He spent more time now with his architect than he did with her. 'I have consulted with Sinan,' he said, predictably. 'He has drawn some plans I would like you to see.'
'You are going to build a mosque in my honour?'
'It is not holy to joke that way.'
'I am sorry, My lord. I thought you liked me to be a little wicked sometimes.'
'This is a serious matter and requires your attention. I have asked him to design a new palace on the ruins of the old Eski Saraya.'
What is this obsession with building, she thought. Once he was merely the Sultan by God-given right; but since Ibrahim he has found this need to justify himself.
'I would like you to study his plans and give them your approval.'
Hürrem pouted. 'Is it so terrible for you, having me here in the palace?'
'You know that is not the case. There is simply no room for the Harem at the Topkapi. It is impossible.'
'Of course there is room. Why not have Sinan put his talents to use in the Fourth Court? A man could gallop through there all day and not reach Seraglio Point.'
'A wild exaggeration. Besides, there are other considerations.'
'Tell me them.'
'Considerations of state.'
'It all sounds so pompous.'
'The Harem simply cannot be part of the royal palace. It has always been separate.'
'It is a large harem, my Lord. Do you still hunger for the other girls?'
'Of course not.'
'Then perhaps if you no longer require them, you could order the Kislar Aghasi to find them husbands. Then it would be only me and my household that you would need house here.'
'What you are asking is unthinkable. Sinan has been commissioned. There is an end to it.'
Hürrem realized she had gone too far. She should not push him. She had not really expected that he would agree. She nuzzled closer, resting her head on his chest. There were better ways to get what she wanted. 'I am sorry of I gave you offense, my Lord. It is just that I would so hate to be parted from you again.'
'Hürrem sometimes you forget yourself.'
She nestled closer. 'Do you love me, my Sultan?'
'I love you more than my life.'
'More than Gülbehar?'
"Gülbehar! I have not thought about her for months.'
'Yet she is first kadin.'
'It is the law.'
'But you love me more?'
'What more do you want from me? I have sent Gülbehar away. The only time I ever visited the old Harem was to see you. I love you more than I have loved any woman.'
'So will you make me your queen one day?'
Suleiman said nothing for a long time, seemingly dazzled by the impertinence of such a suggestion. Then he started to laugh.
'What are you laughing at?'
'Don't look so angry, little russelana.'
'Tell me why you are laughing at me!'
'It's impossible!'
'Impossible to think of me as anything other than a slave?'
'Of course. The Sultan may never marry.'
'It is part of the Sheri'at?'
'There is nothing written.'
'It is not in the kanuni?'
He shook his head.
'Then why not?'
Suleiman tried to pat her cheek but she twisted away. 'No Sultan has married since Bayezid the First,' he said.
'You are greater than him. You are greater than any Sultan there has ever been.'
'There are good reasons for this.'
'Dead men make the rules for you? You are the Kanuni, the Lawgiver. That's what they call you isn't it? You. You make the laws not ghosts from the past.'
He sighed. 'I will tell you a story about our history and the very first Bayezid of the Oslamlis. He was a Sultan long before we came here to Stamboul. He married a Serbian princess, a very beautiful woman; her name was Despina. At the time we were struggling with the Mongols for control of Anatolia. Bayezid met Tamerlane in battle at Angora and was defeated. It was a terrible defeat; Bayezid was captured and so was Despina. Tamerlane wanted to humiliate us so he forced Despina to wait naked on him and his generals at table. It was the darkest moment in our history. The shame of it still burns in every ghazi. Our weakness, you see, is our women. Since then no Sultan has ever married, so that we can never be weak that way again.'
'That was long ago. Your people were nomads then. Now you are lord of the world's greatest empire. Who will ever take me prisoner my Lord?'
Suleiman sighed. 'What you ask is impossible.'
'There are no more Tamerlanes. The whole world quakes at your feet …'
'Let us talk no more about it.'
