The Sultan's Daughter

by Ann Chamberlin

  “Someday,” I promised my friend.

  “Someday, yes.” Husayn nodded quietly. “Allah willing.”

  XXXVII

  After the first of the Muslim year, towards the end of summer, there was some disquiet. The Persians, we learned, had capitulated and sent lavish presents along with their ambassador and petitions of peace to the Sublime Porte. Besides returning the slaves, horses, and goods of the rebellious Prince Bayazid, they made gifts of more material wealth than symbolic: beautifully illuminated Korans with their covers encrusted with gold and jewels, prayer rugs of the finest Persian wools and craftsmanship, rosaries made of lumps of turquoise as big as hens’ eggs.

  In spite of the religious nature of the gifts, many Sunni Turks could not forget that Persians were Shi’a heretics, and the treaty was unpopular. Indeed, an attempt was made on the life of the Persian ambassador in the midst of the formal procession through the streets of Constantinople. The assassin was a holy dervish, and for a while I dared not visit my friends in the Sufi hall. My host, the governor, was contemplating whether or not a small massacre of holy men was needed to prove to the Sultan that he was capable of keeping this sandjak of pilgrims and shrines under control.

  Fortunately, such a drastic step never became necessary. The governor, like my religious friends, built up faith from the lesson of these events: “Thanks be to Allah who showed His will in the matter by causing the assassin to be trampled to death by the ambassador’s horse before any more harm could be done.”

  By the celebration of the Birth of the Prophet, the Persians were back to private civil war. And Turkish politics and religion had reconciled themselves to such a degree that my host thought nothing of hiring one of the members of Husayn’s order to recite the tales of Muhammed as festival entertainment.

  I had decided to take advantage of my option to sit in either half of the house and spend the evening with my lady in the harem. For one thing, the first snow of the year had fallen, bundling Konya up in what felt like a safe, cozy blanket. Being in the harem by the fire would exaggerate that feeling. But there was also the fact that a female reciter had been hired for that side of the curtain and, though the Sufi was my friend and justifiably well known for his performance, this woman was even better than he. Women, I have always found, can get more out of any verse than a man, for though men have been known to be carried away in ritual trances, women play with emotions like they weave color into a rug.

  The women and their guests had only just begun to settle, however, when my host’s young son came running in. The ladies petted him, passing him from hand to hand, commenting on his new little festival jacket, and teasing, “Where is our big boy? Our big boy said he was old enough to spend the festival with the men in the selamlik, but see? The festival has hardly begun and he comes running back to us.”

  The little lad who was no more than four bore this treatment bravely, with only a hint of tears of shame or homesickness in his eyes. As soon as he could get a word in, he insisted, “I am not a baby anymore. I have been sent by my father with an important message of state.”

  “Oooh,” the ladies declared. “‘An important message of state!’“ It seemed clear that the child had been given that lofty phrase by his father as inducement to run the errand.

  The boy ignored this round of teasing and turned to me with a tone that said, “We men have no time for the silliness of women, have we?”

  I did not disillusion him by suggesting that a woman’s ability to call state affairs silly was one of her most valuable assets.

  “Ustadh,” the boy said, “My father bids you come and enjoy the feast with him.”

  “Oh, my little uncle,” I replied. “Your father is most gracious. But I have already told him I would have to ignore his invitation to spend the evening with my lady.”

  “But he insists,” the little boy said. “There is a new arrival among our guests. You’ll never guess who, so I’ll tell you. It’s Ferhad Bey come back to us.”

  My lady’s great eyes caught me as I rose to leave, and filled mine with wonder. I carried it with me as a token from the harem as I entered the world of men. The selamlik was still in an uproar when I arrived; a storm whirling around the center calm of the harem, it took longer to settle down here.

