was not a brave man, but a bully. The realization gave Selim courage, and he roared like an ancient warrior as he lunged toward his opponent, stabbing upward into his jugular. Sensing Selim’s intention, Havi instantly attacked from the other side. Hamza collapsed with blood gushing out of two wounds—one in his neck, and one in his heart.
Knowing there was no time to waste, Selim scribbled three words on a small piece of paper, folded it and wrote the word, “Valide.” He put it into the hand of the guard, who nodded his understanding and secreted the paper within his girdle. The two men ran from the room and stopped at the outer door of the Cage, where the guard knocked the signal for opening, and backed away with his sword drawn. As the door opened, the outer guard saw Selim first and instinctively thrust his sword forward, piercing him through the heart. The former Sultan died instantly and crumpled to the ground. Havi, pretending he had been pursuing the prisoner, patted the guard’s shoulder and signaled he would go to alert those in command. Then he continued forward toward the seraglio. To avoid other guards, he moved cautiously to the side entrance used by purveyors, and made his way into the kitchens. No one paid much attention to the deaf mute. He stopped at the door that led to a hallway in the seraglio, knowing he would not be allowed to continue any further, and looked around the busy kitchen until he saw an older serving woman—the one the Valide used to get messages to and from Selim. Havi knew that she too knew how to read. He walked up to her and showed her the folded piece of paper. When she saw the word “Valide” she nodded and quickly secreted the paper in her girdle. Havi held her wrist tightly and looked straight into her eyes, letting her know how important it was that this be delivered safely. She nodded again, then picked up a dish of almond-stuffed dates and walked through the door into the seraglio.
In less than one minute, the serving woman stood before the Valide and handed her the note. When Nakshidil opened it she read, “Assassins. Save Mahmud.” She squeezed the woman’s hand in thanks and ran to Mahmud’s rooms.
Thrusting the paper into his hands, she said, “Hide.”
“Who sent this?” he asked.
“Selim.”
She wrapped the dates in a napkin and thrust them into his hands with a bottle of water. “Go now and hide until you are sure it is safe.”
“The old chimney,” he said to her as he ran out the door.
Nakshidil’s heart was beating wildly, yet she felt frozen to the spot where she stood. She tried to calm her thoughts by inhaling deeply through her nostrils and slowly exhaling. In a few minutes her mind felt clearer, and she was able to walk to a chair and sit. She stood up again and walked to the door, calling for Perestu. Then she sat back down and began to organize her thoughts.
Perestu appeared in the doorway. “What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as she saw Nakshidil’s face.
“Come in,” she said as calmly as she could.
“Satya brought me this,” she said, handing her the little piece of paper.
The young woman’s eyes widened. “Who wrote it?”
“It came from Selim.”
“How?”
“I do not know, but Mahmud is gone... in hiding, and you must say nothing to anyone. You know nothing.”
Perestu nodded and handed the paper back to Nakshidil, who dropped it into the charcoal brazier that burned next to her chair. It flamed brightly for a moment, turned into ash and then disappeared. She frantically searched her mind trying to think of someone she could turn to for help, but could think of no one; the old Kizlar Agasi was gone, so was the Kadine, and Selim was in the Cage. She rose out of the chair at the thought.
“I must go see Selim,” she said. “Wait here, little bird. Do not leave these rooms.”
She had not gone more than ten steps in the courtyard when twenty or more women came screaming through the entrance to one of the baths. “Soldiers, soldiers, through the gates,” they screamed.
“What soldiers, where?”
“Everywhere,” they yelled, and chaos ensued in the harem, women running into and out of all the rooms.
Nakshidil pounded her fists on the inside of the locked doors of the main entrance to the seraglio. “I am the Valide and wish to speak with the Kizlar Agasi,” she called.
“The Kizlar Agasi is not here,” came the reply.
“Then I wish to speak with the captain of the guards,” she said.
There was a commotion outside the doors, and a moment later they opened wide. A battalion of men stood outside the doors, but they were not Janissaries. Nakshidil realized that she was not covered, and the men instinctively turned their faces from her. A large, older man made his way through the crowd and stood before her. “Valide,” he said with a deep bow. “If you wish to retrieve your ferace, I will await.”
“I care nothing for protocol at this moment, sir. Please tell me who you are.”
“Pasha Baicatar, your grace, beneficent ruler of the Provence of Rustchuk and loyal servant of the true Sultan, Selim, at your service.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “And Baba Ben Osman?” she asked.
“I serve in his name, your grace.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Thank God you’ve arrived. Where is Selim?”
“We are here to find out,” he replied, “on our way to demand Mustapha grant us a meeting. I will leave my guards posted at these doors and will return with word when we have met with him. Please remain within, Your Grace.”
Aimée nodded and stepped back into the courtyard as the heavy doors closed.
~ ~ ~
The Pasha and half of his men were shown into one of the Sultan’s informal reception rooms. The Sulta
n’s throne sat at the far end of the room with the curtain drawn closed. Only four Janissary guards stood against the walls, and one of them said, “Speak your piece.”
“I am Pasha Baicatar, ruler of the Provence of Rustchuk, and I formally request an audience with the former Sultan Selim, as the edict of the Ulema provides.”
The voice from behind the curtain replied, “The person you speak of is a prisoner. No audience is allowed a prisoner.”
“In this case,” the Pasha replied, “no audience is actually required. I simply wish to see his person with my own eyes. There is no need for conversation, if my lord does not wish us to speak.”
Soft laughter could be heard from behind the curtain. “Very well then. You may see him, as you wish, and I doubt very much he will speak to you. Guards!” he shouted. “Bring the former Sultan before us.”
A door behind the throne opened, and two guards dragged the body of Selim into the room and dropped it at the Pasha’s feet. “The former Sultan Selim for your viewing,” Mustapha said.
The Pasha fell to his knees and held the lifeless face in his hands. “What have you done?” he asked.
One of his men stood close to him and whispered, “Let me kill him now.” He pulled the curtain aside to reveal Mustapha reclining there. Simultaneously, the Pasha’s men overwhelmed the Janissary guards and dragged the whimpering Sultan onto the floor.
“Stand on your feet!” the Pasha commanded. “You will lead us out of the palace, instructing any guards who may attempt to prevent our exit to stand aside. Do you understand?”
Mustapha cringed and nodded his head, then whimpered, “But you should know that I am the last of the Ottoman blood line.” They dare not kill the last living Ottoman, he thought.
Pasha Baicatar stood very close to Mustapha. “Where is the heir, Mahmud?” he asked quietly.
Mustapha shrugged his shoulders. “I am not sure where he is, but wherever that may be, he is already dead. You are too late.”
“We shall see,” the Pasha answered. “Now, lead us out of here and walk directly to the Divan.”