It was this conveyance that the Second Kadin had chosen to commandeer for her ride across town this morning to welcome the Sultan back from his Austrian triumph. And there were few in the crowds witnessing her ride who did not curse the upstart bitch for rubbing it in their eyes that in his absence, she ruled.
Inside the carriage the Lady Hürrem could not help but hear the hisses of the passersby as she rode through the streets. Did she care that she was hated? Had she no fear? No shame?
The answer was very little, if any of either. She was a Russian, after all, and Russian women were bold. And canny. They said she wrote to the Sultan every day when he was campaigning in Austria. Not herself, of course. She could not write in Turkish. But some of her letters had been copied and sold in the bazaar. Do not ask by whom. That scribe’s head would be mounted on a pike in the First Court if his name were even whispered.
Unhappy, Hürrem longed for her adored Padishah, she wrote. She sighed for him. His children cried for him. They could not wait for the sight of his beloved face. How sad it was, she wrote, that the route of his victory parade did not take his procession past the Old Palace so that his children could see with their own eyes their father, the greatest king in the world, make a triumphant entry into his capital. An old woman in the Valide Sultan’s household had told her that in the days of the first Osman ghazis, their wives came out into the streets to welcome them home from their victories. Of course Hürrem was not a wife, only a poor slave. But even a slave could dream.
She went on to write of her longing to be granted a place among the multitude of the Sultan’s lesser subjects who were permitted to witness his triumphant return. How long must she wait, behind the distant walls of the harem in the Old Palace, for sight of him? What she would give to see him pass through the Imperial Gate, victorious once again over that European upstart, the so-called emperor! As if there could be any emperor but her own adored one.
That was how she addressed him in her letters. Mountains of flattery so high that even a sultan could not see over the top. And the result? Today she was riding up to Palace Point in his golden coach, now approaching the Imperial Gate of Topkapi Palace.
“Halt the carriage!” The captain of the Palace Guard stepped directly in the way of the vehicle. “Identify yourself. Who rides within?”
A Janissary captain was a formidable force. But the Second Kadin was not easily intimidated.
“Show him the document,” she instructed her companion, the princess Saida. “Wait. You must pull your sleeves down over your hands.” Allah forbid should the Janissary glimpse so much as an inch of the princess’s flesh. The girl had a lot to learn. “Now pass the paper through the slit in the curtain and make sure he doesn’t touch you.”
The captain of the Guard, well schooled in these matters, took the rolled-up scroll that was being handed to him, making certain to avert his eyes. Then, stepping back, he untied the satin ribbon and read for the benefit of his sergeant:
To the Chief of the Palace Guards,
Greetings from your Commander and Sultan! The esteemed Lady Hürrem, Second Kadin of the harem (inside the carriage, Hürrem winced at the word “second”) will arrive at the Imperial Gate on the day of my return from Austria. She is to be welcomed and conducted to the Diwan Tower, there to be made comfortable in my rooms at the top of the tower together with any ladies in her train.
Sealed with the Sultan’s tugra.
The Janissary captain waved the coach through the Imperial gate and into the First Court.
“That was the Bosphor Kadin,” he informed his sergeant once the coach was out of earshot. “Smell this.” He waved the document back and forth under the other’s nose. “That’s her scent. I’ll bet you it cost our Sultan more for a drop of that stuff than he pays us in a month.”
Hürrem was not popular with the Janissaries. They were the ones who named her the Bosphor Kadin — the Sewer Kadin.
12
THE DIWAN TOWER
The keeper of the Diwan Tower was an old man without malice. But he was a Turk. He was not comfortable with change. So when an unfamiliar clatter on the stairs told him that today’s visitors were women, his foot began to jiggle irritably. His orders spoke only of visitors. He assumed, as would anyone who understood the customs of Topkapi, that the Diwan Tower was off limits to all but a chosen few — each one of them, a man.
