The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Beneath her coverlet Hürrem was swaying from side to side as she read.

  “She sucks him deep within her. This position is very convenient for an unexpected quick flight and can give amazing pleasure to the couple.”

  Judging from the increasing frequency of Hürrem’s attendance at the Sultan’s bed, Saida concluded as she crept away that the concubine had learned her lessons well. Earlier, the Sultana-to-be had also distinguished herself from the other girls lined up when the Padishah visited the harem, by greeting him with a smile while all the others were posing in the traditional manner like frozen Byzantine madonnas. On one occasion she even laughed out loud. And once she had found a way into his bed, she made sure to get pregnant as soon as possible and crowned her efforts by producing a boy child. This baby was followed quickly by two more sons, giving the Sultan a choice of heirs to preserve the succession, just in case the crown prince Mustafa should fall ill or fall from his horse, or otherwise disqualify himself by dying young.

  And now, Saida reflected, only one barrier remained to prevent Hürrem — still only the Second Kadin — from reaching the height of her ambition: the living presence of the First Kadin, Rose of Spring, mother to the Sultan’s first-born, Crown Prince Mustafa. So far Hürrem had managed to have Rose of Spring dispatched to Manisa, where Mustafa was serving a term as governor. With Rose of Spring out of the way, the Second Kadin had spent her effort persuading the Sultan to marry off the remaining favorites in the harem one by one, until there were fewer and fewer concubines left for the Sultan to visit. And finally, when the Sultan was languishing deep in grief over the death of his beloved mother, the Second Kadin disengaged herself from the harem and established a suite beside him in the selamlik at Topkapi. This unheard-of arrangement had led to the wedding that shocked the world.

  Almost as shocking, the Sultan had proclaimed that the ceremony of marriage had transformed the former slave into a freeborn Sultana like the Ottoman princesses of old. And today, in the Sultan’s long absences, Hürrem acted as her husband’s regent, the second most powerful person in the empire.

  Digging into her memory, Saida could see a clear picture of the wretched Second Kadin when she first arrived as a gift to the Sultan from his boon companion, the Grand Vizier Ibrahim. The girl had come to the Valide Sultan’s suite as a suppliant, helpless as a child, throwing herself on the mercies of the Sultan’s mother and pleading for her help. What had happened to turn that pathetic girl into an all-powerful empress? What had enabled her to make that unprecedented leap of status? There had to be a key, an event, as there always was in the Persian fairy tales read to the princess at bedtime by her grandmother. The dear face came to her mind. And with the vision came a sudden understanding. While the Valide Sultan lived no one could have taken her place. But once she was dead . . .

  It was as if the Valide’s death had released some caged creature hidden behind the tears and sighs of a weeping slave girl and let loose a lioness. And now, Hürrem sat as Regent with a household of over one hundred retainers, a private hamam, a sizeable security force, and even the personal kitchen toward which the princess was slowly making her way.

  Eventually, in response to the driver’s curses and threats, the human barrier did make way for Saida’s carriage to pass. But by the time she arrived at Hürrem’s kitchen the cooking had long since begun. And the Sultana was too busy by then to notice Saida’s tardiness — or at least to be bothered by it.

  Unlike the baths, the kitchen had always been a haven for Saida. So many happy hours of her childhood had been spent in her grandmother’s private kitchen learning how to cook. Perhaps because Lady Hafsa took pride in her Circassian roots, she was never one of those concubines who felt it necessary to erase her beginnings and invent a new birthright for herself when her son became Sultan and elevated her status to Valide Sultan. In Circassian life, women of every station were trained in all aspects of domesticity from cookery to finances, talents Lady Hafsa continued to display after becoming the Valide Sultan in her son Suleiman’s harem.

  Traditionally, the royal children of both genders were tutored in grammar and mathematics in the Harem School. Once she became the First Kadin with a large suite of her own and a young ward, Lady Hafsa took steps to augment what she felt to be a defect in the young girl’s education and pass on to the orphan princess, Saida, the domestic skills that she herself had learned early in life. It was mainly to accomplish this that Lady Hafsa built a small private kitchen adjacent to her suite in the harem, the First Kadin on record to do so.

