The Sultan's Daughter

by Ann Chamberlin

I wanted to go on and suggest that if he thought my master, the Grand Vizier, had any vestiges of his birthplace left on him, he obviously had not been paying attention in the Divan. And what made him think, I wanted to ask, that a Turkish Christian state should be any more moral than the European ones with which he was already familiar—broken treaties, injustices, and all?

  But the young man had already raised his eyebrows, startled, at my first expression of pessimism. It was, after all, only pessimism in Christian eyes. A fine Oriental fatalism had begun to impress me, in a curious mirror image, as optimism.

  And I took some comfort in the knowledge that Andrea Barbarigo could not truly know Baffo’s daughter, or he would have known that any true religion, Christianity or otherwise, was the farthest thing from her mind. Her child was healthy, he was male, but, most importantly, he was an Ottoman, heir to the world’s greatest Empire: these were the things she cared about.

  Venice, I thought, should have seen that their man Barbarigo was married and settled before sending him on this mission. His eyes, as Safiye had noted, were too full of idealism and romance. His unused lust manufactured heady visions of what must be behind the harem walls: helpless, languid females, exploited and waiting for a deliverer.

  At the time, I thought there was no harm in allowing him to keep these delusions. But such images of herself played the young diplomat’s intelligent but unharrowed mind right into Safiye’s hands, her lily-white hands which he never actually saw, but dreamed about. They manipulated him like a puppet on strings.

  XXVII

  I remember that first evening of autumn. There was a drizzle of rain outside, a blessing after the heat of a long and tedious summer. Esmikhan’s eyes had lit up like the fire itself when she’d seen old Ali’s wife bring in the tinderbox from the kitchen to fuss with the brazier for the first time that season. This was a definite sign that both Sokolli Pasha and Safiye and her young son would soon be returning to the capital, and then things would be lively again.

  Such musings assured my lady there was no need to manufacture excitement that evening. The musicians and dancers she often required to pass away the hours until she could retire without arousing rumors that she was dejected or out of sorts were allowed to keep to their quarters. Surely no one would think it amiss if she spent this first rainy fall evening quietly playing chess with her eunuch.

  Those who saw Esmikhan on a normal night—with her musicians and dancers—would hardly notice how four years of marriage had changed her. If anything she appeared more lively, now that all entertainments were in her control. “She’s gained a little weight,” might be their only remark which they would brush aside with, “That’s a sure sign she’s happy and well-treated. “

  But I had the privilege of her quiet nights, and I knew that the bright little princess for whom every day was a wonder and a joy—she was a rare visitor in our house these days. One might almost say it was a mask or a veil put on for the guests.

  It was not so noticeable in winter when she had Safiye and all her old friends to keep her company. Then it was quite easy for her to be carefree and teasing again, and the color bloomed in her cheeks like forced roses. But during that summer they had faded. There was no hiding the truth: Esmikhan was not making a very happy wife. And, for some things, a eunuch was just not a good substitute.

  Let me put it this way: Sokolli Pasha was not making a very good husband. I had overestimated the ability of duty to bring bliss. Or I underestimated the truth of the old Turkish proverb, “Duty never got a son.”

  Esmikhan liked to brush her causes for complaint off with a laugh. “Allah be praised, and He should make every woman cursed like me a daughter of the Sultan’s house. I have no fear of ever being divorced for childlessness, considering who my fathers are. That is some gift.”

  But I was more convinced than ever that the fault was with the master, not with my lady. Sokolli Pasha had suppressed his personal desires for so long that he was no longer capable of feeling them. No wonder the sons he got had little taste for life!

  Sokolli’s old mother had died quietly over her needlework one day some six months after her son was married. She never said, of course, but I got the distinct feeling that she realized there was only enough of her son to be dutiful to one woman, and she had the graciousness to bow out. But what had been sufficient for a tiny, frail, old woman was hardly enough for a girl—now a budding young woman—like Esmikhan.