  In the seat of honor at the governor’s right sat the man who relieved me of the wonder my lady’s eyes had given me. I have no doubt he read some cryptic message from the harem in me, for his getting to his feet, and his deep bow of greeting were full of tenderness, respect, and ardor. His eyes continued to prod mine for news of his love, but I avoided them by demanding of him in something close to a panic, how it was that he had come to disturb the peace of our retreat.

  “I am in the service of my lord and master, the Sultan of all the Faithful,” was all the reply modesty would allow him.

  Our host had to supply the details. “For acts of great courage fighting against the Persians, our friend, Ferhad Bey, has been elevated to the post of Master of the Imperial Horse. Thanks be to Allah, he is to be quartered with us.”

  “Here in Konya?” I asked stupidly.

  “Of course here in Konya,” the governor replied, then continued to exalt. “All doors are suddenly opened to you, my friend.”

  Harem doors? I shot a glance towards my host, but his mood was too jovial to be dampened. My panic growing, I asked, “How long will you stay?”

  “That depends upon the will of my lord the Sultan, and upon the beneficence of Allah,” Ferhad replied.

  “Allah willing,” the host prayed, “it will be many joyful years.”

  Ferhad did not add “Allah willing” to this statement, but only smiled and nodded politely.

  “Was my master, the Grand Vizier, responsible for this advancement?” I tempted.

  I could not believe even Sokolli Pasha could be so careless of his harem. Fortunately, if the true reason for my question were detected by Ferhad, he politely overlooked it as he had overlooked our host’s enthusiastic tactlessness in the previous question. He assumed that I wanted news of my master, and began to give it in great detail, describing all the foreign embassies he had received, and with what glory.

  “The name ‘Sokolli’ is becoming a word of fear among the unruly elements of the country,” Ferhad said.

  “Do you fear it, too?” I warned him with my eyes, but I did not interrupt his speech.

  What luxurious peace we had known in Konya! Ferhad told of things with a fierce immediacy which, had we heard of them before, had come as idle rumors which one could easily forget. The rebellion in Yemen with all Turkish garrisons driven out, the sea exploits of Piali Pasha for which he had been elevated to the station of Second Vizier, Sokolli’s attempts to control all of this in the absence of any direction from the Sultan Selim...

  I did not interrupt this recitation, but our host did, perhaps because he was tired of having Ferhad turn to him for opinions which served only to show how ignorant he was of the Empire’s affairs compared with his new subordinate.

  “Such a mind he has!” was our host’s diversion.

  “Where will you stay?” I asked then, prodding the final avenue of hope left for me.

  Our host closed that avenue quickly. “He will stay here with us, of course. There’s no comfort in barracks, Allah knows, but to rent a place would leave our friend all alone, which is even more discomfort.

  “Not that I haven’t suggested to Ferhad that he marry,” the governor continued, laughing. “He should not leave the harems altogether deprived of his fine figure. I have even suggested a match with my eldest daughter, but he declines. Another man would be offended, but I—I am not offended. I have not got- ten to my age and my position without some understanding of the politics of marriage. He’s holding out. Aren’t you, Ferhad? Holding out for some better match the Sultan might someday offer him. A slave girl of his own house, perhaps, or even a princess of the Blood. Our Grand Vizier, Sokolli Pasha, held out, and well he was paid for his continence.
Ah, restraint! That is a sure sign of one born to rule among the Ottomans, Allah willing.

  “Yes, I have often wondered where I myself might be today if a lust for sons had not made me fall short of a princess of the Blood. That is something, to marry a princess of the Blood...”

  Our host could have had no idea how uncomfortable his speech made both Ferhad and me. Fortunately for all of us, the governor’s small son, perhaps missing the harem in truth now, had come and climbed into his father’s lap, and the governor forgot all about the disadvantages of having children. He settled back comfortably to enjoy the festival.

  I’m afraid I can’t say whether the dervish gave a good performance any more than I can say whether the women enjoyed one. I was too nervous to listen to poetry that evening. And the coming of daylight did not improve things. Esmikhan’s eves wandered off and glazed with dreams, but then they would water and her cheeks would blush with guilt as she brought them back again.