'But my Lor-'
'We talk no more about it!'
She fell to her knees on the floor of the barge and kissed his hand. 'Forgive me, My Lord. My passion for you sometimes drowns the voice of reason.'
He sighed and lifted her from the floor onto his lap. He had a look of weary forbearance, as if he were admonishing a child. Sometimes you are impertinent and rash. Now I want you to give me your opinion on Sinan's plans. Let that be an end to it. You are fortunate that I indulge you even this much.'
'Yes, my Lord,' she whispered and lowered her eyes.
After she had gushed appropriately at the wonder of Sinan's designs, she let Suleiman unfasten the pearl buttons of her chemise and then toss aside her sheer silk pantaloons. The night was warm. The moans of the Sultan's pleasures drifted across the oily black water. The owls in the cemetery at Çamlica added to the symphony of the night.
I will not go leave here, Hürrem thought. There is a way to persuade you and I will find it.
Chapter 24
Stamboul
The Aya Sofia had once been the greatest church in all Christendom until the Fatih had conquered Constantinople and claimed it as his mosque. It was as vast as heaven, its dome soaring far above, seemingly unsupported, like the cupped hand of God. It was said that when Justinian entered his great creation for the first time, almost a thousand years before, he had exclaimed: 'Glory to God that I have been judged worthy of such a work! Oh Solomon, I have outdone you!'
It was sunset, the hour of lamp lighting, and the Reader's only light came from the stained windows far above. He stood on the prayer stand, a sword in his hand, a Qu'ran in the other, his voice echoing around the vast church.
Hürrem was concealed behind a latticed screen, kneeling on her seccade, a ruby red and ivory prayer rug of age-worn silk. Below her thousands of turbans bobbed in unison, the prayers susurrating around the walls. This ritual meant nothing to her, but it always impressed her with its power.
Here, she thought, was the real power behind the Osmanlis. Perhaps I have paid it too scant attention.
The droning of the mufti and the repetition of movement focused her mind. She thought about her conversation on the caïque with Suleiman. She had achieved so much but still she was still at the mercy of Suleiman's caprice.
Or was it more than that? Duty, tradition, religion; yes, most of all, these people were driven by their fear of their own God. She had still not approached this mystery and that was why, thus far, she did not truly govern her own fate.
Suleiman might be intent for now on building a new Harem on the site of the old, but while the ashes of the Eski Saraya were still warm, now was her greatest opportunity to persuade him to relinquish it. If he made her his queen she would be safe from any challenger who might yet appear to usurp her.
Whenever she thought of the injustice, it famed the flames of her fury. It was unbearable. Slave girls who had come to the Harem at the same time as she, long ago, had since been married off to a pasha or a Spahi officer and now had their own property and status as a wife. She, the favourite of the Lord of Life, still remained a slave. She was Suleiman's constant companion and bedmate but it was another woman's son who would inherit the throne after his death.
She touched her forehead to the carpet, murmuring her prayers, as the gloom gathered
inside the church. A thousand candles were lit, one by one, around the walls and with their glow the answer was slowly illuminated in her own mind.
Of course. There was a way to make him take her as his queen and the answer lay right here, with Islam. She would use the will of God to bend him to the will of his woman.
Manisa
The gardens of Mustapha's haremlik blazed with hundreds of tulips. Gülbehar sat alone in a kiosk below the fortress wall, listening to the hum of the bees. She did not hear her son approach.
'Hello, Mother.'
'Mustapha!'
'I find you well'
She smiled with pleasure and held out her hand. He raised it to his lips and sat down beside her. 'Better for knowing you are returned!' she said. She clutched his hand in both of hers and would not let it go. 'I have missed you. How was Stamboul?'
'Ripe with gossip as always. Everyone from the lowliest hawker to the Mixer of the Sultan's Cordials fancies himself as Seraskier and plans the next campaign against the Holy Roman Empire.'
'I am sure they will leave some part of it for you to conquer when you are Sultan.'