  Thus did Lady Hafsa provide the current Second Kadin with a precedent for including a small kitchen in her new suite when Hürrem moved her household into Topkapi Palace.

  Today, everything in the kitchen had been cleared to make room for two large copper cauldrons half filled with fruit, each pot sitting in a bed of coals on a tripod. Clearly relishing her role as mistress of the ceremony, the Sultana walked back and forth between these pots, stirring, sniffing, and tasting. She motioned the princess to a stool and without even so much as a greeting began the lesson.

  “The sherbet you buy in the street is made from pits and peels and whatever fruits are cheapest at the marketplace,” she commenced between tastes and sniffs. “My sherbet begins with a single fruit — the rezacahi grape — and these” — indicating the fruit piled up in the cauldrons — “these are the pick of the crop. They were harvested yesterday and delivered early this morning. They have been simmering — never boiling — since dawn, and if you come close you can catch the fragrance. Take note.” She wiggled her finger at the girl. “The grapes are placed whole in the pot, never crushed, and heated slowly on a bed of coals, never a flame. That way, the fruit naturally gives up the fullness of its flavor. Patience is the secret of flavor.”

  She paused to let this maxim sink in, then continued. “The second secret is to use a light hand. No crushing or bruising the fruit, only a gentle stir, like this.” She picked up a long-handled ladle from a rack next to the cauldron and began to stir the grapes in a slow, circular movement. “If you wish to get a feeling of peace and well-being into your sherbet, never do violence to the fruit.”

  To her surprise Saida found herself half believing what she knew to be nonsense. Probably because Hürrem herself clearly believed every word she spoke.

  “Taste test!” Hürrem dipped her finger into the ladle and savored the liquid with evident satisfaction. “Excellent! We are ready for the first addition. You may not know it, but the street sellers will throw into their sherbet any seasoning that is cheap and plentiful — linden flowers, chamomile, cinnamon, cloves” — she wrinkled her nose disdainfully — “common stuff. What gives my sherbet refinement is that I use only fresh rose petals.”

  She beckoned to one of the attendants to bring her a crystal flagon and casually emptied half the contents into one of the pots and half into the other — a quantity of rose petals worth a good handful of gold pieces. As the petals slowly melted into the liquid, the rose fragrance filled the entire kitchen.

  So it went — a pot of honey here, a pinch of sweetened vinegar there, until the time came for the sharing of the Sultana’s most precious secret. At the snap of her fingers, two of the cooks carried a large tank filled with what appeared to be a kind of water lily. Reaching into the tank, Hürrem held up a horseshoe-shaped plant bearing huge yellow flowers with an almost putrid smell to them. Inhaling it deeply, she announced, “This is a nullifier plant. I have had men searching it out all week in marshes and swamps.” She waved the noxious plant under Saida’s nose. “This, my dear, is my secret ingredient.”

  She tossed a single nullifier plant into each pot. Then, in what for anyone else might be construed as a furtive gesture, she turned her back to the princess and reached into a sack hanging at her waist for a red satin purse filled with small gilded tablets, flinging a handful into each cauldron. This ingredient she need not name or identify. Everyone in t
he palace recognized the distinctive red purse as coming from a certain stall at the bazaar that specialized in importing and refining a concoction of white poppies and hashish, both of which grew abundantly in neighboring Mesopotamia. Not quite as exotic an ingredient as a wayward yellow water lily, thought Saida, but much more likely to give satisfaction to the consumer. In spite of the temptation to do so, she denied herself the amusement of inquiring of the Lady Hürrem which of the two ingredients was the true secret — the yellow lily or the white poppy. Although the Sultana laughed a lot, she had never been seen to enjoy a laugh at her own expense.

