“Will Selim let them comer
Besma smiled nastily. “He will have no choice,” she said. “If he does not accede to his father’s wishes, he goes against him; and if he does that, it is treason. We have him in a box!”
But Hadji Bey knew of Besma’s plot within minutes of her decision. It had been ridiculously simple to plant several spies among Ahmed’s maltreated slaves. The agha quickly dictated a message to his secretary, which was then enclosed within a small capsule, fastened to a pigeon’s leg, and the bird was immediately dispatched to the Moonlight Serai. His next move was to see that the sultan was made unavailable to Besma for the time being.
Several days later, Selim arrived in Constantinople, with Suleiman riding at his side. They presented themselves at the palace, and the agha quickly arranged for an audience with Sultan Bajazet, who had not seen his oldest grandson since the boy’s circumcision rites. He was delighted by the fresh-faced youngster who stood before him.
Suleiman was tall for his age, and very slender, with the young, hard muscles of a well-trained body. His eyes were gray-green, his skin tanned from the outdoors, and his short black hair curly. There was no doubt that Suleiman was an Ottoman, and the sultan was pleased with him.
The boy wore yellow trousers, bright red leather boots, a white shirt embroidered by his mother in green silk, and a green wool cloak. Stuck in the green silk sash that girdled his waist was a small, ornate gold dagger set with semiprecious stones. Bowing, he greeted his grandfather, “May you live ten thousand years, great sultan of the world.”
Bajazet was delighted with his grandson, and Selim, noting this, quickly spoke up. “I have come with an invitation, my lord father. Never since the day I left your palace have you come to visit my home. I have six fine sons, and only one knows you. My wives complain that my hospitality is that of a beggar, not a prince, that my father is not invited to eat salt with me under my own roof. Surely the empire can spare you for a few days so you may honor my home with your presence.”
“Oh, yes, grandfather,” piped Suleiman. “Do come! I will take you hunting with me!”
“So you hunt, lad? What have you caught?”
“These, sire.” He laid before the sultan six flawless white ermine skins. “Father took me hunting in the mountains last winter. I trapped them They are a gift for you, grandfather.”
The sultan carefully fingered the furs, but no trap marks could be seen. He smiled down from his throne at his grandson. “Would you like me to come to visit, Suleiman?”
“Yes! Yes!” nodded the youngster vigorously.
“Then so be it,” said Bajazet “I shall ride out with you this very day.” And he descended from the dais, took his grandson by the hand, and walked from the throne room.
The sultan was expected to remain at the Moonlight Serai for a week, but at the end of that time, Sarina, who had at long last to everyone’s delight conceived a child, gave birth to a lusty boy. With the proud grandfather’s permission, the infant was called Bajazet and the sultan tarried in his son’s household.
One afternoon as the sultan left the apartments of the new kadin and her son, Selim came to him. “Walk with me in the gardens, my father. I would speak to you, and there is less chance of our being overheard there.”
“What troubles you, my son?”
“It is Suleiman and his brothers. They are past six, and as heirs to your throne they should go to your protective custody. I felt that before you returned to Constantinople we should discuss this matter.”
Bajazet gazed across the gardens. Beneath a group of trees sat three of Selim’s kadins. About them his six grandsons and his twin granddaughters, Hale and Guzel, played. The bas-kadin, Cyra, rocked a cradle containing her nine-month-old daughter, Nilufer. Though the sultan would have loved to have his grandchildren about him, he knew the risks involved. “No,” he said “They shall not go to Constantinople. I acknowledge the wisdom of protective custody, but your sons are far too happy and healthy here. It is like the old days before our time, when our people roamed the steppes of Asia. They will grow into better men outside our city. Besides, it will be many years, may it please Allah, before I turn my throne over to my successor. Let us wait until your sons are older, and then we shall discuss their coming to the capital again.”
“Forgive my spurning your generous offer, my lord but custom demands that Suleiman, Mohammed Omar, and Kasim go. What will the people say if they do not? I would not bring criticism upon you, who have been so kind to me.”