'As God wills.'
She searched his eyes. 'You saw your father?'
'I saw him.'
'Did he ask after me?'
'He sends his felicitations for your continued good health.'
Her smile vanished. 'I keep thinking that one day he will ask for me again. But what would he want with an old woman? He still consorts with the ziadi?'
'Mother, she's not a witch, she's just a woman.'
'You love him too much, Mustapha, he's not the saint you think he is.'
Mustapha squeezed her hand. 'I don't condone what he did to you. But he is my father and my Sultan. Never ask me to speak against him.'
Gülbehar turned away. She had promised herself that when he returned she would be gay and attentive and not speak of harem politics. But how could she ignore it? Whether she was a part of it or not, it controlled her future and the future of her son. Suleiman … my lord, my life.
She forced a smile. 'And what other news from the city?'
'There were great dramas while I was there. There was a fire at the Eski Saraya. The old palace was burned to ashes and most of the surrounding quarter …'
'Hürrem?'
'She was not harmed. She sleeps now in the seraglio …'
'The seraglio!'
'What else might Suleiman do with her?'
'She actually sleeps in the palace?'
Mustapha shrugged. 'For now. Sinan is to build a new Harem on the site of the old.'
'How can you still smile when you tell me these things? Do you think it is of such little account? Sinan will not build a new Harem. She is inside the palace now and she will never leave it.'
' …Mother!'
'She spins her web. Be careful Mustapha.'
'I am the shahzade, she cannot change that. You credit her with too much.' He raised Gülbehar's hand to his lips once more. 'He loves her more than you. I wish it were not so. But it is no more than that. Try to forget.'
Forget!
He talked then about his family, asked first about his sons and hoped she had not had trouble from his kadins. Gülbehar ruled his harem; she knew all that happened, spoiled her grandsons, and barely tolerated his wives. So she told him what he needed to know and took care not to mention Suleiman again. But she was distracted and the pleasure of seeing her son once more was soured by old ghosts.
After he left, she crushed her fists into her lap. What could she do? No matter what she said, he would not listen. He did not see the danger. But why should he? He was only a man.
Topkapi Saraya
There were two codes of law in the Islamic empire of the Osmanlis. There were the kanuni - the laws formulated by the Sultan himself - and then there was the Sheri'at, the sacred and immutable law of Islam. While the Sultan ruled alone and with absolute power, even he was subject to the sacred laws of all Muslins, which was the written word of God.
The Sheri'at was interpreted by the ulema, the council of religious judges, who alone were able to issue fetwas, or opinions, on any question in accordance with Islamic jurisprudence. However their power was held in check in that they could not issue a fetwa unless invited and could not speak unless their opinion was sought.
Each governor had their own mufti to guide them in matters of religious law. The foremost judge, the sheyhülislam, was assigned for the spiritual guidance of the Sultan himself; only he could declare a war holy, and therefore make it justified. As Defender of the Faith the Sultan's sworn duty was to uphold the Sheri'at, so in effect the sheyhülislam was one of the most powerful men in the Ottoman empire.
Suleiman's sheyhülislam was Abu Sa'ad.
That morning he received an important and unexpected visitor. The Lady Hürrem had recently displayed an encouraging and passionate devotion to Islam, and had used a great deal of her personal wealth to build a hospital and mosque. She had now requested an audience with him, though he had no idea why.
His room was a simple chamber overlooking the gardens of the second court and there was little furniture as befitting a man of ascetic tastes. There were a few Persian rugs on the floor, and a low walnut table. The room was dominated by a Qu'ran stand of ivory and tortoiseshell. A Qu'ran lay open upon it, the pages illuminated in gold and blue script.
This was where he chose to receive his famous guest.
