SERAGLIO

by Colin Falconer

  The solution was surprisingly simple. He found Bayezid's horse one day before a game and sawed halfway through the saddle strap with a serrated knife.

  Tents had been pitched round the field and crowds of Yeniçeris clustered round to watch. Selim knew the Sultan would probably be watching also from the walls overlooking the field. Well they won't be able to cheer their young hero today, Selim thought. I'd like to see Hakim's face when our young hero is trampled under the hoofs.

  The two teams circled each other, the thunder of the horses echoing from the palace walls. Clouds of dust drifted across the field. Bayezid broke and charged first, as he always did. Two of the Greens split from the group and headed towards him at full tilt. Selim checked his own horse to the flank.

  As the riders closed he heard a shout and saw one of the riders fall. The horses thundered over the top of him. He lay face down in the dust.

  Immediately the two Greens dropped their javelins and leaped from their horses.

  'It's Bayezid!' someone shouted. 'He's hurt!'

  Selim walked his mount through the settling clouds of dust. Bayezid was still lying there, face down, he had not moved. There was a satisfying smudge of blood on his turban. Selim tried to look concerned.

  'Is he dead?' he asked, hopefully.

  ***

  But Bayezid did not die. The lump on his head was impressive and he limped badly for many weeks afterwards and could not ride in the çerit, but he did not die. When it was discovered that the fault was with his saddle harness Hakim was put to the bastinado for negligence and exiled to Bitlis.

  Not the perfect revenge, but it would do. I may be slow to learn certain lessons, Hakim, but I am not slow in everything.

  Chapter 21

  The Sirocco originates in the Sahara, its hot breath scalding Tripoli and Algiers and the ruins of Carthage before heading across the Mediterranean towards Europe. By the time it reaches the distant shores across the ocean thunderheads have banked to the stars behind it. Everything wilts.

  On the night he had chosen to execute Hürrem's latest caprice, it rushed through the narrow streets of Stamboul like a gale, bending the branches of the cypress trees in the palace gardens, whipping the red and green flags of the palace into a frenzy, piling froth on the distant shores of the Bosphorus. Its stinking breath was oppressive.

  Perfect weather, Abbas thought.

  He had delayed four nights before judging the wind at its peak. The Palace was in darkness when he set off with two bostanji through a little-used gate in the southern wall. The three eunuchs were gone for less than an hour but when they returned an orange stain was already creeping up the horizon and over the roofs of the cramped wooden houses in a false dawn.

  As soon as they were back inside the saraya Abbas found the bostanji-bashi and slipped an emerald ring into his palm. He used sign language to indicate that the two men who had accompanied him on his errand that night should not live to see the morning.

  Then he returned to his cell and waited, wondering what other crimes he might yet commit in the name of love.

  ***

  The booming of the tambours echoed through the dark streets. The Palace woke to the cries of: 'Yanghinvar! Fire!'

  Abbas ran from his cell. He could hear women screaming from one of the upstairs dormitories. In the courtyard below two guards had drawn their yataghans in confusion - idiots, he thought impatiently. Couldn't they smell the smoke?

  He did not hesitate; after all, he had had days to rehearse each move and Hürrem had made it quite clear what his first duty should be. He rousted two of his pages from their beds and rattled off the list of instructions he had memorized: prepare the coaches; get all the women downstairs into the courtyard; send six other pages to the dressmaker and bring all of Lady Hürrem's possessions down to safety.

  Naturally she could not leave anything behind of hers. Not even if the whole city roasted.

  Then he ran puffing up the stairs to her apartments.

  ***

  He was astonished at her appearance. She must have been grooming herself all night, he decided. She had on a stunning emerald-green kaftan of alternating crescent and stars over a white chemise emblazoned with rumi scrollwork in gold thread. Her hair was plaited with tiny emeralds and pearls and her yashmak was in place. Muomi stood beside her, holding a ferijde of violet silk.

  So this is what one wears to a fire! She was perfumed, of course, for she would not present herself to the Sultan after an inferno reeking of smoke.