  From the station of mere Pasha, my master had risen through a short stint as Kapudan Pasha, admiral of the fleet, until, at the death of old Ali Pasha in the previous Muslim year 972 (in the month Christians call June), he had been appointed Grand Vizier. To no higher post in the Islamic Empire can a man be named in recognition of his talents. The only post higher, that of Sultan, is a matter of birth, and takes neither labor nor talent at all.

  Needless to say, Sokolli Pasha was a very busy man, keeping all of his talents in constant employ. He had little time for romantic dalliance even if he had the natural inclination for it. The duty of visiting his wife’s bed the Pasha fulfilled meticulously twice a week—when he was home. But even when he did, neither he nor she got much pleasure from it.

  And the three dead sons.

  In no material way could it be said that Sokolli Pasha neglected his wife. Indeed, the palace in the great park had begun to make a name for itself because of the lavish parties its young mistress gave, the entertainments it offered, and the gifts presented to every comer, even the uninvited beggars at the door. Nothing made her happier than to give away time and affection thus, when she had so much to give. But she was growing wise much faster than the turn of years.

  “I know,” she would confide to me afterwards, “that a party is really just a lot of noise. It means nothing if there is nothing to celebrate but one’s wealth. To have a birth or a circumcision or a wedding to celebrate, only then is it a real party.”

  And “I know these are only friends bought with money. Don’t think they can fool me.”

  “I, too, am only bought with the master’s money,” I would say.

  “You can’t fool me, either, Abdullah,” she would say, taking my hand.

  And she would turn to me when all the others were gone.

  That first evening in autumn, when she turned to me once more over the excuse of a chess game, Sokolli Pasha had been gone from Constantinople for six full months. He was still at his master’s side, fighting the infidel across the Danube. That was where the most urgent duty lay. Who could make complaint? But Esmikhan’s womb had been empty eight months now. She mourned, but now, I think, she was almost glad to have had this time without something inside her, sapping her strength. I hoped that I came close to filling the void.

  Sokolli Pasha, when he did write, had other concerns besides an heir. He wrote through the hand of a secretary, with the large margins prescribed by official documents, each letter one of any number of dutied dispatches. And more often than not, the direction was to me, not my lady at all. I always read her everything; perhaps that’s what he expected.

  “Your lady’s grandfather”—he wrote—”may Allah always guard him, he is not the man he once was. Indeed, he has not been able to ride at the head of his troops this year. Still, he will go forward, even though it means a rough ride in a carriage. The armies of the Faith cannot win without his presence. We all feel that. Whatever happens, I avow it is Allah’s will, but I suspect the campaign may not last very long this year. Should there be a ploy made for the throne or a civil war in our absence, I would rather your lady were in my house than in another’s, even if that other is her caring father’s. I would not alarm you, but there are those who would put her brother forward as heir instead.”

  “Safiye for one,” my lady interjected at this point, and I nodded in agreement.

  “Prince Murad does sit in Magnesia,” the Grand Vizier continued, “and manages it with competence. I had a chance to see just how well this spring—when last Allah favored me with your
company. Magnesia is the closest sandjak to the throne, after all, the seat traditionally held by crown princes. But for all his sterling qualities, Murad is still young, susceptible to manipulation. And to go against direct father-son inheritance will only open the door to malcontents, provide them with a figurehead for whatever their reasons to divide the empire are. I would not have your lady have to make the trek from Constantinople to anywhere else in uncertain times such as we may, Allah protect us, live to see.”

  Other letters told how old Suleiman surprised them all and, even from a carriage, continued to direct raids, stealthy maneuvers behind the enemies’ backs, and great victories from the spring until this first rain.

  And now, what was rain in Constantinople might well be turning to snow in the Slovakian mountains. The army would be forced to return. But they would not return early and never on account of their commander’s health. That was the man Suleiman was.

  It had been a very long six months.