The Lady Hürrem was preceded into the room by the Kislar Aghasi, two pages helping him ease his great bulk onto the floor. Then Hürrem entered, completely hidden by her chadoor, a covering of violet silk that covered her entire body. The sheyhülislam clapped his hands together twice and pages fetched sherbets for his guests although he knew only Abbas would drink. Hürrem would leave her cup untouched; to drink from it would expose her hand and face to the sheyhülislam and disgrace them both.
'I am honoured by your presence, My Lady,' Abu Sa'ad said. 'God rejoices in the great zeal with which you have forsaken the pagan gods of your youth and embraced the one true faith.'
'I still have much to learn,' Hürrem said.
'We all have much to learn.'
He glanced at Abbas, looking for some clue as to the purpose of this meeting. But the Kislar Aghasi stared stonily out of the window. The pages brought their iced sherbets and retired. Abu Sa'ad waited for Hürrem to speak.
'As you know, I have been much honoured by the Lord of Life,' she said.
He bowed his head in recognition of the Sultan's generosity towards her.
'It has given me great pleasure to pass on some of my bounty to the glory of Islam'
'Your generosity has been most welcome.'
'But there is a question that has been troubling me. It is a matter of religion that a poor woman such as myself does not understand. Have my donations I have made counted towards the piety of my soul?'
Abu Sa'ad blinked. 'Well, it is indeed a pious act …'
'And so they have been recorded in the great book in Paradise and count towards the salvation of my soul?'
He paused. The answer of course was plain, but he took care in how he phrased his reply. 'It is a gracious act, my Lady, yes. But as … a bondswoman … it may not be recorded against your own name in Paradise. Rather it increases the sanctity of the Sultan, may God keep him and grant him increase.'
'Then my good works are to no avail?'
'On the contrary. They are to the glory of God and the Sultan.'
'But there will be no place for me in Paradise?'
He thought he heard a sob catch in her throat but without seeing her face it was impossible to tell whether or not he had imagined it. 'That I cannot say.'
'Thank you for seeing me,' Hürrem said. Abbas was helped to his feet and he, in turn, helped her from the floor. Abu Sa'ad was sure now that she was weeping beneath the chador. He felt sorry for her. But then he reminded himself that she was, after all, just a woman and did not feel the pain of the spirit as acutely as
a man.
Chapter 25
Suleiman, lord of Life, Possessor of Men's Necks, reclined on a divan piled with silk cushions and watched Hürrem stare down at the Golden Horn. The Çinili kiosk offered an uninterrupted view of the Horn, and there were verses from the Qu'ran emblazoned on the walls in Arabic script, yellow on midnight blue. They might as well have been sitting in a sewer for all the pleasure it seemed to give his second kadin. She looked pale and had hardly said a word all afternoon. What was the matter with her? Was she sick, was she pining for something?
Or was it, he thought angrily, just part of her ploy to discredit Sinan's attempts to design a new palace for the Harem?
Another fine afternoon ruined. 'Hürrem, come and sit by me.'
Hürrem settled meekly by his side. She nestled her head against his shoulder.
'What is wrong, russelana?'
'My Lord, it is nothing. It will pass.'
'The last time I saw you, you told me it was your time of the moon. Before that you said it was a passing melancholy. I cannot remember the last time I saw you smile.'
'Forgive me. Perhaps you should send me away.'
'Perhaps I should,' he growled. He jumped to his feet. The sudden movement startled the two black guards. Hürrem curled her knees up to her chest, avoiding his eyes. 'You must tell me what is wrong!'
'My Lord, I cannot.'
'You cannot? I am your Sultan, your Lord. Have you forgotten?' Tell me why you mope like this. I cannot tolerate such miserable spirits a moment longer!'
Hürrem covered her face with her hands.
'Will you please stop snivelling and tell me!' He snatched her hands away but the sight of her wounded face softened him. He sat down and cradled her in his arms. 'Please tell me,' he repeated, more gently.
'My Lord, I fear for my soul.'
This abrupt confession caught him off balance. He almost laughed with relief. Was that all? 'We all fear for our souls.'
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