When he was in residence, the Padishah tended to make his appearances at the tower unannounced, looming up out of the darkness, sometimes accompanied by only one page. He would stand at the edge peering through the lozenge-shaped slits in the balustrade looking for . . . what? Enemies approaching through the Dardanelles? His own fleet tucked neatly into the Golden Horn? The caiques and barges plying their way back and forth across the Bosphorus?
Sometimes when the keeper was alone, he walked over to the balustrade and placed himself just as the Sultan did, gazing south toward the Sea of Marmara, trying to imagine the Dardanelles, the Mediterranean, Egypt, and beyond to the far western limits of the Ottoman Empire, Algeria, and Tunis. Then he pivoted eastward, just as the Sultan did, toward Syria, Azerbaijan, and Armenia. Then a half-turn toward Üsküdar, and farther to Bosnia, Wallachia, and Hungary, the Magnificent Suleiman’s most recent conquest.
What does the Sultan think about, the old man wondered, as he made his three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, when whatever direction he looks in, everything belongs to him? Does he give silent thanks to Allah for the gift of this vast empire? Does he plan further conquests? Or does he think about women? Or his gout? The guard hardly dared to speculate. He knew his duty: to remain at his post, to defend it to the death, to keep the loggia ship-shape at all times, and, if his master should come upon him unexpectedly, to get out of the way as quickly as he could, always making sure not to turn his back on the Padishah. Even foreign ambassadors took care to back out of the Sultan’s presence at all times.
Very rarely, on a hot night, the Grand Vizier would also climb the winding staircase of the Diwan Tower to catch a cool breeze. And on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, the Venetian ambassador was invited up. That was before the Ottomans went to war with Venice. But women? No woman in living memory had ever climbed these stairs. Yet here they were, one of the kadins and her companion, both wrapped up from head to toe — and finger — in their feraces. As long as a man was present, the women had to remain covered. The afternoon sun was beating down. They were suffocating in their protective cloaks, but the Keeper of the Tower had not been relieved of his post. The penalty for desertion was beheading. What was he to do?
Fortunately the old man was soon released from his dilemma by the arrival of one of the black eunuchs of the harem, an arrogant beggar who waved him away contemptuously. Hairless, fat, and impotent, who are these creatures to treat a soldier with thirty years of service so disrespectfully? the guard thought.
The guard had a good mind to challenge the eunuch’s right to give him orders. But a quick survey of the jewel-encrusted scimitar that hung from the eunuch’s belt told him that this black beauty had climbed to a great height on the Sultan’s ladder. For all the guard knew, this silk-clad jackanapes might be the head black eunuch of the harem, the Kizlar Agasi himself. Prudence prevailed. The old soldier obediently made his exit, taking care not to show his back to the black man, just in case.
The moment he was out of the way, the Second Kadin initiated the process of settling in. Off came her headgear, the Constantinople-style yashmak; first the hair-covering, which she tossed aside with a sigh of relief, next the nose piece, with which she needed help since it was pinned behind her head with a diamond clasp. The princess obliged.
Lady Hürrem set about in a comradely spirit to do reciprocal maid service for Princess Saida. “Now you.” When she was done, she pitched all the head coverings into a corner where, presumably, someone would come along to retrieve them.
Next, the cloaks. S
aida’s was a delicate pink silk, suitable for a young girl. For the matron, diaphanous lavender scattered with gold flowers. These priceless embroidered garments were also flung into a corner. Given her way, Saida would have folded them up neatly. Trained to a high standard of rectitude by her grandmother, she was offended by the Second Kadin’s careless habits. But in spite of herself, she was also fascinated by the wanton extravagance of her father’s favorite.