  I shall find some excuse, I plotted. I shall make her return to Constantinople, where we shall be safe in my master’s house.

  But that was impossible, for winter had already begun and no excuse could be worth the risk of a journey across Turkey in the snows. And Esmikhan braved that snow there in Konya to throw herself into a pilgrim’s devotions with renewed frenzy so that any suggestion of her boredom or wasting time was easily seen to be out of the question. As for myself, all thought of religion and its consolations had vanished from my mind. If they did enter at all, it was in the form of some exclamation, “Oh, God, help me now,” or “If You do exist, You certainly are not the Compassionate One the Muslims call You. You are rather more like the wicked boy who has caught a bird in this trap and then insists on torturing it to death!”

  Then the correspondence began.

  At first it came by the governor’s little son, for whom Ferhad was a great favorite. I soon caught him and gave him such a scolding—all about women and honor, and did he never want to grow up to become like the hero of a popular romance? After that they began to use his sister, who was also still so young that she could go throughout the house at will. Fortunately, I was able to convince her father, in general terms, that she was old enough to begin confinement. Then they coerced one of my own seconds, and in my anger I sold him immediately and at a great loss.

  Notes came in bushels of apples and went out (Allah forbid) in the family’s copy of Rumi’s poems. A bunch of autumn crocuses appeared in my lady’s room—they could only have been picked by one with liberty to ramble about the hillside. I never was actually told who had done that rambling, but the fact that the stamens pulled from the centers of those flowers found their way into the flavorful rice upon which Ferhad broke his fast the next evening gave me a rather secure guess.

  But I also began to see messages where there were none. One day I discovered a vase of forced hawthorn in my lady’s room. Angrily, I had it thrown out, only to discover that she had collected it and gone to all the care and trouble to make it bloom, and set it there herself only to brighten the place. It was not from Ferhad at all. Still, between the one note I caught and the next, their love and intimacy was swollen, leapt from buds to full blooms like flowers in springtime seem to have if one fails to go in the garden every day. Some communications were still getting through, in spite of all my care.

  One day I tried to present my concerns to the governor in less vague terms than I had used for the matter of his daughter.

  “Our Ferhad?” he asked, incredulous. “Women are the farthest thing from his mind. Horseflesh and training, that is all that concerns him. Why, I offered him a glass of my good red wine, obtained at great trouble and great expense from Cyprus. He didn’t condemn, he didn’t threaten to tell the vizier or any such thing; just refused politely but firmly to even indulge in that minor infraction. By Allah, I can’t drink myself with his virtue around! No doubt it’s just as well for my immortal soul, but it’s going to be a long, dry winter. I’ve no consolation but that wine improves with age.”

  It seemed useless to confront the lovers themselves. They knew perhaps more than I the seriousness of their actions. Ferhad was nothing if not a man of honor and Esmikhan was a woman who often sat hours with me, fingering my hand in a silence that seemed to plead with me to save her from herself. They both held high positions for which many others would envy them: the one, Grand Master of the Imperial Horse; the other, the wife of the Grand Vizier and a daughter of the Sultan. Both of them filled those posts with more devotion than many a mortal could muster, but for that devotion, their mortality made them suffer more than another.

  But suffering was food to the sort of idyllic, never-consummated, never-seen-face-to-face-in-the-light-of-day sort of love they possessed. A spahi prides himself on being able to endure more than another man; a woman gets no more pleasure than from the pains of childbirth. Such was the painful, helplessness of their love. After selling the traitor among my assistants, I could trust the rest to help me to the best of their abilities. Unfortunately, it was the khadim of greatest ability I had been forced to sell. I couldn’t replace him until our return to Constantinople, so all I had left with me were four persons who, for all their intentions, typified the worst infamy of eunuchs: the dull, fat, lazy stereotype from which we suffer. No, this trial was a test of my strength alone.