  'What took you so long, my Aga?' she hissed. 'Did you want me to cook in my bed?'

  'They have just sounded the alarm, My Lady,' he gasped. He was panting from the exertion of climbing two flights of stairs.

  'Why did you need to wait for the alarm? You already knew the city was alight.'

  Abbas lurched to the window and groaned aloud. God help me in my sorrow, I had not meant for half of Stamboul to be swallowed up by the conflagration. The wind had fanned the flames into a firestorm and the wooden buildings on the hill below were being gobbled up in moments. The fire was rolling towards them like a wave.

  He watched a house catch light, flare and then cave in, sending a shower of sparks into the night sky. All in a matter of moments! People rushed up the alley, carrying all they could on their backs, tripping over each other in panic. The mass of people looked like a river flooding through a chasm, a torrent of torches and wide-eyed oxen, blindfolded rearing horses and unveiled women.

  God forgive me, Abbas thought. I never imagined anything like this.

  A red hot cinder was hurled towards him on the wind and caught his cheek. He howled and jumped back. 'We must hurry!' he shouted.

  'I have been waiting to hurry for hours,' Hürrem said, as if she were late for a formal entertainment at the Hippodrome.

  Muomi helped her into her cloak, drawing the cazeta over her face to preserve her anonymity and her dignity. Then she put on her own hooded cloak and Abbas led them out of the apartment and down the stairs.

  He had thought they would have more time. Even with all my preparations I may still be too late, he thought. The coaches were waiting on the cobblestones. 'Get … inside!' he shouted, gasping for breath. 'Quickly!'

  The two shrouded figures pushed past him and into the first coach. He shut the door behind them. A hand snaked out from behind the taffeta curtain and grasped his own. The hooded figure leaned towards him and for a moment he thought she was about to whisper her thanks.

  'Leave behind anything of mine,' she hissed, her face invisible behind the cazeta, 'anything at all - and it will be your head!'

  Topkapi Saraya

  Abbas slumped to his knees to execute his sala'am at the feet of the Lord of Life. He rested his forehead on the carpet a little longer than was necessary and was afterwards unable to rise to his feet once more. His pelisse reeked of wood smoke and his face and turban were smeared with grime.

  Suleiman watched him, creased with anguish.

  'A thousand pardons my Lord,' Abbas gasped.

  'Does my servant need the physician?'

  'I am merely fatigued.' Two pages finally helped him back to his feet.

  'There has been a fire at the Eski Saraya?' Suleiman was impatient for the Kislar Aghasi to tell his story and leave. Where was Hürrem?

  'The entire palace was in flames when I left. However all the women are safe.'

  'Hürrem?'

  'She waits outside the door. I guarded her life as I might that of your most …' He staggered and recovered. ' … precious treasure.'

  'We are in your debt,' Suleiman said. Just depart and let me see Hürrem! He was not dressed for audience with slaves. He had been abruptly woken from his sleep and wore only a kaftan and fez. 'There were no injuries?'

  'I fear a number of my pages and guards were burned in the fire … as they were attempting to recover some of my Lady's jewels and clothes from her apartment.'

  'The palace is destroyed?'

  'My last vision of it …
it was totally engulfed in flame.'

  'I commend you Abbas, for your efforts. Send in the Lady Hürrem and the rest. We shall speak again in the morning.'

  'My Lord,' he said and slumped again to the ground to perform a final sala'am. Suleiman thought that he had fallen unconscious but with one final effort he raised his great bulk from the floor and staggered from the room.

  A few moments later a figure swathed in violet silk appeared and almost immediately fell to the ground, this time from exhaustion not because of any ceremonial. Suleiman leaped from his divan and rushed across the room to help her. 'Hürrem, are you all right?' He threw back the cazeta. Her face was pale and her eyes red from crying. 'My little russelana, are you hurt?'

  She shook her head. He felt her tremble in his arms like a small bird. 'They shouldn't have gone back in there just for a few trinkets,' she said. 'I told them not to.'