Bajazet gazed at his son. This was a game they were playing. Selim no more wanted his sons in Constantinople than he did, and the sultan knew it; but Selim had ever been loyal to him, so he let it pass and cleared his throat.
“The people will say I am an old fool, sentimental, and in my dotage, but never will they say I am not sultan. Because of our laws of succession, your sons will supersede Ahmed’s should the idiot ever have any. In any case, his degenerate habits are ruining his health, and I doubt he will reign long, if at all.
“Between you and the throne stands your brother Prince Korkut. It is not known, but he will never reign. He does not want the responsibility. So you, my son, will one day be sultan, as your brother Mustafa should have been. You will be a strong sultan. I can see this. And after you, Suleiman, who must be stronger yet The restraint of my court at so young an age would sap his strength. I will not allow it! This is my final word.”
Selim fell to his knees before his father. Bending his body until his head touched the sultan’s boot, he said, “I am your loyal and devoted servant my lord. With my whole heart, I thank you.”
Tears welled up in Bajazet’s eyes, and, quickly wiping them away with his sleeve, he raised his son to his feet For a long moment they looked at each other in silence. Then the sultan spoke. “It is you who should be my heir,” he said, and, turning abruptly, he strode back into the palace, leaving Selim astounded.
Several days later, Sultan Bajazet reluctantly tore himself away from Selim and his family and rode back to his capital. He had scarcely returned when Besma Kadin swept into his suite.
“And how,” she asked, settling herself comfortably on a low divan, “was your stay at the Moonlight Serai, my dear lord? You remained longer than we expected, and we missed you.”
“It was delightful.”
“And Prince Selim and his family are well?”
“Yes. He has a new son, born while I was there, and named Bajazet after me.”
Besma gritted her teeth. “The oldest boy is nine, isn’t he?”
The sultan nodded.
“It is past time for him and his next three brothers to be placed in our protective custody. When may we expect them?”
“You may not I have forbidden their removal from Selim’s custody. They will remain where they are. It is far healthier.”
“What?” Besma leaped to her feet and paced the room. “Are you mad? They are the heirs! They must be placed where they can be watched. Ahmed must be protected!”
“From four little boys? Better the children be protected!”
“What do you mean, my lord? Protected from whom?”
“I do not think we need go into that” replied the sultan.
“What are you saying?” shrieked Besma.
“That accidents happen. Lower your voice, madam I am still sultan here, and you are my slave. You forget yourself! Perhaps several good lashes will remind you.”
She persisted, “Do you think that I would harm those children? What kind of a woman do you think I am—I, who have given you your heir?”
“I know what kind of a woman you are,” he said coldly. “Kiusem gave me my heir. His name was Mustafa. He died, you will remember, at the age of two and a half, and some say you poisoned him”
“The ravings of a madwoman! Kiusem was driven insane by her son’s unfortunate death.”
“The accusation of a grieving mother. An accusation I knew to be true. Kiusem was never mad, nor her sons fools.”
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Besma’s mouth fell open but recovering, she asked, “If you think I poisoned Mustafa, why did you not kill me?”
Bajazet sighed. “I have asked myself that question every day for thirty-two years. Perhaps because Ahmed was a baby and needed his mother, or perhaps because your death would not have restored my dear son to me. But take care, woman. You could still end your days in a weighted sack at the bottom of the sea. Ahmed no longer needs his mother, and neither do I!”
A wiser woman would have departed at this point but Besma’s anger overruled her good sense. “You dare to call me a murderess?”
“I do, and I have heard men in the streets call you worse. Beware, my kadin! Selim and his family are under my personal protection. If any harm should come to them, I would strangle you myself and leave your worthless corpse for the dogs.”
The woman whitened, and discretion finally overtook her. Throwing the sultan a venomous look, she fled his presence.