  The slow stirring continued, and Saida must have inadvertently disclosed her inner restlessness to her sherbet mentor, because even that lady, unaccustomed as she was to notice the mood of anyone besides herself and her Sultan, broke off her stirring to place a friendly arm around the girl’s shoulder.

  “Next time, you will stir and I will sit,” she announced, and then added, “and now, while the syrup cools, we can leave the magic lily bulb to steep in the fruits. That is another process that cannot be rushed. Let us enjoy a sip of something to refresh ourselves.” So saying, she led the way to the newest of her innovations, her private sitting room.

  The notion of using certain rooms for defined purposes was unheard of in this country. Even in the royal palace, all rooms were used for all purposes. At mealtimes, the diners ate off small trestle tables while sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions. When the meal was over, the little tables were folded up until the next meal. At night the same space was spread about with bedrolls and blankets, which were also folded up and stored when not in use. Nomad tent habits died hard with the Ottomans.

  But Lady Hürrem was no respecter of Ottoman precedents. Some said she took pleasure in deliberately flouting tradition. Most recently she had dedicated a room in her new suite to sitting, sewing, and chatting. But not to eating or sleeping. To make that clear, she furnished the room with large, bulky, silk-upholstered sofas not meant to be folded up and put away. Saida could not help but admire such a bold move. Having been trained in the traditional strategies of the weak — secrecy, deceit, and cunning — she knew that it took nerve and courage for a woman to challenge openly even the most trivial of tribal customs.

  When they entered the new sitting room, Hürrem motioned the princess to one of the silk sofas and flung herself onto another.

  As she sank down into the cushions, she snapped her fingers and spat out an order: “Eye pads, quickly, I must have eye pads. My eyes are burning like fire.”

  In quick time, a slave arrived with a plate of sliced cucumbers that she placed over the Sultana’s closed eyes.

  “We wish to be alone,” the lady announced.

  “But, Your Highness . . .”

  “What now?”

  “A letter has come.”

  “Throw it on the pile with the rest of my mail,” the Sultana ordered. Then, in an abrupt change of tone, she said to Saida, “I have not forgotten, my dear daughter, what you taught me: that as Regent, I must answer my mail on the very day it arrives. But some days the pile is so high that I regret I ever learned how to read. I fear I shall always need your help with my correspondence.”

  The slave coughed for attention.

  “Why are you still here?” Hürrem demanded.

  “The letter is from the Sultan’s headquarters in the field,” the slave responded.

  At this the lady sat up sharply and held her hand out to receive the rolled-up dispatch. But when she examined the seal on the back, the expectation drained from her eyes.

  “It’s only from the Grand Vizier. He’s always trying to get on my good side, the miserable toady. Throw it on the pile.” A brief pause. “Better still, give it to the princess. She shall read it to me while I calm my eyes with cucumber juice.”

  She continued to talk as she snuggled down onto her pillows. “What has the despicable Greek got to say for himself? The man is insatiable in his lust for fame. The whole delay in Asia is his doing. He hopes to make his own reputation by pursuing the heretic shah into Persia. But for him, my Sultan would have returned to me as soon as he subdued Baghdad. Go ahead. Read it.”

  Saida read: “‘Revered Sultana —’”

  “A little louder, dear. You speak so softly that I can barely hear you.”

  Saida cleared her throat and began again in a booming tone.

  Revered Sultana,

  I would not for all the world disturb your tranquility with disquieting news, but for my certainty that, although we have our small differences, we are in complete agreement regarding the interests and safety of our beloved Sultan. Believe me, I would spare your feelings if I could.

  “Insolent beggar,” the Sultana muttered.

  But it is imperative that you know the ugly story of deceit and betrayal that has unfolded in the course of the Baghdad campaign and could come to a disastrous end when our beloved Sultan reaches the capital.

  At this, the Sultana frowned and leaned forward. More slowly now, Saida read:

  Be warned. The Sultan’s very life is at stake. A duplicitous viper has wormed his way into the royal confidence with a series of false displays of loyalty. In the latest of these schemes, this villain contrived, during my absence, to stage what seemed to be an attack by a wild boar, during which he appeared to interpose himself between the beast and the Padishah and thereby save the life of the Sultan. He has even recruited witnesses — doubtless bribed to attest to this invention.