  'Who?'

  'Those poor servants … it was just some silks and bracelets … not worth a life.'

  He felt her heartbeat as he held her and thanked God for it. 'When the messenger told me about the fire and I saw the glow above the saraya …I do not know what I would have done if anything happened to my russelana …'

  'It was terrible. It was the smell of smoke that woke me. I thought I was going to die.'

  He buried his face in her neck and gratitude swiftly transformed into desire. He wanted to reclaim his possession of her over death. He hooked his fingers into the neck of her chemise and tore it down its full length. 'Until the coaches came I thought you were gone,' he said.

  'It was kismet,' she said.

  'Russelana,' he said and felt his voice catch in his throat. He rolled between her legs and took her, there on the carpets, sobbing with relief. Where would he be without her?

  ***

  Suleiman does not look quite as well disposed to the mercies of the Great God this morning, Abbas thought. He looks, perhaps, even a little sour. 'You must accommodate Hürrem and the other women in the Palace here until other arrangements can be made,' Suleiman said.

  'It poses a problem, my Lord,' Abbas said.

  'I do not wish to hear of problems.'

  'I would not burden you with such trivialities, but it requires your special permission.'

  'To set aside one corner of the Palace for my haremlik? How difficult can it be to find rooms for a few women and their servants?'

  Abbas stared at him, appalled. Could it be that the Lord of Life was ignorant of the true size of his Harem - and in particular, Hürrem's private arrangements? 'My Lord, my Lady Hürrem's retinue alone is a large one, as befitting the favoured kadin of the Lord of Life.'

  Suleiman shifted irritably on the divan. 'How large?'

  'She has herself thirty pages and slaves …'

  'Thirty!'

  ' … and one hundred and three ladies in waiting …'

  'What?'

  ' … and of course there is her purveyor and her dressmaker. It means a total of one hundred and thirty seven people, including myself.'

  'Abbas!'

  'Add to that number the one hundred and nine girls who still remain in my Lord's Harem, plus perhaps an equal number of pages and hand maidens …'

  Suleiman tugged at his beard. He looked alarmed. 'My private quarters will be totally over run.'

  'Until other arrangements are made.' Abbs tried not to gloat. Oh, she's really got you this time.

  Suleiman sighed. 'Very well.'

  'My Lord?'

  'There is nothing else to be done. The Harem must be housed somewhere. Take whatever rooms you need, I will authorize it. In the meantime I shall summon my architect, Sinan. We shall have to set to work on a new saraya for the Harem immediately.'

  Chapter 22

  There are lines around her eyes, Selim thought. I never noticed them before. But then how often have I seen her in the last twelve months? He kissed her hand and Bayezid did the same. Then they stood back, their arms crossed on their breasts as they had been taught to do in the Enderun.

  Muomi stood behind her, always there, at her shoulder. How he hated her. Black and sullen and malevolent. She's a witch.

  'You've grown into a fine boy, Bayezid. Your tutors say you are a fine horseman and athlete.'

  'Thank you, Mother.'

  'But you must try harder at your studies. Even when you leave the Enderun, you should never stop learning. If you are ever to become Sultan you will need more than your skill with a javelin and a horse.'

  'I will do my best.'

  Don't waste your breath, Selim thought. He ignores everything you say. My brother's handsome head is as hollow as a drum.

  'And you Selim …' Hürrem sighed. 'They say you are too fond of sweetbreads.'

  'I study hard.'

  'Really? Your tutors say they have to pound every lesson into your head with their knuckles.'

  Yes, they do, and don't think I will ever forget it. 'I will do my best, Mother,' he said, testing the defence his brother had used.

  'Your best is not good enough. You are my firstborn. You are the one on whom the hopes of the Osmanlis rest if anything should ever happen to Mustapha.'