24
THE SPRTNO OF 1509, which had begun so promisingly, gave way to strange May weather. On the morning of the ninth, the yellow sky reflected its image into a dun-colored sea. The wind was quiet, and for several hours there had been no bird song to break the monotony of the stillness. It was several minutes before noon.
The slaves in the Moonlight Serai scuttled fearfully back and forth, to and from their tasks. It had been thus for several days, and the nights had been no better. No breeze sprang up at sunset to cool the rooms after the heat of the day, and a fiery moon glared down, turning the shining white marble of the jewellike palace to a blood red.
Suddenly, a low rumble came across the hills from Constantinople. It increased in volume and intensity until it exploded in a roaring wind that bent the trees to the ground and tore across the water. The earth heaved and moaned like a tortured animal. The palace and its outbuildings shook to their foundations.
The slaves flung themselves to the ground, walling in terror. Small fissures opened in the ground. They widened, inhaling whatever stood in their path, and abruptly closed again, crushing their prey.
Cyra was sitting in her salon playing chess with Suleiman when the first shock hit Leaping to her feet she cried out “Suleiman! Quickly! The children! Bring them here!”
The boy ran from the room, only to run into Marian, who was entering her mistress’s apartments carrying Sarina’s wailing fourteen-month-old daughter, MihriChan, and trailed by seven older children, two of whom held the littlest by the hand.
“Marian! Bless your common sense!”
“And where else would I bring them, madam? We cannot count on those worthless slaves. They are too busy hiding themselves.”
The palace rocked again, and the littlest children began to cry. As the shock subsided, Lady Refet, Sarina, Zuleika, and Firousi rushed into the room, and the children, who had been huddling together, scattered to their mothers.
Nilufer, Cyra’s six-year-old daughter, wandered out into her mother’s gardens. “Mama,” she called, “why is the sea running away?”
Hurrying to the child’s side, Cyra gazed past her dainty pointing finger and saw the waters slowly receding into the bay. She was staring in amazement when Zuleika’s voice broke in. “I saw the same phenomenon once in China. The waters will return shortly in one large wave.”
“Will it come as high as the palace?”
“I think so. Hurry! We must get to Selim’s tower observatory!” Each grasping Nulifer by a hand, Zuleika and Cyra ran with her back to the salon, and, quickly gathering their families and what slaves they could find, they fled, half running, half falling in their fear, across the palace lawns to the prince’s tower. Gasping for breath, they stumbled up the stairs to the safety of the top. Once there, the slaves and some of the children collapsed in relief, but the kadins and the older princes gazed from the parapet at the scene below them.
The sea had stopped receding and, gathering into an enormous mass, now flung itself toward the shore, easily clearing the clifftop on which the palace stood, and swirled through the vast estate.
“My gardens,” moaned Sarina. “The salt will destroy everything, and the roses just coming into bloom!”
Cyra suppressed a giggle. They had survived an earthquake and barely escaped from a tidal wave, and Sarina thought only of her gardens.
“The waters will quickly recede, and we can flush the gardens and fields with fresh water,” said Zuleika soothingly.
And the waters did recede, cascading over the cliff like a giant waterfall, leaving in their wake struggling fish and small crustaceans that scuttled across the gardens. The earth rocked again, a clap of thunder rent the air as the sky turned black as night, and the rain gushed down in torrents.
“Zala,” said Lady Refet, “light some lamps so we may at least see.”
The trembling girl obeyed, but even the flickering lights could not dispel the air of disaster that hung over them. The tremors continued, softer now, but threatening still. Suddenly a slave began to scream hysterically.
The young princes looked at her in disgust. The younger children were simply wide-eyed. Cyra quickly stepped up to the girl and slapped her sharply. “Stop it this instant, Ferilze. It is a bad earthquake, and that is all” The bas-kadin’s voice was firm and assured, but her heart trembled and her mind repeated the same things over and over.