  And it was a test. That impression came strongly one day when I caught Ferhad in the hall containing the grille to the harem, where he had no right to be. Without a word he bowed and left the room. The smile he gave me as he left was full of such sportsmanlike reserve that it might have gone equally well to the man who had just defeated him fair and square in a round of wrestling.

  I do not mean by allusion to the ring from which both men generally walk away unharmed to belittle the seriousness of the test I was undergoing. If I did fail, blood would be shed. That a noblewoman’s virtue is sometimes set but low on men’s scale of values does not erase the fact that it was my whole reason for being.

  The fact that my lady and her lover, too, faced death if I failed helped me define the antagonists better. Ferhad was not the real enemy. The impossible requirements of form were the culprits, and I was like a skilled swordsman defending two babes from these invaders, defending those who could not defend themselves.

  XXXVIII

  That year the month of Ramadhan began in the depths of winter. It seemed no hardship to fast then; one was lethargic and given to long spells of sitting cozily anyway. But by the end of the month the snows had begun to carve out rocky creeks for themselves in the back streets of Konya, and wild grape hyacinths splattered protected crannies like highly glazed tile work.

  By the time the holy month neared its end, all spirits were stirring and it seemed harder and harder to fast those last few days. It would be equally difficult, I felt, for my lady and her lover to endure this time of new life without closer contact than the harem walls had so far allowed them.

  Fortunately for us all, I thought, the snow was turning to mud, and the mud to dirt once more. It would only be a matter of weeks until the roads were passable and our year’s pilgrimage would come to an end. I can easily keep them apart—those two lodestones—for so long.

  I had proven myself. I had proven myself in a trial more difficult than facing the physical threat of brigands, the kidnappers of Chios. I exalted and thought, only a man who has slain his first enemy can appreciate how I felt.

  So great was my relief and triumph that I celebrated in the best way I knew how. I escaped the harem and attended the Thursday evening services of Husayn’s brotherhood again, which my winter-long tension had rarely given me commitment of spirit to do. The two or three times I did attend that season, I could never allow myself to be drawn into the dance again, but sat watching and brooding in the gallery.

  But now, so great was my relief that I might have even abandoned myself to the total Sufi Union with the Divine had not a sudden image of the sword that awaited me if I should neglect my duties cut th
e vision at the last moment. Again I was obliged to break away from the circle, again I escaped into myself in the quiet chill of the courtyard.

  And again, near dawn, Husayn came out to me alone. The moon was but a wisp, nearing the end of the holy month. We took the cloud of the Milky Way as other men may take tobacco or opium, and smoked it together silently in a pipe invisible between us.

  I do not know if he read my mind. They say some dervishes cultivate that capability, and at the time it certainly seemed as if he did. But perhaps he only sensed the atmosphere with insight our shared joys and sorrows had honed keen. He spoke to it in parables.

  “Elias,” Husayn began, like the very voice of that sharp night, “is the wisest of all the creatures of Allah. It is said he inspired the saint of Konya, Sufi Rumi, and that he also instructed the Prophet Moses. At first Elias was skeptical that he should teach Moses anything, but Moses insisted and Elias in his wisdom also knew what a great prophet this man might become if properly instructed.

  “‘Very well,’ Elias said to him, ‘you may come with me on my travels through the world of men. But you must not question anything I do, for the undertaking of Allah is far beyond that of men.’”

  “Moses replied that he would certainly comply with this request, for gaining knowledge in the Way of Allah was his only desire. So the two men went about the world and soon they came to the sea. They had no coin to pay to be ferried across, but eventually they met two poor but pious sailors who were content to have them on board for nothing.

  “When they reached the other shore, Elias promptly put a great hole in the hull of this boat so it began to sink, and then he went on his way. Moses, following after, was shocked. ‘These poor sailors were kind to us, and this boat is their only means of livelihood,’ he thought angrily. But he didn’t say anything for he had sworn not to question the deeds of this, the wisest of creatures.