  Is that entirely true. Mother? I have seen the way you look at my little brother. I think your hopes reside elsewhere. It's never been a secret who your favourite is. But then, he's everyone's favourite, the tutors especially. Everyone except Suleiman. He dotes on my idiot brother Çehangir now that Mehmet is dead. So unlike Mehmet to get sick. Until he died he had done everything right.

  But things were changing at last. Now he had a chance to get away from the palace, away from the shadow of Bayezid. When he took up his governorship in Konya, Bayezid would be on the other side of Anatolia, at Amasya. If Fortune were kind he would fall of his horse one day playing çerit.

  'You must write to me often,' Hürrem said.

  'We will, Mother,' Bayezid said, for both of them.

  I will curse you every dawn and evening in my prayers, Selim thought.

  'My hopes rest in you,' Hürrem said to Bayezid. Then she turned to Selim with a beatific smile. 'Oh Selim, you are the shape of a watermelon!'

  ***

  The shape of a watermelon.

  Selim often wondered who it was he hated the most; himself for not being more like Suleiman or Bayezid, because he was. While he was white and fat, Bayezid was olive and lean and handsome. It was one of life's cruel jokes; two brothers born under the same roof, one with personality and strength and talent, the other without talent at all. He imagined God had a similar sense of humour to his mother.

  But now as he said his goodbyes to his mother he remembered again the fragility of his position. When his father died - tomorrow, in thirty years, but someday - the fight for the succession would begin. Mustapha was shahzade, and he guessed that even his noble soul would not shrink from having all of Hürrem's sons eliminated to protect his throne.

  If by some great fortune Mustapha were already dead, then the throne should be Selim's. But he did not imagine for an instant that Bayezid would let him have it. One of them would have to die. The Fatih's law allowed for a Sultan to kill all his brothers and their children to protect his succession and the stability of the empire. Would the Yeniçeris support him against his brilliant warrior brother? Unlikely.

  A grim future.

  'Go in peace,' Hürrem said to Bayezid and Selim.

  Peace! As if there was any peace to be head for a son of Suleiman; let alone a watermelon like me.

  ***

  Hürrem stared at the vaulted ceiling. A germ of an idea had insinuated itself into her mind.

  Selim ...

  Thanks be to God, Selim did not look so much like his real father, the former Chief White Eunuch. Though who would remember him anyway? Those dangerous days in the court of the Eski Saraya were long past and lived on only now in Selim.

  When he was born she had not been sure who the father was, yet by the time he was grown and it should have been plain to everyone, Çehangir had come a
long to cast doubt on everything. Who would have believed the Lord of Life could have sired a hunchback cripple? So then why not a fat, pasty-faced and surly youth with no real talent except for nursing slights?

  He was no ghazi, and no Sultan, just as Suleiman's mother had said.

  It was obvious to her which of her boys would succeed if there was a contest for the throne between them, which one should have her blessings and her encouragement. Bayezid would make a fine Sultan, if it came to it, almost as good as Mustapha.

  And then another idea presented itself in all its panoramic and glorious perversity and she laughed aloud.

  Chapter 23

  The Bosphorus, off Çamlica.

  They escaped the hot August night on the slick still waters of the Bosphorus. A black and gold caïque was always in readiness for them at Seraglio Point and Suleiman sailed into the Horn with Hürrem, accompanied only by three deaf-mute bostanji to man the tiller and oars. They drifted with the current a stone's throw from the shore. Torches burned at prow and stern.

  There was a cabin at the stern hung with black velvet curtains to assure their privacy. Hürrem peered out, saw the dark cedar-grown cemeteries of Çamlica slide past in the darkness.

  Suleiman seemed once again preoccupied. He had changed so much since Ibrahim's death. He seldom laughed anymore. He had dismissed all the musicians from the seraglio and had their instruments burned. He never even asked her to play for him now; he said the music of the viol reminded him too much of Ibrahim.

  He had learned to punish himself in small ways. He sent his favourite green and white Chinese porcelain back to the treasure house at Yedikule and ate instead from earthenware. He had drunk not one drop of wine since his Vizier's death.