Now shed of their outer garments, the two women sat companionably on a divan, each one still wrapped in enough layers of luxury to protect her dignity. Over their soft muslin underpants, both wore shalvars of Bursa brocade, embroidered in silver and gold thread so that when the sun’s rays filtered in through the slits in the balustrade the embroidered pantaloons glisten. On their feet, pointed yellow Moroccan shoes. On each head, a little cap, Hürrem’s made of gold velvet with a gold tassel, Saida’s blue. Both takkes were edged with pearls, but the Kadin’s was encrusted with diamonds as well. And to complete the costume, each woman wore a silk waistcoat, buttoned in Hürrem’s case with diamonds and in Saida’s with pearls. The whole outfit was held together at the waist by a bejeweled girdle, Hürrem’s double width to accommodate twice as many gems. Highly placed Turkish women generally swathed their waists with embroidered fabric belts. But to the harem women, the bejeweled girdle was a particular badge of honor.
“Sit here beside me.” Hürrem pat the brocaded sofa hospitably. And to the eunuch, in a much harsher tone, “We need more pillows.” Then to the girl, “This place is sadly lacking in a woman’s touch. And sherbet.” She shouted after the eunuch who had taken off after the pillows, “And some sweets. And melons!” Hürrem turned to Saida. “We may be in for a long wait. With all the crowds in the streets, the procession will have to move slowly. Meanwhile, we can continue our chat.” And, without a pause, “We are agreed, are we not, that here in Topkapi Palace is where we should live?”
Although Saida was certain that she had voiced no such agreement, the boldness of Hürrem’s assertion left the girl at a loss for a way to deny her assent without seeming rude. And Hürrem, who was quite unaccustomed to even the slightest sign of opposition, took the silence as agreement.
“You are a good daughter. You understand how necessary it is for us to be at the great man’s side, not buried halfway across the city.” She squeezed the girl’s hand affectionately. “It is long past time for you to marry and take your place in the dynasty. Your father needs you to support him with a powerful husband bound to him by marriage. An admiral perhaps. When we are in the palace, your father will be close at hand to guide us in the selection of your damat. Think of how much easier it will be for him to find the best damat and plan your marriage once we are living side by side at Topkapi.”
Saida was not unaware of Hürrem’s plans to marry her off once her grandmother was gone, but suddenly what had been a prospect in the dim future was now looming straight ahead.
“But there is no space in Topkapi for the harem,” she protested.
For Hürrem obstacles were made to be battered down. “Rooms can be built, my child,” she assured the girl.
“What about my grandmother?”
“The Valide will remain in the harem to supervise the concubines just as she is.” Hürrem had thought of everything. “Don’t look so sad,” she cajoled, for the first time noticing the girl’s distress. “Your retirement in the harem has made you ignorant in the ways of the world. As your second mother I take it as my duty to help you grow up.” She tilted her head to one side. “Do this small thing for me,” she coaxed. “When your father rides up to the Imperial Gate today, ask yourself: can it be beyond the powers of this man, the Shadow of God on Earth and Father of all the Sovereigns of the Earth, to make a small place close to him for his own family if he wishes to?”
Before Saida could muster an answer, a distant blast of trumpets announced that the Sultan’s victory procession was approaching the palace grounds. As one, the two women rose from the couch and moved to the balustrade to press their eyes against the lozenge-shaped holes in the brickwork. They were just high enough on the balcony to see below them in the court the arrival at the Imperial Gate of the Sultan’s military band, and to hear the blasting battle music that struck terror into the hearts of enemy soldiers from Belgrade to Aleppo.
“Sipahis come first,” Hürrem advised the princess. “The cavalry always heads up the procession. Watch for the horses.”
And to be sure, as she spoke, the sipahis rode into view, each horseman with a wild-animal skin thrown over his shoulder like the Greek heroes of old. Fascinated, the women watched as the horses pranced, then leapt, forelegs raised together. Then, forelegs still in the air, they raised their hind legs with a spring before the forelegs hit the ground.
“That,” Hürrem informed Saida, “is a curvet. No other horsemen in the world do it as neatly as ours.”