  XXVIII

  Esmikhan’s plump little face caught the lamplight as she studied the game. I found her beauty not breathtaking, but soft and comfortable. Her mind was that way, too, enjoying the game not for the strategy and the thrill of brilliant plays, but for the stories it told.

  “Alas, so many poor pawns’ lives sacrificed on the field of battle!” she exclaimed. “I pray to Allah to have mercy on them, for they died defending the Faith.

  “Oh, see how the grand Sultan forges ahead! No infidel can stand in his way! “There’s the elephant, stampeding out of control and lost in the mire. But here comes the good knight to lead him straight and help him capture that enemy soldier.” (The Turks call the piece Europeans know as a bishop “the elephant.”)

  “And here comes the Grand Vizier. Such a clever man, sneaking through enemy lines, speaking their heathen tongues as if he’d been born there, always at the Sultan’s side when he needs him. But he has left his poor princess at home on her own, and she will throw herself into enemy arms or die of boredom!”

  Of course there are no female pieces on an Eastern board; that would be unseemly. It is the Grand Vizier who holds the terrific power we in the West associate with the Queen. But Esmikhan could take no interest in the game unless she could personalize it, as she had no use for stories without a heroine, and so she usually called one of the pawns herself in the disguise of a poor peasant. Her instincts of self-defense often forced her to move in ways no other player would, making all sorts of sacrifices for that one pawn. When that piece did finally make it across the board, however, off would come the disguise, the veils thrown aside to reveal a figure of such wonderful power that few fairy tales can boast similar transformations.

  In spite of her novel view of the game, Esmikhan was a good player. As the game wound down to her victory this time, however, she seemed to lose interest. Several times I left my “shah” open to death, “mot” (“Shahmot” is our checkmate), and she made some silly move instead, either on purpose, to draw the game and our time together, out, or because her mind was elsewhere. She spent a lot of time pretending to study the board, but in fact it was the fire within the brazier’s grate I saw reflected in her great brown eyes. If she wasn’t careful, she would let me win, and capture the little pawn called Esmikhan as well. “Esmikhan,” I warned her, reaching out to touch her hand—ivory like the board it rested on. “Lady?”

  She was in the middle of turning to me with a sigh when a sound in the selamlik below brought us both to our feet.

  “Whoever can that be?” she asked, and I read in her face a curious struggle between hope and despair as she thought, My husband!

  From the room where we sat, a window covered with a wooden lattice looked down into the main sitting room of the selamlik. It had been installed at Safiye’s suggestion. Safiye was convinced her friend would get on better with her husband if she took an interest in his affairs and overheard some of his meetings with diplomats and ambassadors. It certainly made Safiye a more frequent visitor in our home—when she was in town. But Esmikhan had no patience with such spying, and usually the window went unused. Now we both ran to it at once.

  Mejnun, the gatekeeper, opened the door and ushered a total stranger into the room below. Mejnun called for Ali, who entered and asked what he could do for the man. The man did not speak, but showed the old slave a very small object.

  “It’s my husband’s signet ring!” Esmikhan whispered and I knew she must be right, for both Mejnun and Ali set about removing the guest’s drenched and muddy wraps and making him at home.

  He was a tall man, and broad. None of the width was superfluous, however. He must have been nearing thirty. Masses of dark, curly moustache had not a streak of gray. His turban must have once been white cotton, but it was now a little worse for the weather. The decorative peak in his headgear’s center had lost its shape and color, so one would be hard-pressed to call it silk and not some sort of black pudding. There was a jeweled clasp in his turban, too, in which a crest of black feathers could be stuck—a crest that had long ago blown away.

  It was only when his mantle was removed that his trousers above the thigh showed their true, dry, clean color—violet—and we knew his turban peak must have originally been purple, too, a color which marked him as a spahi-oghlan, a member of the Sultan’s standing cavalry. Still we had no indication of rank, any more than that he had at some time or other been decorated for valor in action. A jeweled scimitar under a cloth-of-gold vest he refused to give up to the slaves—that completed the costume.