  Not only is this a fabrication, it is also a stain on the Padishah’s honor. Already reports of his weakness and the villain’s heroism are circulating in our camp. It is only a matter of time before they reach the ears of the merchants in the bazaars, doubtless helped along by this villain’s followers. There are always ambitious men ready to form dubious alliances to advance their own interests.

  The Sultana shook her head in vigorous agreement. Saida read on:

  Because I feared what plans this ingrate was hatching to further threaten the Sultan’s honor — perhaps even his throne (Allah alone knows what evil lurks in the hearts of such men) — I arranged to find a post for him in the Heavy Artillery Brigade, which I am advised arrived at the capital yesterday.

  Saida was beginning to feel small stabs of anxiety, but she managed to press on with her reading.

  So far I have been able to put this villain at a distance from the court, where he could not jeopardize our beloved master, who has remained safely guarded by me on our return march. But as I write, this miscreant is now in the city, and today, in a search of his toiletry case that I ordered, he was found to be carrying a vial of purple poison labeled REMEDY FOR THE SULTAN. There can be no doubt whom this deadly tincture is meant for.

  Only two days remain before the Sultan rides triumphantly into his capital, thus there are only forty-eight hours in which to rid the empire of this despicable creature who not only threatens those of us sworn to protect our Sultan, but even the Sultan himself. And, believe me, he is clever enough to do enormous damage. Search out this villain, I urge you. The Sultan has entrusted you with the power to act on his behalf. You have the means to find the villain and destroy him. He is a piece of Jewish scum, by the name of Danilo del Medigo.

  Princess Saida’s writing tablet fell to the floor with a crash.

  “Read on,” the Sultana ordered. But the girl sat, openmouthed and rigid. “Are you ill? Speak to me!”

  When the princess regained her voice, it was faint and wavering. “There has been a mistake,” she whispered.

  “Louder, Princess. I cannot hear you.”

  “I said this is a mistake. This is impossible.”

  “Oh, no, my dear, it is all too possible.”

  The girl took a deep breath to steady herself. “Danilo del Medigo would never do such a thing.”

  “You know this rascal?”

 
“He is no rascal. We were classmates. I was his tutor in the Princes School.”

  “The world is not a schoolroom, my child.” The Sultana did not trouble to hide her disdain. “Apparently this schoolboy has grown up to be a traitor. After all, he is a Jew.”

  “But you have only the word of the Grand Vizier for this story, madam.” The girl was struggling to maintain her composure. “And you yourself have called him a schemer and a liar.”

  “Liars and schemers make the best spies. They have a nose for treachery,” rejoined the Sultana. “Think of this. Your father is in peril every day of his life. Why else must he have every spoonful of food tasted before he touches it? Because poisoners lurk in the kitchens. Why does he sleep with a guard at each corner of his bed? Because assassins are everywhere. By your grandmother’s wish, you have been shielded from these frightening things. It is time for you to know.”

  From somewhere deep inside, Saida managed to control the waves of nausea that flooded over her. “What I know is that Danilo del Medigo is quite incapable of the crimes that the Grand Vizier has accused him of,” she stated with all the authority she could muster.

  “Based on what? A childhood recollection.”

  “He did save my father’s life in the Zagros Mountains,” she blurted out.

  “How do you know that?”

  Too late Saida realized that she had trapped herself. Her own body betrayed her with a deep flush. She lowered her head, tried to think. But Hürrem was a practiced hunter. Once she caught the scent, she was ruthless in pursuit.

  “If you have not seen this traitor since you were children, how do you know what happened in Persia? And how could you be so sure that he has not changed in all the years?” She hesitated as a new thought crossed her mind. “Unless you have seen him since you left the Princes School. Of course. You have seen him and he has seen you. Foolish girl. Wicked girl. Where? When did this meeting happen?”