Once the sipahis had astonished the crowd outside the palace gates, they filed into the First Court and took up positions along the north side, opposite the Sultan’s guests behind the velvet rope. There was just time for one last manoeuver before they disbanded for the season.
Next came the command, and in rows of six from a standing start they galloped toward a brass ball suspended in the center of the First Court, swiveling in their saddles to fire showers of arrows at the swaying target. Not one arrow had missed its mark.
Up in the loggia, the princess clapped her hands and shouted, “Bravo!”
Beside her, Hürrem cracked a wide smile. “This is the world I want to introduce you to. What a shame it is that we must go back to the Old Palace tonight. Tomorrow comes the gerit contest between the pages of the Sultan’s school and the pages of the Grand Vizier’s school.”
At the mention of the Sultan’s gerit team, Saida jerked to attention and her eyes widened expectantly, a transformation unnoticed by Hürrem, who was completely absorbed in her own monologue.
“You know, of course, that your father takes a great interest in his pages. Or perhaps you don’t. I sometimes wonder how much you do know about his life.”
“He has spoken to me of the pride he takes in his pages,” the princess replied. “And I know of his fancy for the gerit.”
“But you have never actually seen a contest?”
“Only as a child in riding school. They allowed the boys to play the gerit on their ponies with cut-off lances.”
“How would you like to see them play with sharpened lances on full-grown horses?”
“Madame, I would love it more than anything.” Although she was trying to keep her composure, Saida could not hide her rising excitement.
This was the kind of enthusiasm Hürrem had hoped to kindle. “Perhaps it can be arranged.” She smiled the slow, sleepy smile of the cat that has cornered the mouse. “Tonight, I am invited to dine with my adored Padishah in the selamlik. What if I were to entreat him to find a small suite of rooms tucked away somewhere in this vast palace, where we two could bed over until tomorrow?” She paused to let the idea sink in. “In the evening, there will be beautiful fireworks and the whole city will be dancing. Would you not like to sit next to your adored father in a balcony of the Grand Vizier’s palace tomorrow and watch the gerit match?”
“More than anything,” the girl admitted. “But my grandmother expects me to see her to bed tonight.”
“I will send one of the palace eunuchs over with a message that your father wishes it so.”
“But does he? Will he?” Was it really that simple?
“After a triumphant day like today,” Hürrem reported, as if issuing a bulletin on the state of the weather, “he will surely be pleased with the world and inclined to grant favors. It is a propitious moment to present a small request from his loving and most favored daughter.”
“Dare I?” Saida asked, almost to herself.
“You need do nothing. I will deliver the
message for you this time. But you must learn to value yourself and your own wishes. Your modesty becomes you well, daughter. However, there is such a thing as an excess of modesty. No man likes a woman to lick his boots like a dog. Not even a sultan.”
Below them in the courtyard, the band struck up the rousing chords of “The Sultan’s March.” Then Hürrem took a deep breath and pulled herself up to her full height.
“You are a princess of the royal blood,” she pronounced. “It is unseemly for you to be traipsing back and forth across town like a gypsy.”
13
THE DOCTOR ARRIVES
For the Sultan’s Chief Body Physician, every moment of the procession into Istanbul was agony, even though he was being carried on a cushioned litter by four handpicked bearers. Last night when Suleiman’s army had arrived in Üsküdar, the doctor had begged to be excused from the victory march into Istanbul and be allowed to steal across the Bosphorus in an unobtrusive caique to his home. Like a sick dog, he longed to come to ground and lick his wounds.
The Austrian campaign had not been kind to Judah del Medigo. All through the long march home he had felt himself weakening from the suppurating wound he suffered at Guns when his arm was grazed by a stray Austrian bullet and then became infected. In the field of mud that the rain made of the Turkish camp at Vienna, where more men died of bad water than bullets, he ought to have had himself invalided out. Instead, he kept on doctoring the Sultan and was rewarded with an intermittent fever that no physic in his cabinet could put down. As they say, a physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient.
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 12