  “He looks something like you, Abdullah,” Esmikhan mused.

  “Yes,” I replied in a scoffing whisper. “If Allah ever willed me into a spahi uniform.”

  “Go entertain him, Abdullah,” Esmikhan said.

  “Me, Lady?”

  “Yes, please. Those two slaves are such dolts, and you know that’s all the staff my husband left in the selamlik. A man with Sokolli Pasha’s signet ring deserves better than that. Ali will do nothing but bring him supper, and then leave him on his own while Mejnun will simply bow and stare. But you may talk intelligently to him, and make him feel truly welcome. You might also discover”—she finally came to the point—”why it is that he has come.”

  Mejnun had bowed his way back to his post, and Ali had set a fire going in the brazier and brought water for the man to make his ablutions when I entered the room. I salaamed, introduced myself, and said that my mistress wished the stranger welcome. The man nodded his thanks to me, but politely did not glance towards the lattice which he could not fail to notice over our heads.

  It was only then that I found some ease enough to notice what a truly stunning piece of man’s flesh he was. His eyes, though small and unassuming, were bright, and his jaw square and firm under several days’ growth of beard. He was quite tall, and of perfect and strong proportions, even for a spahi, who takes little thought but for exercise and athletics.

  He moved, however, not with a swagger like many such soldiers, but with a cautious grace as if to say, “I like nothing better than to dance, to move, to run, to leap, but I will forbear in your presence because I know it is not polite to be so self-indulgent.”

  Most remarkable of all was his smile. Thin, firm lips, they burst onto a perfect set of large, white teeth at the slightest provocation. Like ataïf, wedding pancakes, I thought, overstuffed with honey and sweet clotted cream—one had to move it quickly to one’s mouth lest the sweetness spill stickily all over. Even exhausted and on guard as I could tell our guest was, the natural set of his lips was up rather than straight across or down, and little creases at the corners, quite like dimples, told me that he grinned a lot in battle, too.

  “Ferhad,” he said his name was, but he was very tight-lipped about it, as if he wished it were one syllable instead of two.

  Ali brought warm tea, and then food, and the guest ate heartily—one might almost say ravenously, but he was too polite for that. On first impression he was careful not to let his exhaustion show lest it cause
too great an imposition. I realized more and more clearly however that he had ridden long and hard before coming to rest in this place. I struck upon this detail and tried to use it to pry into conversation once his hunger was abated. He was washing his fingers in rosewater to finish, an act which did not seem at all incongruous to this soldier.

  “Where did you come from today?” I asked. “Çorlu?”

  “My horse came from there.” He smiled. “I myself left Sofija four days ago.”

  “Sofija?” I said. “But that’s impossible. That’s more than three hundred old Roman miles as the crow flies.”

  The spahi smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t bragging, only stating a fact, and I knew better than to doubt him further.

  “You must be on extremely urgent business,” I commented.

  The spahi smiled and shrugged again, but I got no more from him that night, for even as I sat there, he lay down on the divan and slept like a dead man.

  When he woke the next evening, and had eaten quantities more, Esmikhan, who had refused to see any of her gossiping maids all the while he slept, sent me down to entertain him once again. I found him more relaxed and, if possible, more amiable. But he was not more communicative.

  “You are, of course, welcome as our guest to stay as long as you wish,” I coaxed him. “But we are only a house full of old slaves and women. Surely the quarters of the spahis in the Grand Serai would be more entertaining for a young man such as yourself.”

  Our guest smiled to show he forgave me my rudeness, but he said no more than, “Tell your women not to fear, my friend. Show them this ring if they are in doubt. They must recognize it.”

  I nodded at the plain, large agate he showed me. Yes, we knew it.

  “I can only say I come from their master and mine, and that the Grand Vizier and I are bearers of a heavy burden.”

  Had I been listening closely, I might have guessed what his cryptic words meant, but we had to live together thus, dissatisfied, for nearly a month, before the truth was known.