Where was Selim? He had been in Constantinople for a week. Was he still there? Was he safe? How had the quake been in the capital? She knew she must quiet these questions in her mind and tend to the business of keeping their lord’s household calm and operational.
The sky began to lighten, and the rain stopped. Suddenly it was a perfect May afternoon, A fresh breeze blew down from the mountains, and the sun shone cheerily from the clear blue sky.
Cyra fell to her knees, and the others followed suit “There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet Praise to thee, o Allah, who has safely brought us through this danger,” she said, then rose to her feet “I think we can safely say the worst is over. Let us return to the palace.”
On trembling legs Prince Selim’s household descended the twisting stairs of the tower and slowly walked across the sodden lawns to the Moonlight Serai.
The main porch of the palace showed a large crack. Cyra bent to inspect it. “It isn’t deep,” she noted. “It can be repaired.”
In the main court Cyra took a lambskin-covered gold stick and hit the large gong several times. The earth trembled slightly as if in reply. Silently they waited, and then slowly the slaves began to creep out of their hiding places.
The bas-kadin made mental notes. Only two were missing. “Is anyone hurt?” she asked. “Where are Shem and Latife?”
The chief eunuch bustled forward with his usual annoying self-importance. Cyra deflated it quickly, her voice cutting.
“Where were you during the danger? We women had to see to the household while you hid your overstuffed carcass, Allah knows where—probably in the storage cellars. Two slaves are missing. What do you know of this?”
The chief eunuch began to bluster, “As head of my lord Selim’s household—”
“As head of my lord Selim’s household, it was your duty to see first to our safety,” snapped Cyra. “You did not Go to your quarters.”
The eunuch drew his short frame to its full height. “Miserable woman,” he squeaked, “who are you to speak to me thus?”
The other slaves gasped. Cyra answered slowly, deliberately, “I am our lord’s bas-kadin and the mother of an imperial heir. Now go to your quarters, Ali. You are tired and obviously in shock.”
Mortified, the small, fat man brushed past the other slaves. When he was gone, a farm slave came hesitantly forward. “Madam, when the quake struck, I saw Shem run to the pastures to free the master’s horses. I do not know what happened to him after that.”
“I do,” said another slave. “He reached the pastures and freed the horses, but a large crack opened in the earth. He fell in, and it closed again before I could
help him.”
Another slave spoke up. “Latife is dead, I think, my lady. A hanging lamp came loose and fell on her head. She lies in the hallway between the harem and the prince’s quarters.”
Cyra quietly directed slaves to put the shaken household back in order. She sent other slaves to see whether the unfortunate Latife had indeed been killed. She had not Sarina gathered up her gardeners and rushed off to inspect her precious gardens.
The high walls surrounding the prince’s estate had been completely destroyed; there were several large fissures that had not closed on the grounds, and the fields were completely torn up. However, all the buildings had remained standing, except two sheds. There were some large cracks, but no serious damage. The slaves, save Shem, were all alive, as well as the farm animals and the prince’s horses. This happy news was delivered to Cyra and Lady Refet by the eunuch Anber. Cyra looked at this dark man, who reminded her so much of Hadji Bey and who was Hadji Bey’s protégé.
“Where were you during the quake, Anber?”
“I gathered as many of the household slaves as I could and led them to safety, my lady kadin.”
“Are you loyal to our master, Anber?”
“I would do all within my power to protect him, madam.”
“I think we shall soon have a need of a new chief eunuch.”
A smile split the ebony face.
“How sad it will be to lose our good Ali.”
“I hear and obey, my lady.”
“It must be a completely natural death, Anber.”
“Perhaps a bit of poppy,” suggested Lady Refet quietly. “Sometimes the hand is apt to slip.”
They smiled at one another in complete understanding, and Anber backed slowly from the room.
“Ali will be no loss,” observed Cyra.
“He is Besma’s best spy,” replied Lady Refet “I would give my ermine-lined pelisse to see the look on her face when she learns of his sad demise.”
The Kadin Page 19
